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eveningepiphany · 3 months

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pirates gold | H.S series, part three

[series masterlist]

summary: finally, a break from the ship is in sight. you and harry end up in a very pirate-y bar, but even a good night can’t last forever. and seemingly, neither can uncomplicated feelings.

warnings: mentions of kidnapping, teasing, sexual mentions, tension, pining, protective h, y/n being an absolute menace, mentions of death and disappearance, alcohol, violent themes.

a/n: this is really humbling to post after so long. I hope you all enjoy it, I’m so sorry for the wait.

———

You don’t realise how easy it is to forget sometimes.

How fast an old life can fall out of view, and shed off you like an old skin. How on occasion, it happens so quickly you don’t even register it’s occurred.

The shortest periods of time can alter how you view your life. You didn’t realise how different being on a ship was when compared to living on land— not until you bridged between the two while conscious, and felt the transition with your own body.

Your feet had came to the ground more unsteady than you’d thought. Maybe you forgot how to walk too. As dark had already consumed the town, you’re not sure if you were shaking out of anxiety or genuinely from how long it’s felt like it’s been since you’ve stood on solid unwavering ground.

Harry, whose hand occupied the flat of your back, felt the intake of breath your lungs pulled in as you finally made it all the way onto the dock.

He had come back into his room to find you asleep, curled into his side of the bed, knees tucked into your chest. To it, he’d smiled… legs carrying him over to glance over your peaceful frame closer.

Examining the rise and fall of your chest, as air passed through your nose softly. He noted that your hair looked damp, and he almost chuckled at the fact you’d seemingly helped yourself to a shower.

He gently said your name, “Y/N…”

When you didn’t stir, he muttered it again, hand coming to jostle your shoulder slightly. The touch woke you up, your legs uncoiling from their tucked up position, stretching out down the mattress.

A tiny sound whimpered from your throat as you started to fully wake up, eyes flitting open with a sleep-induced glaze over them.

“Evenin’.” He remarked, “fancied a shower and a nap, aye?” When you took in his frame standing next to the bed, he had an armful of brown paper bags.

You sighed out, sitting up, “Not much else to really do.”

However your brain was rerunning the fact you had plenty you could’ve done since you found that key in one of his pockets. Mentally, you had to shove it away so you didn’t end up with a guilty look plastered on your face.

“Well, waits over, dove. Got ya some clothes, you’re welcome to pick something out before we go. Want you t’blend in.” He placed the bags down onto the bed for you to shuffle over to.

You felt oddly curious, like a child on Christmas. All these bags filled with things for you. The abundance of clothes you pulled out shocked you, because there really was half a wardrobe in there. Including a pair of boots, ones you’re not sure how he figured out would fit your feet.

There was also white linen blouses similar to his own— others black lace with intricate detailing, and brown fitted long sleeves— and also an array of pants, all slightly differing in styles. You stumbled across a black under-bust corset, and your eyes shifted to him. He was leaning against the wall watching you, a smirk over his lips. That wasn’t even the only corset he had bought, there were 2 others.

However, the satisfied look on his face only grew as you reached the bottom of the last bag. Several undergarments lay folded, bras and underwear.

“Had to do some guessing with the sizing of those…” His voice comes from a few feet away from you. All too close given the fact you’re staring at intimates he bought for you.

Your face was flaming red, unable to contain the embarrassment that was coursing through you, purely at the fact he was shopping for your underwear and bras— probably imagining you in them. Someone acting so casual about this was throwing you into disarray.

His passing comments and dirty teases were one thing, this however, was another.

“Everyday you get a little more pervy.” You bite out, and he laughs at your defensive tone.

“Did you suggest I leave you without any? A thank you will suffice perfectly fine. No need t’insult me when im jus’ looking after you.” A smug smile fell over his features.

“Harry.” You groan, voice warning him, and he let it go after rolling his eyes.

He allowed you to pick out what you wanted, watching you flush as you discreetly pulled a set of undergarments out of the bag.

You had picked a white linen shirt, matching his own, and a black pair of pants. He let you change into them in his bathroom, but when you’d come out adorned in clothes that perfectly fit the pirate energy, he was holding what he’d deemed as the final touch.

The black under-bust corset.

“C’mere. You’ll be fine.” He says at your immediately displeased face.

“You might not be.” You sneer, frowning at him as the loosened corset hangs in his hands— leather shining with the golden reflection of the candle light around the room.

He walks over to you, since you clearly weren’t going to be the one to do it, and a tut comes from his pink lips, “Always so stubborn.”

You decide to just let him— since partial freedom is in sight— and you stepped into the corset, allowing him to slide it up your body, until it was in place underneath your breasts.

“This fine?” He checks in as he tugs the strings, waiting for your confirmation before the leather was too tight to your waist.

“I still think I should just elbow you.” You glare, hands clenched at the sides of your thighs with the looming pressure of the garment.

His attempt to be courteous was to no avail, clearly. And the white linen gets sinched inward, and he wrenches the strings roughly with purpose.

His deep laugh sounds, and with that firm pull you’re bought close enough to him you can feel his warm breath against your ear as he leans down.

“Let’s not be mouthy, dove. Not when I’m in control of how tight this thing is on you.” He tugs the laces a final time, hard enough the material feels like it’s completely restricting your diaphragm— making you hold your breath for a moment.

At your silence, he lets his hand relax, in turn the strings loosening enough for you to intake a breath. Your soft gasp makes his stomach heat up, warm with an unexplainable feeling.

He ties the corset at the back, and you don’t even get to step away before he’s linking arms with you.

“You look good." He states with a nod, and your eye's veered downward to see the corset against yourself.

That was what lead you to here, stepping off the pier, lit only by the latern Harry was carrying, and onto dirt.

Dirt that may have been separated from your feet with a pair of shoes, but was amazing to feel press against your boots again.

You were so eager to touch something other than wood, that this was like heaven.

The sea lapped up against the shore a few metres away, as the earth transitioned back into sand on the shore. You felt deep anticipation to get further away from the uniting of the two worlds. Because away from anything regarding the ocean and the vessel that floated upon was freedom in your mind.

Harry could see every micro-expression on your face, despite the weak candlelight. The way your eyes had lit up at the sensation of soft dirt below you, and it was endearing. He’d never seen one get so excited over merely dirt.

The air was warm, and felt like a summer night— but the breeze that blew through your hair was crisp. Whispering hints of a change in weather sooner rather than later.

He watched the wind twirl your hair, and he was almost envious of it. Watching its fingers comb through it, in such a way he could only imagine himself in its place with an intense longingly.

“The boys are at the bar. But if that’s not your scene, what we do is up to you.” He supplies, watching your eyes slant to him.

You hadn’t really thought this far ahead, what you’d do once you were off the boat. You looked at him, and then back to the cobble path that lead presumably into the heart of Sintir.

The buildings were lit up, warm light glowing, “Do they have a night market?”

“Mhm, infact they do.” He nods, beginning a slow walk to encourage you onwards.

Oddly enough, as his body was pressed to your side, you felt safe. He was something familiar in this new environment. “How exactly are you going to hide me?”

The pressing question to you was merely a slight concern to him.

“Chances of them knowing that you’re the missing princess is unlikely. And if they have seen the posters with your face on it, I somehow struggle to believe they’ll connect the dots.”

“That’s a lot of faith you have in that.” You comment, boots hitting the cobblestone with the same clacks they did back at home. There was a sense of invigoration that rushed through the blood beneath your skin at the sound.

It bought back your nightly adventures around Kelna, where nothing mattered. And all you had to worry about is what time you were sneaking back through your window without getting caught by your own guards.

It was nostalgic in a weird way. The kind that threw your mind spinning, since the memory was so fresh yet so distant. Too much had changed in the time from then to now.

“‘Cause y’don’t really look anythin’ like your picture.” He comments, dragging his gaze along your frame again, playing a mental spot the difference. He’d seen the flyers earlier that day, and was honestly unconvinced it was really you himself.

“God— tell me they didn’t use an ugly picture of me from 2 years ago…” It’s the kind of thing your parents would do, but Harry only shakes his head, letting out a prompt cackle at your distress.

“No, they didn’t use an ugly photo of ya at all. You’re just s’put together in it, hair slicked back in this fancy satin dress and pearls.” The two of you are walking between the first two buildings facing the sea, luminaries lighting up the path.

He continues, waving his hand as though it adds something to the conversation, “Now, y’hair is down now, all wild. And you’ve got this untamed look in y’eye. No one would look at ya an’ see y’fine dining in a gown.”

You’re not sure what to make of all of this, since he’s talking of you like he’s certain. Coming from his own perspective more than anyone else’s.

“They see a pirates girl. Probably look at you and think y’wrapped around my finger.” He nudges, and you finally scoff, “I would prefer they see it the other way around. That you’re following me like a lost puppy.”

“That’s never usually how it is, though.” He raises his brows, and your arm slips out of his, walking backward as you face him.

“But maybe it could be in their mind. They see you foaming out the mouth for me. And it’s like that ship docked over there,” your point in the direction you’d both originally came from, “is all mine.”

The concept feels like a power trip. You do wonder how many female captains there are in this world. Likely not enough.

“Sounds like quite the fantasy y’ve built up.” He muses.

“I want to go to the pub.” Your tone is certain and confident. To this he raises his eyes brows in challenge.

“Perhaps you’ll share a drink with me, dove?”

“Or it could be the other way around.”

“Well, it couldn’t, because you don’t have any gold to pay with. An’ things here aren’t complimentary like they are at home.” He huffs in amusement, poking fun at your previously lavish lifestyle.

“I don’t need gold,” you begin with a smirk that’s starting to spread across your mouth, “all I need to do is undo a few buttons on this blouse and I’ll probably be able to get a round for the whole crew on the house.”

You’re walking backwards, hands clasped together behind your back, a grin on your face that makes him feel insane.

His eyes immediately darkened, pupils blowing out at the thought of what you’re insinuating. Flirting your way for a free drink… something he can’t imagine you’ve ever done before. Yet would probably succeed at like you have a million times over.

“Right,” He clears his throat, trying to calm himself down, “didn’t take much for you to start whoring yourself out for some booze.”

“It’s not whoring… men are horrible creatures. They’ll do anything if they think it’ll get their dick wet.” He thinks you’re so… uneducated and naive. That just because you’re in a court, that you know nothing of the males on this earth.

However it’s quite the opposite. Sexual topics are strictly forbidden in the palace and court meetings… but elsewhere, when it’s private and no one is around to hear it, men help themselves to the topic.

They have no concern discreetly passing by you, head turned in whisper, just to tell you what a body you have. Or just how badly they want to…

And on the street, it’s even worse. So you know more than enough when it comes to that. That makes you anything but stupid to a man’s intentions.

He picks up the pace of his steps to breach the distance between you both, so that if you were to stop walking suddenly— he would probably crash into he was that close.

“You’re not doing that.” He says, tone serious.

“Why not, afraid you’ll get a little jealous?” You’re flirting with something dangerous now. Eager to prove a point.

“Don’t try to get a rise out of me. Because I said you’re not. Do y’want a drink or not dove? Because the way you’re headed, all your getting is a glass of water.”

“Whatever.” You scoff, still unsatisfied, but resigning your argument for now.

“I’m concerned your attitude will only worsen with alcohol in your system.” He deliberates.

The streets have now fully lit up, with other people starting to appear, and the nightlife is able to be heard from where you are.

The singing happening in the tavern can now be heard as you round a corner into what can only be deemed at Sintirs town centre.

A night market is clearly running, and you can see the pub a few doors down from it. Men and women out the front, drinks in hand and cigars hanging from their lips.

He catches up to you enough to slide his arm between your elbow again, silently obliging you you to stay right by his side.

As you get closer to the tavern, he verbalises this.

“You don’t move from here,” He pulls you tighter into his frame, “and you don’t make any trouble. Otherwise it won’t be pretty.”

His tone is firm, unwavering. You nod to it, accepting the rules begrudgingly, “Yes, Captain.”

You both come to the door, and he pulls it open. The building on the outside was rustic bricks, and inside it was the same— except the flooring was wooden. As the door opened, a bell chimed, but it was drowned out by the overwhelming amount of noise.

Men were shouting, and bellowing all about. Drunkenly chatting, playing darts, and stumbling around. There were women too, but they were not near as rambunctious. All of them were dressed like pirates… and it was clear this place was specialised for them. Maps on the wall, and news clippings of what appeared to be local Sintir pirates were framed around the place.

A few blokes stopped to greet Harry. And he engaged in short conversations. But in the back of his mind, he was regretting bringing you in here. Not because anyone recognised you, but because he could see every single slimy gaze that dragged over you.

One man stopped him by the darts—Harry had called him Evan— he said greetings to the captain, but his gaze never left you.

You had noticed immediately, and it was a bit disgusting. It made you regret calling Harry a perv. Because he was nothing like this.

It immediately pissed Harry off, the way the brutish and large man was eyeing you up and down like you were an object. And his blood spiked when he considered the array of things likely running through Evans head.

The grip he had tightened on you.

It’s protective, you feel. And at the least, you know you’re safe with him.

Harry almost regretted putting that corset on you now. It made you look too good. Too enticing.

He, unlike others clearly, has a moral compass. And enough human decency to see you as a human opposed to a sexual object. He was forgetful that most men lacked that ability.

When he spots his crew, he uses it as a quickly conjured excuse to get away from the other pirate. And as he leaves, he tugs your body in front of him, shadowing your retreating figure from prying eyes.

You’re a bit overwhelmed, in all honesty. But accept it as normal— you hadn’t been anywhere so busy for a while now. Especially when it’s in such a rowdy way.

The second his crew spots the two of you— your body sheltered by his own, and his hand on your hip urging you forward— Niall, the blonde one whose name you finally remember, lets out a bellowing cheer.

“She made it!” He’s excited like you’re an old friend of his, and he drunkenly rises up from the booth the boys had taken.

Harry feels a little more at peace knowing he’s now with his crew— the two of you are less likely to be bothered now, and he knows his mates will look out for you as well. Prisoner or not, you’re still a human.

Niall barrels towards you, and Harry renounces his hold on you. Chuckling as he pulls you into a drunk bear hug.

You’re unsure what to do with your hands as he rocks you around like a child, “Glad ya here, lovie.”

“Mmhm…?” You agree, looking helplessly his crew mates as they cackle hysterically— smacking their hands down on the table and sloshing their pints of beer in fits of laughter.

He eventually slides his arms off you, and hiccups, “are ya havin’ a drink?”

His already heavy accent is slurred as you make out what he’s asking, and you don’t even get an answer in before he reaches over the table and grabs you his.

Sliding the cold glass, around 3 quarters empty, into your hand.

“‘Ave mine! I’ll go get anotha’” He chortles, and then stumbles off just like that.

Harry watches in surprise as you bring the glass up to your lips and down the rest of it without hesitation. Hoping alcohol will take the edge off all the overstimulation you’re having in here. Calm you down a bit.

The rest of his crew whoop and cheer for you, which at the least gives you a bit more confidence.

Before they can all hand you over their half finished beers, Harry comes back to your side, head craning down to talk in your ear.

“Let’s go up t’the bar, get ya somethin’ fresh, instead of people leftovers.”

You nod, walking with him as he pulls you through the crowd.

At the bar, there’s several people sat at the stools. Including a touchy couple, that are practically feeling each other up, front and centre. She is sitting on the seat, but is taller than the man that’s between her legs. Clearly she’s in charge, and you smirk.

Go girl, you thought, and Harry clocks your pride for the woman. Something stirring in his chest.

He ignores it, going up the bar to place on order.

The lady at the bar, whose got muscles on her like an absolute god, nods at him to rattle off his order.

“Two beers and a shot of the best liquor y’ve got, thanks, Naomi.” He asks, but you interrupt before she can walk away.

“Make it two shots, please.” To your quick mouth, she smiles. She has dark skin, and a beautifully done head of braids, it’s clear you’ve piqued her curiosity.

“I’ll make it two,” she smirks, getting two shot glasses from beneath the counter.

“And who is the second one for?” She asks, implying she wants your name.

You slide your eyes to Harry, who is shocked that you’re trying to get his permission for giving your name. He blinks sharply in disapproval.

“Mary.” You nod, listing the fake name off like it was nothing. It was a common enough name, so she takes it.

You don’t realise how effortlessly you and Harry are communicating without words until he ghosts his thumb over your forearm, and you know he’s thanking you.

Naomi smirks at you, “Well, miss Mary, I have to say i quite admire you.”

You give her a thanks, and she slides the two shots on the counter, going on to prepare the beers.

“Been a while since your captain here has bought a girl around… nice to see.” The irony of the situation could almost make you laugh.

“Well, someone’s oughta keep him inline. Otherwise he’d end up prisoner somewhere.” You supply, putting up your best pirate imitation for her.

He shakes his head, your play on words half amusing, half unbelievable.

“Was good to see you, Naomi, thanks for the drinks.” He says, grabbing the beer while you grab the shots.

She gives her momentary goodbyes, and he walks over to a vacant barrel to place the beer down.

You follow suit, but with only one of the shots. You toss the other back before he can say otherwise. The brownish-gold liquid burning a trail down your throat.

He watches in disbelief. You are so shockingly rough around the edges, that the idea of you being a princess feels unfathomable to him.

“You broke a lot of those royal rules, didn’t you.” He raises his brows, voice unreadable.

Licking over your lips, the strong alcohol gives a zip up your spine, “on occasion.”

“Christ.” He mutters, picking up his own shot and downing it.

The two of you take your beers back to the booth his crew was at, and you drink that and whatever else got handed to you by his crew mates— that you’ve officially learned most names of— and are well and truly a bit drunk.

You were sat between Liam and Harry, and the night was actually quite fun.

It was nice to truly forget the situation you’d landed yourself in.

That was until, as the night drew on, and once the early hours of the morning were likely in play, the pub quietened.

It was now regular noise level, just drunk and tired chatter, and someone came over to your booth.

A lanky guy, sporting long dreaded hair with olive coloured skin. Despite his moderately tan complexion, there was an almost queasy undertone to it. It stained a faint yellow tinge under his eyes, and screamed future liver failure the longer you stared.

Yet a gold tooth that peaked through when he flashed a smile. He looked like the epitome of a pirate.

“Ah, Styles and his crew are back in town.” He announces rather loudly, like as if he has an audience he’s talking to.

“Leon… Hello.” Zayn drawls, far from enthralled to see the man.

“Great to see you all,” he claps his hands together, smiling, “now, I’ve jus’ come round to spread the word…”

It piques the men’s interest slightly, and they all start to pay attention to the skinny bloke.

“Garrets boat was found the otha’ day.” He states, looking between the boys, eyes stopping momentarily on you.

Harry pipes up from where he’s sat next to you, and if there was anything amiss, the only telling thing would be the way his hand snakes to your knee, tensing around it slightly.

It’s his bruised hand, and you try to draw your attention away from it.

“I’ve heard word of that… did he not turn up with it?” Harry asks, nonchalantly.

“No… it was in perfect nick, jus’ without its capan’.” He sighs out, stepping forward to trail his boney hand over the wood pattern on the table, “Reckon someone’s got him… so keep an eye out for raiders.”

“Mm, alright. Thanks for the heads up. Hope ya’s stumble upon him…” Harry nods, hand clutching your knee harder.

The man’s missing…

And suddenly, it clicks in your brain.

Despite his crews unreadable faces, you are almost certain that the man currently in the chambers of their ship is the same person Leon is on about.

It sends a wave of anxiety through you. In a room full of pirates, you are something they all would want. Yet for varying reasons.

You’re suddenly grateful again that Harry and his crew seem to only have the intention of money with you.

What a horrible thing to be thankful for in this world, you think.

That you’re happy the people who kidnapped you don’t want to use you in worse ways. Don’t want your body or to keep you as a souvenir.

You’re drawn from your spiralling thoughts as Leon speaks again,

“Ah, and you have a las with you too…” he remarks, although it adds no substance to the conversation.

“Mary.” Harry provides, and the boys all exchange a glance.

“You keep your eye out too then, sweetheart. You women have an attention to detail that us men don’t...” He flashes his golden tooth, and gives a final nod to the crew before turning away.

You purse your lips, glancing down at your lap, trying to hide your frown. Confused if the approach was a convoluted kind of threat, or just an odd exchange.

“That’s us done for the night,” Harry says, his previous relaxed tone was gone. It was riddled with seriousness now.

“Give it ten so it doesn’t look suspicious, and then we’re leaving.”

That was confirmation to you that Garret is the man below deck… and you were itching to ask questions, but knew now was likely not the time.

The tension aided sobering everyone up, and after around ten minutes they all collectively rose. And Harry scooted out of the booth, and gestured you to follow suit.

You slide out, leather gliding against your skin as you got to the edge and took his hand without protest. Despite being upset at this situation only minutes earlier, you craved to feel safe.

So as anxiety was welling in your chest, you easily allowed him to pull you against him. Tan hand clasped around yours as he held you firmly close.

This time, he held you with his good hand, free of dark purple bruises.

You transfixed on his complexion instead now. It was completely different to Leon’s. Tan from the sun, yes. But Harry was— as always— all beauty. Liquid gold was accidentally spilt into the colour of his skin. It shone under even the dingest of bar lightings, and never failed to completely encapsulate your attention. His skin had no sickly undertone.

Tiny freckles and beauty marks that trailed up his forearm. They were colour of chocolate… and he was perfection.

Christ.

You got pulled out of your trance by the tug of his hand, his bruised one busy fishing out a small bag of gold.

It’s unbelievable the state he can put you in. It’s otherworldly, and you feel sort of ashamed how easily your mentality can fold to him.

Taking you up to the counter that Naomi was scrubbing down with a rag, he placed the small coin bag atop the bar.

“Thanks for your hospitality as usually, there’s a little extra for all your help.” He was keeping the exchange short, bidding his farewells after her gracious appreciation.

She smiles a goodbye to him, yet eyes slide back over to you,

“And you too Mary, keep y’man in-line.” She teased, and Harry genuinely rolled his eyes.

“I will.” You stated, voice oversaturated with faux confidence.

With that, you all left the tavern. It felt odd stepping into the now cold air, a change coming in quicker than expected. The market having packed up for the night likely hours ago.

Goosebumps erupted over your skin as the boys moved in haste, a unity of clanking boots against the paving.

“Y’shivering.” Harry remarked.

“It’s colder than it was earlier.”

“Even the tropics must feel the cold.” Tanner states matter-of-factly.

Once out of the town centre, they start running— it was sudden and unexpected. Like once they were fully out of view, urgency could be expressed.

“This’ll warm you up.” Harry raises his voice against the wind, pulling you along to match his pace.

By the time you made it back, storming across the pier, you were near breathless.

Blood pumping, and you did feel a little warmer at the least.

“Alrigh’, Liam, are you right enough to get us going?” He asked, patting his back as the boys walk along the temporary bridging from the pier to the ship.

“Plenty fine, H.” He nods certainly.

“That’s the way…” his voice raises, “Ashton, Miggs, batten down the hatches!”

His pirate-y tone was prevalent as he threw orders left right and centre. Before you knew it, the ship was starting to move from port. You were shocked, considering half of them weren’t even fully sober. But you supposed this wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, readying up the ship for something unexpected while half drunk.

Maybe things were done better that way, with beer in the blood, you supposed. More officiant.

Once he was finished confirming what everyone was doing, his voice lowered, and gaze softened as he turned to you.

His eyes fell where you rung the bottom of the corset cinched around you. You were evidently anxious, it was written all over your face.

“Cmon, dove…” he walked the minor distance between you, “I’ll take you back below deck.”

“To the chambers?“ your voice was abundant with sudden fear, and the thought of going down there knowing there’s likely a corpse in the room across from you made you feel sick.

“No.” He immediately clarified, “My room. You’re not going back down there, Y/N.”

He said it with such certainty, and you wondered what changed to make you a permanent fixture in his room.

You were lead down the increasingly familiar way to his bedroom, “Nothing you can task me with?”

He laughed at your question, “Nothing, love. I doubt you even know how to tie a knot on a rope.”

You couldn’t say you properly did. And then you wondered why exactly you offered to help, considering you have no business aiding people who kidnapped you.

“I don’t.” You sigh, as he lets you into his dark room. He felt oddly domestic, stepping through the doors quickly to light a wall lantern so you can see.

“Then you’re better off safe in here, the waters already a bit rocky.” The ship was rising and falling more dramatically than this morning, which added to your list of things to worry about.

“Harry,” you say his name before he can walk out.

“Y/N?”

“Can you be honest with me…?”

He huffs a laugh, “Tha’ depends.”

“Is the man in the cells dead?”

The seriousness in your tone has him dead quiet. And you can hear the ticking in his brain as he decides on whether he’s answering you or not.

The innocent look in your eye pushed him to be truthful. He wasn’t used to this. Seeing someone undeserving of being captive on the ship. It was always horrible people.

“I’ll go a step ahead of you, yes, Garret’s dead.” He answered like he knew your next question would be that. And he was right, because it was.

You draw in a breath, the only sound heard is the crashing of the ship against the waves.

“Does that scare you?” He asks, and then asks deeper, “Do I scare you?”

You pause to then think how to answer that.

“Yes and no…” You deliberate, because you truly don’t know. You felt safe with him today, but the concept of what he’s probably done to people is eye opening to say the least. And always the potential of what he could do to you.

The air was thick— the alcohol in both of your systems clouding your judgements— and something churned in your hearts. There was a shared breath in, and out.

You feel the cruciality of the moment, and are certain he can too.

Right now, this goes much further than the taking of a royal, the trapping of a person. It’s a question that the answer can only create more confusion.

Because why on this cruel, twisted earth would you be thinking of any response other than a plain, hard, yes.

A breath catches in the back of your throat, and the real answer slips out with a rasp.

“You scare me because I don’t know how to fully hate you. I hate you, but not like i should.”

A half blink, and the look in his eyes switches. It’s unreadable for a moment, blank in processing.

He steps closer, feeling an urge to touch you that he can’t explain where it come from. It’s so forceful he breaches the distance between you faster than he can rethink it. Fingers reaching out to brush a gentle stroke over your cheekbone.

Your lips part, the haze in your mind making you wonder if this was a dream of sorts.

All Harry is thinking about is the fact he wants more right now. The same whirlwind that pushed him to cradle your cheek with his hand is begging his lips to brush against yours.

He pushes it down into the pit of his stomach, replying with a tone so tender he wonders how it come from himself.

“I won’t hurt you. I promise on the damning of my own soul.” He reassures.

The lines have blurred. Blurred from keeping his prize safe, to keeping you safe.

His words feel like they carry too much weight to be coming from a pirate. Like the impact they have is meant for manipulation.

And if that’s they’re intention either way, it worked. Because a part of you resigns to believe it.

He waits for confirmation on your end that you understand, and you give that to him through a curt nod.

“Good. I’ll be back later, you go to sleep.”

Your heart wrenches for no apparent reason as he lingers close to you for a moment longer. Then he drags himself away from you, despite the intense urge to do otherwise.

You catch his eyes a final time as he leaves the room. Leaving the door unlocked…

It tempts you, but with the boat rocking like this, you think better for yourself.

Now you want to throw yourself off the ship again, but for an entirely different reason.

You’ve laid trust in him. Something you said you wouldn’t ever do. Oh how that promise to yourself broke quickly.

But you’re drunk and vulnerable, and his words were so soft and sweet. Two sides of yourself are at war.

Yet either way, you feel it can only lead to a plethora of bad things. It’s all too much for you right now.

Unlacing your own corset, you wiggle out of it, then slip out of everything else. You stand in only undergarments, realising how truly exhausted you are now that you’re back in his room.

The alcohol and emotional turmoil settles deep in your bones, you feel it rattle heavily with each step.

You grab soft clothes he bought for you today, and pull them over you, taking off your bra.

The storm is coming. You feel it within you. It’s a foreshadow of your mentality, the precursor of what’s to come with all of this— and the ever growing complexity of your feelings.

You crawl into Harry’s bed, ashamed at the way you inhale his scent. Hating the way it’s turned into a form of reassurance.

He has kept you safe this last week, which in your subconscious— whose clinging to any sort of saftety— means he is something to you that he shouldn’t be. And you wonder when he went from something you disdained to something you craved connection with.

The idea of stockholm syndrome was familiar to you, but didn’t resonate. Or maybe you were in denial… who fucking knows. All you are sure of is that he makes you feel somewhat stable. Your body craves that shred of stability more than anything.

Either way, it didn’t stop you from nestling into his sheets. Or falling asleep curled up in them.

Nor did it hinder you from when he finally returned to reach out for him, all while still hazed with the slumber you were just in.

A meek call of his name came from your mouth as he gets into his bed, it was at least an hour or so later. The sun would be closer to rising then not, but you choose to haul your body closer to him the second you could.

He sighs with relief of finally laying down, the weather sounds worse outside now. It’s gotten harsher sooner than he expected, something hurrying the system further south. Although it means it’ll hit earlier, at the least it’ll be over in a day or two.

He must’ve gotten undressed, because as you press yourself into his back, his bare skin is warm to the touch.

It was evident feeling him now that the sun coursed through his veins, it replaced the blood of a regular person. He spent so many hours in it, it seemed to be a part of him.

“You’re so warm.” You stated quietly, half conscious.

“Mm, and you’re so bloody cold.” He mutters, voice deep and ready for sleep. His comment causes him to roll into you, tugging you closer into his chest.

Somehow, regardless of if you had been asleep for an hour, you still felt exhausted. Maybe it was the drinks too, they were settling a slight hangover upon you. So, shamelessly you coiled further into his arms.

Your hands snaked up his bare back, and into the hair at the nape of his neck. The curls were damp as you played with them.

There’s definitely still something in your system, and he notices it as well.

“You’ve gotta be still a little tipsy… ya all over me dove.” He laughs tiredly.

Your front is pressed to his, his scent equally as distracting as the slabs of muscles you could feel up against you.

“Tipsy and exhausted.” You murmur, eyes fluttering shut as you carry on playing with his hair.

“Oh, are y’feelin’ needy?” He teases, voice slipping into a shockingly deep lilt, one you’d caught glimpses of yesterday morning.

It sparked a feeling in the pit of your stomach, “Shut up.”

The two of you did eventually go quiet, nothing but the sounds of mixing breath and the brush of hands against skin.

His own hands had taken refuge on your waist, rubbing gentle circles with calloused fingers. Somewhere in the back of your head you reevaluate for the seventh time just how intoxicated you still both were. Enough alcohol in your system to completely blur the lines.

You couldn’t even claim in the morning the cuddling was an accident on part of your sleeping selves. You’d have to try and pass it off as the drinks from earlier. Which although true, feels like a harder excuse to play off this significant.

You were wrapped up in his arms. Voluntarily. And… enjoying it.

It’s a horrible thing to be indulging in. It’s only going to spell you more trouble. But you can’t find it in yourself to care.

He felt you slip back into a quiet sleep, evident in the way your fingers ceased their movement where they sat, tangled in his hair.

In the silence of the night, he thought about you.

Images trailed carelessly through his mind, dragging up ideas of what the two of you looked like right now. He wished he could see it from an outside perspective.

The way you had completely settled into his frame. Chest to chest.

He could feel the ridges and dips of your body too easily, only separated by a thin cotton sleep shirt you’d put on.

Something throbs inside of him at the touch, and to make matters worse, you stir, throwing your leg over his hip just like you had the night before.

He feels dirty as he conceptualises the idea of something more with you.

He wishes he didn’t drink now, because he can’t get the vision of himself inside of you out of his head. He’s weak after some beer and liquor, he lacks self-control, even when half of him is begging to sort himself out. Now, because he hasn’t stopped himself early enough, his prick has swollen in his boxers.

Thank the stars you’re asleep.

He stays deathly still, pursing his lips, waiting his boner out.

Staving away the idea of being pushed inside of you. Such a pretty girl, you were. It’s hard not to wonder how good your mouth would be against his own.

It takes atleast 15 painful minutes for his cock to soften. He’s thankful for being tired, because once the thumping of his heart calms down, he allows himself to pull you further into his hold.

He will let himself have this, at the least.

———

Waking up was almost a carbon copy of the morning before.

A tangle of limbs, but you’ve had a warmth that’s sprouted through you the entire night.

However, this time, Harry was already awake.

The hours of sleep you got were minimal. And the sun wasn’t even fully up. It was mostly cloud coverage outside the window. The room still dim.

He watched you wake up, thankful it’s now— because otherwise he would’ve had to get up and go. Too much to do to be laying in bed with you, unfortunately.

He got to watch your eyes slowly open, their glossy appearance. They lazily scoped the room, as if re-familiarising your brain with your surroundings.

Then they dragged to Harry’s face, catching the softness of the morning still on him.

“I have a headache.” Was the first thing that croaked from your lips.

Your throat hurt and the hangover was clearly in its full effect. You did not usually drink that much.

He hums a laugh at your lack of greeting, starting off the morning with a complaint. Oddly charming somehow?

He wanted to kiss you still.

“Big night for you last night?” He asks, jokingly, but he knows you didn’t drink enough to forget anything.

“Don’t tease.” You plead, head dropping back down to between his chest.

He strokes a hand along your back, “We oughta get some food into ya.”

His gentle encouragement falls on deaf ears. All you’re able to do is fall back into his hold.

“Dove.” The coo he lets out does nothing but makes your stomach flutter.

You shake your head against the warm skin of his chiseled chest. All the muscle there… fuck it makes you light headed.

But you can’t think about that.

You just wanted him with you right now.

“Harry.”

Hearing his name makes the heart in his chest clench.

“Stay here.” You say, simply.

At his momentary silence, your voice drops.

A whisper.

A plea.

“Please?”

Everytime you talk to him like that, a piece of him unravels.

Already too far in, he throws another handful of cation to the wind. Before he knows it, there will be nothing left.

His quiet demeanour is unusual. Where was his quip that usually followed?

You were slowly poisoning him.

“You’re like a drug.” He states.

You’re not sure how to feel. Is that good… or bad?

“Is that bad?”

He doesn’t say anything, just rolls his body weight to the side, moving you to be facing one another.

He stares into your eyes, searching for something. An answer maybe.

But it’s just not one he’s going to find yet.

Time is a virtue, they say.

And maybe if he waits long enough, unravels far enough, gives away enough of himself. He’ll know.

He’ll find out what it is about you that drags him in.

Maybe you’re like the current. Yet he’s not sure if it’s taking him out to a reef, where paradise lay. Or dragging him out into a rip.

His eyes wander the plains of your face.

And finally, he speaks.

“I guess we’ll have to find out.”

———

taglist:

@saturnheartz @slap-me-harry @ilovehsstuff @ameerakane20 @matildasatellite @harrysslut7 @sunflowersey @styleswiftie @anotheryoutubefanpage @straightontilmornin @oknothanks26 @closureesny @angel-upon @brother-lauren @maddie7writes @tenaciousperfectionunknown

(—comment or reach out to be added to the taglist for future parts🤍)

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles fluff #harry styles oneshot #harry styles x reader #harry styles smut #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles writing #pirates gold #piraterry #pirate harry styles #royal y/n #fantasy #writing #I have the worst upload schedule ever I am so sorry #fanfic

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amberlynnmurdock · 3 months

Text

Aim For My Heart (Part 1)

Pairing: Benjamin Poindexter x Reader

Summary: One random morning, she buys him a coffee when the barista gets his order wrong–and ever since, Dex has been entranced.

Genres: light angst in the beginning, fluff, making out

A/N: This first part is all fluff! So I hope you guys like it! This is my first time writing Dex so I hope I got his character right :)

TAGS: @danzer8705 @pcrushinnerd (let me know if you want to be tagged or if I missed you)

credit to the owner of this gif!!!

Drip drip.

Benjamin Poindexter’s brown eyes shoot open at the annoying sound of his sink’s leaky faucet.

Drip drip.

He attempts to ignore the sound. He shuts his eyes and readjusts himself in bed. He takes a deep breath.

Drip drip.

He’s had enough. He can’t stand it.

Kicking the sheets off himself, Dex huffs out of bed and stomps to the kitchen to fix the faucet. He rips a paper towel off a roll seamlessly and wipes the nozzle. He waits a moment to see if it works. Hand on his waist, he stares at the nozzle of the faucet, almost daring it to drip again. After 45 seconds, he decides it worked.

He goes back into his room and crawls into bed. In an instant, he falls back asleep.

***

Another dreadful day.

He can’t remember when his days started to feel like chores he had to get done. Was it when he was put in an orphanage? Was it when his dreams of becoming a professional pitcher were taken away? Was it when his therapist, Dr. Mercer, the only person who ever understood him, passed away?

When was it?

It seemed he was accurate with everything else in his life except when it came to pinpointing an exact moment when it started to fall apart. And it’s been falling apart slowly every day.

Still—he needs to have coffee to somewhat function. He throws the empty coffee bag out in the trash and turns his hands into fists as he rests them on his clean marble countertop. Why do things like this get under his skin? Something as simple as running out of ground coffee? He looks up and is met with his reflection in the microwave. Sometimes, he can barely recognize himself.

After a few moments, he decides he’ll have to stop at the corner coffee shop, which he hates to do. He hates being around people. He hates pretending to be normal. He hates that he has to put on an act. He hates the fake smile he gives when he orders his coffee; he hates waiting in line. The anticipation of waiting kills him inside. He hates seeing the barista accidentally spill a little of his coffee on the counter. It takes everything in him to not throw the cup away out of spite. It takes everything in him to not react violently over something so small.

“You will build your life on pillars of order,” Dr. Mercer had once told him. Pillars of order. Pillars of order. Pillars of order.

He’s trying to be better every day. He tries to follow his code, but it’s so hard without someone to guide him, like a North Star. Even though he doesn’t have that anymore, he still tries to be better. He still tries to act normal. Often though, he wonders if he’ll ever be able to live his life on his own without a guiding light.

No, he thinks to himself. Because people get hurt. Every time. Including him. Most of all, including him.

As he takes a sip of his hazelnut coffee, he immediately frowns at the taste. It’s not hazelnut at all—it’s mocha. He hates mocha. And he hates the fact even more that he has to go back inside that dreadful place and order a new coffee—one they will probably charge him again for.

And of course, the line of people. He takes a deep breath to calm his nerves. Was it the people he didn’t like, or the thought of interacting with them?

After five whole minutes of waiting in line—Nadeem would be on his ass for being late—Dex finally approaches the same barista at the counter who took his order before. As calmly as he can, he forces a smile.

“Hi. I ordered a hazelnut coffee, but I got a mocha instead. Could I please get a new cup?” Dex asks as he tries to ask the question like he hasn’t rehearsed it in his head a thousand times. He slides the cup across the counter.

The barista, a young man with red hair and freckles, nods and looks at the screen in front of him. He frowns. Dex’s heart plummets in his stomach.

“I’m so sorry. We just sold our last hazelnut of the day. We can do—“

“He can have mine,” a third voice interjects. The person it comes from is feminine—light, and friendly. Qualities Dex isn’t used to being around. Qualities Dex pretends to have. When he follows the sound of the voice, he meets a young woman standing a few feet beside him.

She's younger than him, but not by much. She has the most beautiful smile and kindest eyes he’s ever seen. The smoothest, most perfect face. Yes, she’s perfect, he thinks. Perfect to him. He’s speechless as she holds out her cup of hazelnut coffee for him to take.

“I didn’t drink from it yet if that makes you feel better,” she said sheepishly as she caught him staring at her.

“Then what will you have?” Dex asks her.

“I told myself I’d do one kind act today and not expect anything in return. I’m okay. You can have my coffee,” she smiles again, and Dex’s chest feels as warm as the cup in his hand as she hands it to him. Their fingers brush for the smallest of seconds and it’s entrancing to Dex. He smiles at her—not forced at all. She’s already on her way out as she wishes him a good day. He watches as her shrinking figure exits the coffee shop. He doesn’t want this to be the last time he ever sees her. She's the first person to show him an ounce of kindness in a long time. Her hair swayed back and forth as she walked out the door and it flew behind her as the wind came in. She's the most beautiful person he’s seen in a long time.

And she was so nice to him. That feeling was addictive.

“Sir?” The young barista called. “I need to take the next guest’s order.”

Dex ignores him, ignores all the people in the coffee shop he pushes past. His gaze is stuck on her path. He follows where she left, her coffee in his hand. He exits the coffee shop. How could she already be gone from his reach?

He sees her down the block as she makes a right turn.

Dex isn’t far behind.

***

The next time he sees her, he owes her a coffee.

He made sure to get to the coffee shop earlier than normal the next day. He ordered two medium hazelnut coffees from the same barista who had taken his order the previous day. Dex feels lighter in his step—a rare surge of confidence in his entire body. He even decided to wear his FBI bomber jacket. He normally liked to hide what his profession was but thought that maybe it would impress her… and hopefully not scare her. He brushed his dirty blonde hair neatly and even sprayed on cologne.

He waited at a table near the front and kept an eye on the clock. He had enough time to bring her coffee and make it to work before nine. He watched the door like a hawk, watching carefully as each person entered the shop.

And then finally, she came in.

She wore a long trench coat and tall boots. Her hair was freshly windblown and she looked slightly flustered, like she was in a rush. Good thing she wouldn’t have to wait in the already growing line to order coffee.

Dex sees as she audibly sighs at the sight of the line.

“I owe you a coffee,” Dex calls out confidently as he rises from his seat. She looks over at him, frazzled at first, until recognition settles in her features and she seems to—dare he think—calm down. He’s made her calm down.

“You don’t,” she says carefully, eyes glancing at the FBI logo on his jacket, “but something tells me if I don’t accept this coffee, you’ll put me on the Most Wanted list.”

Dex laughs—a real laugh—and hands her the cup of coffee. Their fingers brush again. He’s entranced by her touch, again.

“I could never,” Dex says. “I didn’t get to say thank you for yesterday. So thank you. You have no idea how messed up my day could’ve been without my morning cup.”

“Trust me, I do,” she smiled. “And you’re welcome. And thank you—for my cup today,” she blushed as she fumbled over her words. Dex felt that familiar warm feeling spread through his chest the longer he looked at her.

“I’m Ben Poindexter… or Dex,” he introduces himself, holding out his hand. She accepts it with ease and shakes his hand. She introduces herself and smiles. Dex repeats her name in his mind to memorization.

“On your way to work?” He asks.

“Yeah,” she answers, “late, honestly. But now that I got my coffee early, I can spare a few minutes. Where’s the uh—FBI office?”

“Just a few blocks down. Mind if I walk with you?”

“Not at all,” she smiles.

Dex holds the door for her and lets her walk out first. He scans the area outside—normally he doesn’t check for threats (like he should) but now he has a reason to make sure the surrounding area is safe.

They both begin to walk down the block. He matches her steps.

“What do you do?” Dex asks.

“I work at a therapist’s office. Client relations—not as daunting as being an FBI agent—is that what you are?”

“Special Agent,” Dex gently corrects. Dex perks when she mentions she works at a therapist’s office. “It’s not as fancy as it sounds, though.”

“I’m sure you’ve seen some shit,” she replies, shivering a little.“I can’t imagine.”

“Yeah, it can get tough,” he sighs, “but you get used to it after a while. Do you like working at the therapist’s office ?”

“I do. You learn a lot about people. I’m not a doctor, but I help where I can.”

“You must have a lot of patience,” Dex muses. He enjoys the cool breeze hitting his face. She looks like she's fighting against it. If the cold weather were a physical being, he’d choke the living life out of it for making her uncomfortable.

“I try to,” she smiles again, crossing her arms across her chest to keep warm. Dex feels a strong urge to wrap his arm around her, but he doesn’t.

Dex already knows where her work building is—he followed her yesterday up until a certain point. He’s passed his office already. He doesn’t care. As long as he knows she makes it to work safely—he doesn’t care.

The rest of the walk, they make small talk. Dex doesn’t mind it at all. In fact, the entire time walking, he’s thinking of ways to ask her out on a date. Do I run into her at the coffee shop again? Do I ask her right now?

Finally, she stops in front of her building. She takes a sip of her hazelnut coffee that Dex bought for her and smiles at him. Dex catches her smile and looks away, almost shy.

“Thank you again for returning the favor, even though you didn’t have to,” she held up her cup in a cheersed way. Dex shrugs, and shakes his head.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says softly. “Was it a good cup?”

“Yes,” she nods. “Hit the spot.”

If it wasn’t good, Dex thinks he might’ve taken it out of her hands and thrown it against the building. Nothing should ever disappoint her, or not live up to her standards. He’s relieved she enjoyed it.

“Could I—ask you out for dinner, sometime?” Dex stutters slightly, as he feels his heart pound against his chest. From the way she smiles at his question, it puts him at ease.

“You could… but are you going to?” She teases, squinting her eyes a little at the handsome blonde FBI agent before her. Dex laughs and looks down sheepishly, before meeting her eyes again.

“Would you like to have dinner with me this Friday night?” Dex officially asks her, smoothing any nervousness in his voice. Confidence.

“Yes,” she nods. “I would love to.” Dex can’t help the blush that creeps on his cheeks. She’s holding her coffee as she searches through her bag for her phone. She almost drops the cup before Dex—with lightning reflexes—catches it before gravity can win.

“Oh my goodness,” she gasps. “I would’ve been so sad if I dropped it! Thank you—again," she breathes. Dex smiles and holds the cup for her as she looks for her phone.

“It’s no problem,” he says.

She asks for his phone number and sends him a text so he’ll have her number saved. Dex is impressed by the way she takes the initiative to his contact information. She must really be interested—though definitely not as interested as he is. He feels his phone buzz in his jacket, confirming he received her text.

“Well, have a good day, Dex,” she says in a sing-song way, a way Dex will never forget. “I’ll see you on Friday.”

***

She wasn’t one to go to someone’s house after a first date, but Dex might be testing that theory for her.

She’s watching him carefully over the leather-bound menu. Stealing glances and looks every so often as she pretends to look over the list of red wines. Squinting her eyes, studying his face. He’s completely focused on the menu—he almost looks confused as he reads it. It’s a confusing menu because the place Dex chose has four Michelin Stars. She doesn’t mind though. It buys her time to keep looking at him.

His skin looks soft…but it’s the way his jaw cuts that brings a sort of harshness to his look. No less handsome, however. She’s not sure if it’s because she knows he’s an FBI agent, but his presence is commanding, whether he realizes it or not. Commanding and sweet at the same time. Even the way his hands look strong and have surely held a gun against someone (because isn’t that what FBI agents do?) are now holding the menu so softly… it’s mesmerizing to see such hands that are capable of doing rugged things hold a leather-bound menu so gently. It only makes her wonder what else he could handle with gentleness—or roughness. Whatever she wants.

“What are you thinking of getting?” Dex asks her, his silky voice bringing her out of her train of thought. She inhales sharply and quickly scans the menu again.

“I think a glass of cabernet,” she replies, “and the burrata to start?”

“I was thinking the same,” he grins, warm brown eyes looking into hers. She glances away quickly—the way she feels when he looks at her is unsettling by how much she likes it. “You look really beautiful, by the way.”

And of course… he had to make it worse. There was no use in fighting the blush on her cheeks. She smiled.

“Thank you.”

The waiter took their orders, and Dex watched her carefully as she spoke. She was pleasant. She smiles at the waiter—but not the same kind of smile she gives to him. Dex leans back in the velvet chair and sighs in content. He never thought he would get this far with her.

When it was finally the two of them, Dex cleared his throat.

“So, you do client relations at a therapist’s office? What does that exactly mean?”

“I greet them, I bring them into the room before the doctor gets there. I ask them questions and fill out their intake form. I’m basically a glorified receptionist except sometimes I get to ‘play’ therapist,” she explains rather sheepishly. Dex thinks anyone would be lucky enough to be greeted by her. If he were a patient, he’d ask to never see the doctor.

“Do you want to become one?” He asks with curiosity.

“I think one day,” she answers. “I like talking to people. Never mind doing it to help—sometimes just a person to talk to is all someone needs.”

Ain’t that the truth, Dex thinks to himself. “I agree. I used to see a therapist myself.”

“Really? There’s no shame in it at all.”

“I know… well. We’ll save that conversation for another time.”

“Have you always been in the FBI? I’m not even sure I know what the requirements or credentials are,” she asks.

Dex laughs, “It’s a lot of background checks and training before you start. And no, I haven’t always been in the FBI. I was in the army before.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Oh, wow. Thank you for your service. Now I definitely think you’ve seen some shit. And I can see why you’d go to therapy. Why did you stop? You said you used to see one.”

Dex sighs uncomfortably. She picks up on it immediately.

“Never mind. You said another time. Have you always wanted to be in the FBI?”

Dex smiles a little, appreciative of the way she stopped the conversation about his therapist.

“I used to want to be a professional baseball pitcher,” he admits.

“I love that. Do you still play?”

“Not really,” he says softly. “Other interests came to mind. Life.”

“I know what you mean. Life.”

A comfortable silence falls between them—they catch each other gazing into the other’s eyes and laughing at the same time. Dex can’t remember the last time he felt so enamored with someone, so comfortable and so attracted. He’s grateful for running out of coffee that morning. He’s grateful the barista got his order wrong. Most of all, he’s grateful for the young woman who sits across from him at this restaurant. And he’s grateful for the way she’s smiling at him.

***

It didn’t take much convincing for her to agree to go to his place after dinner. While she promised herself she wouldn’t let it get too far, she was curious to see where the night would go. Dex held her hand the entire walk back to his apartment. She cuddled against his arm, an attempt to feel more warm. Dex pulled her in closer.

He lived in a humble building just outside of Hell’s Kitchen. His apartment was even more humble: small, but very nice. White walls. White marble countertop without a spec on it. Everything was in its place from the spices to the napkins. Everything was labeled. His couch was placed perfectly in the middle of the room. Picture frames were all aligned on the walls. He dimmed the lights a little.

From where she stood, she could see his bedroom door slightly ajar. She caught a glimpse of his bed with white sheets—his bed was perfectly made. From how organized and clean he seemed to be, she thought he would freak out to see her mismatched decorations and colorful bedsheets.

“This is such a nice place,” she said aloud.

“Thank you. I don’t ever have guests, so I’m sorry if it’s a little boring.”

“Not at all,” she moved to sit in the corner of his gray couch. She placed her bag on the floor, and Dex picked it up to move on the coffee table.

“It’s better to keep it clean off the floor,” Dex murmured as he sat down next to her with two glasses of red wine. He gave her a soft smile as he handed her a glass, which she gladly accepted. They clinked glasses and took a sip, all while holding each other’s gaze.

“Can I tell you something?” Dex asks suddenly.

“Of course.”

“I haven’t done this in a while,” Dex gestures to the two of them. “It takes a lot in me to do this. I—I really wanted to ask you out. And I’m happy you’re here. I just—“ he feels himself breathing fast. It’s an awful habit he has, getting overwhelmed by every little thought in his head. Bring a beautiful girl into the mix—it was a terrible concoction for his mind to handle. His mind won’t allow him to enjoy this pleasure because it’s already thinking of ways it could go wrong. Like she’ll never want to see him again.

“Hey,” she whispered, placing a hand on his knee to calm him down. “It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” he breathes out in embarrassment, covering half his face with his hand.

“Don’t need to be sorry,” she said softly.

“I just don’t want this to be the last I see of you,” he admits. “I had such a good time at dinner and here you are now—“

“Dex,” she began, “I had an amazing time at dinner with you. Truthfully, if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have agreed to come to your place. I’m happy I’m here. If it’s all the same to you, I definitely don’t want this to be the last I see you.”

“Absolutely,” Dex agrees immediately, turning to face her more. “I’m so happy you’re here too. I’m happy you gave me your coffee that morning and it’s led to this.”

She smiles. “Me too.”

Her hand is still on his knee. Dex is reminded of it when he feels that area of his leg getting warmer from her touch. He glances down at her hand on him and memorizes the image. He doesn’t want to imagine too much, imagine her hand slowly trailing up his thigh…

To stop his thoughts, he places his hand on top of hers and trails his fingers up the length of her arm, until he reaches her neck and brushes his fingers through her hair. He brings her closer to him, some force guiding him with confidence. Her eyes are half closed as he slowly brings her in for a kiss. A kiss.

He first brushes his lips against hers, almost as a way to ask if this was okay—if the way he was guiding her to him was okay. She doesn’t protest. Dex kisses her softly at first, memorizing the way her lips feel on his. And then he kisses her with a newfound force. She opens her mouth for him to enter his tongue and Dex breathes her in. He places his arms around her waist and lifts her up and into his lap so she’s straddling him on his couch. She has her hands on either side of his face as she kisses him just as passionately, holding him in place. He runs his hands up and down her back, pulling and pushing her to and fro himself.

He pulls back, breathless, and looks up at her.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, running his hands in disbelief through her hair. “Everything about you is perfect.”

She kisses him again and again. Dex’s heart is pounding like it never has in his chest, so much it hurts, so much he thinks his life depends on kissing her. After a while, he pulls back again.

“Let me take you home,” Dex whispers in her ear. “I don’t want to get too far, and we’re treading that line.”

She can’t help but laugh, even though she agrees. “Okay. Walk me home.”

Dex holds her hand the entire walk home. When she says they’ve arrived at her apartment building, she kisses Dex one last time and makes him promise he’ll text her as soon as he gets home.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Dex smirks, enamored by the look in her eyes.

“I do,” she argues, “I do now.”

“Goodnight,” Dex whispers.

He watches as she walks into her building and enters the elevator. Dex moves across the street and waits to see which apartment light turns on. When he sees one turn on, he immediately falls into a dark alley and pulls out a mini telescope.

He found her. And he watches her. Through a small slip of her curtain. He watches as she moves around her kitchen and living room. She changes into a silk robe in her bedroom.

He stays there for another two hours until she’s turned off the lights and headed to bed.

“Goodnight,” Dex whispers to her from afar.

#wilson bethel #benjamin poindexter #ben poindexter #agent poindexter #dex #daredevil #daredevil born again #poindexter x reader #poindexter #ben poindexter x reader #i have no idea how to tag this lol #aim for my heart #bullseye #bullseye x reader

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mjolnirswriststrap · 5 months

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Love In The Dark

Masterlist

Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Summary: Based off Adele’s song, love in the dark.

Warnings: Angsty Oneshot, you break his heart, what a bitch.

You and Bucky had been through so much together. You were already a part of the team when he got deprogrammed and joined. Steve was the driving factor for you two to become so close. Steve trusted him, and you trusted Steve, so you guessed that meant you trusted the winter soldier too.

You fell in love rather quickly, it wasn’t out of a movie scene or anything. You were friends, and it slowly led to something more. You were tasked with being his seeing eye dog for the first few months, before he was sent out on any missions.

When the first mission was dropped on your desk, your boss said you had to prepare him, you had no clue how you would do it. That was the first night Bucky opened up to you, he cried to you. He was terrified of being violent. Scared that fighting would revert his mind back into a killing machine.

That was five years ago. You settled into a routine with Bucky, you got comfortable, that was a mistake. You were independent, brave, the new it girl of the Avengers. Now you can’t do anything or go anywhere without him. You only took missions that Bucky was also assigned to. You entangled yourselves into each other.

At first it was thrilling, you’re guilty of rushing things. It all felt so right in the moment. Like he was meant to be your lifeline. You were too clouded by love bombing to see how deep the hole you dug yourself was. It’s like you were drowning now, you weren’t a person anymore.

It was always Bucky and Y/N. The romance had died long ago, but you couldn’t bring yourself to end things. You told yourself you could fix it or you’d eventually fall back into each other. Your relationship was just based off convenience. You were two ships passing in the night most of the time, roommates it felt like. You didn’t know how your life would end up in another five years.

You know you have to end it, no matter how much he begs you to stay. With shaking hands, you knock on his door, stepping back when you hear him shuffling on the other side. He opens the door, raising his eyebrows at you “Why didn’t you just walk in?” He turns around, going back to his coffee table. He was dusting off old baseball cards in a brown paper bag.

You walk in, closing the door behind yourself. Making no moves to sit on the couch beside him, you stand there, giving him one last chance to do anything. When you doesn’t raise his head from polishing a clear card sleeve, you let out an exasperated huff. Tears try to form in your eyes, you feel them burning but nothings coming out. Your throat feels like it’s closing on itself, drying out instantly.

You take a deep breath, never blinking. You didn’t want to take your eyes off of him, “I can’t do this anymore.”. You finally say it, the five words you’d been grueling over for two years. It catches Bucky’s attention though, “What do you mean?”, he stands stepping towards you. You put your arms up, pressing your hands into his chest. “Please, give me space.”

He listens obediently, distancing himself from you. “Tell me what’s going on baby.” You scoff, he hasn’t called you baby in months.

“Don’t call me that.” You look into his confused eyes, “I want to be my own person Bucky. I’m breaking up with you.”

He invades your personal space when you say that. Wrapping his arms around you, he forces his face into the crook of your neck, “You don’t mean that, I know you don’t mean it. What’s wrong baby, it’s okay.”

You wiggle free from his grasp, “Give it up Bucky, it’s really over.” He steps back, his shoulders are rigid, “Why are you doing this?” Your heart starts beating out of your chest, like it’s gasping for air, begging you to stop.

“I don’t love you anymore.” You can’t look him in the eyes and say that, because you know it’s not true. You know this is the only chance to say everything so you rephrase it, “Rather, I love myself more. It’s better this way.”

“Better for you, not me.” Bucky’s face is strained, he can’t look at you. “You and I both know things haven’t been the same in a while Bucky, don’t act surprised.” Bucky took his chance to scoff at you.

“I haven’t done anything different, no changes, so what changed you?” He drops himself down on the couch, holding his head in his hands. Guilt fills you, like this is all your fault and not shared blame.

“Everything Bucky.” You sit beside him, holding his hand. “I’m sorry, but this relationship isn’t fair to either of us anymore.”

Bucky raises his head to look at you, tears running down his face, “I love you, I can’t let you go.” Tears finally spring to your eyes, it feels like you’re making the biggest mistake of your life. “You have to.”

He grabs either side of your face, cupping your cheeks in his hands. “I’ll do anything, I’ll be anything you want me to be, just don’t do this.” Your heart breaks, but you have to do this for the both of you.

You pull his hands away, standing up in front of him. “You’ll be okay, I promise.” Bucky shakes his head, in complete disbelief of what’s happening. You make your way to the door, only looking back once your in the hallway, his flesh hand was wiping tears from his eyes as he sobbed. You close the door, shielding your eyes from the damage you caused.

#avengers fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x reader #fanfic #bucky x y/n #fanfiction #avengers #mcu #oneshot #james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #marvel one shot #angst #breaking up #bucky barnes x reader

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raised-u-fr0m-perdition · 3 months

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we could be more | dean winchester

Summary: Ivonne Rainer was practically a trained killing machine. Stripped to the bone then built back up by her father in order to become one of the best, like he was. She was forced into hunting when she was nineteen, having developed powers that couldn’t be explained. That is, until she was paid a visit by Azazel’s lackey. Her powers were gone, she needed help, and that’s when she found her father’s journal. Pointing to Sam and Dean Winchester.

SERIES MASTERLIST

PROLOGUE

I was typing quickly on a computer, trying to breathe in and out as calmly as I could. The windows were shut, blinds drawn, door locked and rock salt places around the edges of the room.

“Come on, locate them already.” I muttered as I scanned through piles and piles of CCTV cameras. “Please, please, please-“ The salt blew away, and door and windows started rattling, then violently shaking. I typed faster, then a location popped up on my screen. “Thank goodness.” I wrote it down, but then the doors blew through, and a woman stepped through, red eyes glowing wickedly.

“You’d think that being a witch would make you more adept at protecting yourself from harm.” She smiled maliciously, and I stood up, my own eyes glowing blue as I picked up the piece of paper. “But oh well.”

“Sorry I couldn’t take the full measures when I’ve got the devil on my scent.” I scoffed.

”Cute.” She sniped, then walked forward. “Speaking of the devil, he isn’t too pleased with you and what you’ve been doing. So he sent me to fix you.”

“By taking away my powers?” I breathed, stepping back. My legs were shaking, my head was pounding, ears ringing- it was all too much. But my survival mattered more, if I’m being honest.

“No.” She shrugged, then grabbed my wrist, and I felt a cutting, burning sensation there, along with pain.

Extreme pain.

I let out a cry that felt silent to me as I wrenched my arm out of her hand, and when I looked down, I saw a rune there, glowing red and standing out even against burnt skin.

She chuckled, peering at her handiwork. ”Of course I’m going to take away your powers. Silly girl.” She then disappeared, leaving me to gape in horror at the rune. I picked up my bag and my gun, the ringing still in my ears, wrapped my scarf around me, put on my coat and hurried to my car, getting in and driving off. My arm still stung, and I felt empty, as if a big part of me had been ripped out, which it had been. But I had to leave, and find them.

I pulled up at a …hospital(?)… God knows how many hours later, getting out and asking the receptionist for the right ward and room. I ran up the stairs, counting under my breath until I reached the right door, knocking hurriedly, startling the men inside. One was a man who seemed to be in his early twenties, with shaggy brown hair and dressed in a plaid shirt and green-ish jacket. The other was a much older man who looked like the other’s dad. On the hospital bed was an unconscious man with a very defined jawline and shorter brown hair. He looked damaged, to say the least.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” The guy in his twenties asked, stepping forward.

“I’m looking for Sam or Dean Winchester. Either of them.” I panted, holding onto the doorframe.

“I’m Sam.” Sam told me, looking calmer than I’ll ever be. “Is everything ok? You look spooked.”

I didn’t say anything; I just lifted up my sleeve, showing him the mark. His eyes widened, and so did his dad’s, who also came closer to take a look.

”Sweet Jesus.” The dad breathed.

”That’s a rune.”

#dean winchester #dean winchester x oc #supernatural #supernatural oc #ivonne rainer #azazel #sam winchester #spn #dean winchester fanfiction #dean x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader

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quietblueriver · 1 year

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That Lilith Voice Inside My Head

Avatrice Week Day 2: Injury/Sick

Beatrice isn’t quite sure what she’s doing, standing outside of Ava’s apartment at 2pm on a Tuesday. Well. She knows what she’s doing, but she’s not certain why.

You know exactly why, Beatrice. For six months now, you have been engaging in the most protracted and gauche courtship ritual I have ever had the misfortune to witness. One or both of you needs to either do something about it or resign in shame. For everyone’s sake.

Disconcertingly, it’s Lilith’s voice that she hears. She’s not certain what that says about the state of her conscience but she doubts it’s anything very good. She shifts the brown paper bag in her arms slightly and retrieves her phone from her pocket to make sure she has the correct address. She does. She did the last three times she checked as well. If she doesn’t make a decision soon, she’ll be bringing Ava cold soup.

She straightens her back, pockets her phone again, and stares at the door. Right. This is ridiculous. Ava is a friend. Ava is a friend who isn’t feeling well. Beatrice is bringing her friend, Ava, pho from the place where they often eat lunch together, because she knows Ava’s order, because they are friends.

Say friend one more time, Beatrice. You are aware that our clients pay you to use language effectively? That you allegedly graduated magna cum laude from a passable law school?

“You’ve seen the diploma. And that’s not how most people refer to Harvard, Lilith.”

Middling, then. It’s certainly no Yale.

Beatrice opens her mouth to answer, but snaps it closed as a woman approaches and passes on her right. Beatrice takes stock of the situation. She’s a grown woman. She’s an objectively accomplished grown woman. She’s an objectively accomplished grown woman engaging in a very petty argument with herself on the street in front of a brownstone in Brooklyn while holding a bag of rapidly cooling soup.

Depressing, isn’t it?

It’s enough. Her inner Lilith isn’t wrong. Although she has a history of being entirely oblivious when women are pursuing her, she has never been this hesitant about pursuing someone else. Well, since she got away from her family and their ghosts, anyway. She likes Ava, in more than a passing way, and she has wanted to be careful. But she can acknowledge that there’s careful and then there’s avoidance so extreme it results in a part of your subconscious taking the form of your harshest, oldest, and most honest friend. She needs to do something.

She takes a deep breath and hits the button for Ava’s apartment. Ava buzzes Beatrice up without even asking who it is, the door clicking open immediately, and Beatrice makes a note to discuss the importance of basic safety practices as she hoists the bag a little higher and climbs the stairs to the third floor.

Ava must be waiting by the door because it’s open essentially the moment Beatrice’s fist makes contact.

“Hi, Bea.”

She’s smiling at Beatrice like she’s exactly who Ava had been hoping for, and Beatrice feels suddenly incoherent, moving her face into something that she hopes very much at least approximates a smile. Ava is wearing blue sweat pants and a tank top, a green robe with sloths engaging in various sloth-appropriate activities closed loosely around her waist. Her hair is up in a messy ponytail, and she looks a little bleary from sleep and sickness. Beatrice has never seen her like this. She is…adorable.

Beatrice swallows, opens her mouth to say hello, instead says, “I could have been a murderer.”

My god. Did you learn to flirt from a true crime thread on Reddit?

Beatrice’s shame burns through her; her face is on fire, her stomach a pit of self-loathing. She lifts the bag and says, “I brought you soup.” She is irrationally proud of herself for that recovery.

That is not what I would call a recovery but the bar here is obviously in hell, so well done, I suppose.

Ava blinks at her, clearly not expecting Beatrice to forgo a hello in favor of a violent hypothetical. That is, Beatrice thinks, reasonable. She grimaces and then Ava is laughing, “Camila told me you were coming. I promise I don’t usually buzz people up without checking.” Beatrice briefly considers calling Camila later to discuss the apparent immediate chain of information from her to Ava and to request that Beatrice be consulted before information is passed through it. She dismisses the idea. She has no doubt that the conversation would end with Camila nodding very solemnly and proceeding to change absolutely nothing at all about her behavior.

Ava is still smiling at Beatrice. Beatrice feels this is incredibly generous of her. “Thank you. Come in?”

She pulls the door open wider and Beatrice steps inside, walks the bag toward the the kitchen counter where Ava points. Ava is behind her, moving toward the island, and she puts one hand on the small of Bea’s back to guide her, moving it to Beatrice’s bicep and squeezing gently when she passes. Beatrice nearly destroys the bag, somewhat miraculously manages to get it safely to the counter.

Ava falls into one of the chairs at the island separating her kitchen from the living room and kicks gently at another, which Beatrice prays is an invitation to sit. She takes the hand that Ava places on her knee when she settles in the chair as confirmation. Beatrice expects a brief touch. Instead, Ava’s hand stays. Beatrice is still staring at it when Ava starts speaking, blinks up at the sound.

“Full disclosure, I did watch you stand outside for minimum eight minutes before buzzing my apartment. It looked at one point like you were talking to yourself?”

Ava is smirking, hand still warm on Beatrice’s leg.

“I was. Well, I was also talking to Lilith, but the Lilith inside of my head.” Beatrice pauses, sighs. “Please disregard that.”

“No can do. I’ll absolutely be returning to that later, because so many questions, but for now, I’m more interested in why you stood outside my house for so long being all frowny and cute.”

She moves her leg out slightly to press against Beatrice’s. Beatrice can feel the soft cotton of her sweatpants on the small strip of skin between the hem of her pants and her brogues, the warmth of her up to her calf.

Ava is flirting with her. Beatrice should not be surprised. At this point, only the most conservative and risk-averse part of herself can still posit the theory that Ava may not be interested. Beatrice can be oblivious, but every single one of their mutual friends has expressed to her privately that she’s an idiot for not having done something about this sooner. They’ve also stopped being particularly subtle in shared spaces. Two weeks ago, during board game night, Camila poked Lilith quite aggressively in the ribs when she handed Beatrice a pink figurine to marry in The Game of Life with a droll, “Look, it’s Ava.” While Mary was busy choking on her beer in laughter, Ava had locked eyes with Beatrice and said, in her incredibly earnest way, “Lucky woman, whoever it is.”

So Beatrice should not be surprised. Unfortunately, the conservative and risk-averse part of herself is the part that makes her a better-than-average attorney, and she pays it considerable deference, so she is in fact continuously surprised and rendered speechless or stupid by Ava’s proximity and any demonstrated interest in Beatrice. Currently, she’s fascinated by the blue of Ava’s sweatpants against the black of her slacks.

“Bea.”

She looks up again. Ava has leaned closer, pressed some of her weight into the hand on Beatrice’s leg, which has now migrated to a still socially acceptable, but definitely more distracting, position on her thigh. Her eyes are searching. Beatrice clears her throat, glances away. “Yes. Sorry.”

Look at her, you absolute moron.

“Bea.” Ava’s other hand has come to her jaw, turns Beatrice back to face her. “Just to be totally clear about what’s happening here—I’m flirting with you. I’ve been flirting with you for months. This,” she takes her hand from Beatrice’s jaw and gestures up and down at herself, “Is not exactly how I wanted to have this conversation, but I just watched you lurk on a sidewalk for almost 10 minutes talking yourself up to come see me and it was stupidly cute and it made me want to kiss you. Lots of things make me want to kiss you, and I thought I should probably just tell you that and confirm that you’d want to kiss me back. Because I’m almost totally sure you would.” Beatrice nods and Ava wiggles just slightly in her chair, grinning big. “Awesome. Unfortunately, I can’t actually kiss you right now because I’m currently still like 30% disgusting, which is better enough for me to have told Cam not to stop you from coming here but which is like the absolute maximum you’re allowed to see before we’ve been dating for at least six months.” Ava’s mouth snaps shut and her cheeks bloom red and Beatrice feels something stir in her stomach.

Ah. The elusive backbone. Glad to see it still exists.

Fuck off, Lilith, she thinks and, in a show of real progress, does not say out loud. Channeling all of the determination that got her through her middling law school education, Beatrice manages to get it together enough to tangle her fingers in the ones on her thigh and say, “Three points. Or, two points and a question. First, I take issue with your use of the word disgusting.” She tucks an escaped strand of Ava’s hair behind her ear, “You’re beautiful. Second, I respect your boundaries entirely but just so you’re aware, I would kiss you right now without hesitation. Finally, would you like to go to dinner with me on Saturday?”

The smile Ava gives her is perfect and bright and Beatrice feels like she’s done something right in this, which, given how she began their interaction today, is quite the relief.

“Yes. I really, really would.”

#avatrice week #avatrice #sister beatrice #ava silva #sister lilith #warrior nun

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whatsnewalycat · 1 year

Text

Psychomanteum / Chapter 3

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

Chapter 3: Sedated

Chapter Summary: Something something a drunk mind speaks a sober heart.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 7.1k+

Content / Warnings: alternating POV, death, car accident mention, drug addiction, attempt to date rape, sweet bb dee gets to go off on a mf, consent discussions, flashbacks, binge drinking / alcohol use / blackout drunk, grief, divorce, angst, yearning, spooky ghost, hangover, toxic parent

Notes: Chapter title from "Sedated" by Hozier. Y'all I keep writing a million words per chapter lol. Brevity is apparently not my forte. Ok thanks for reading, friends, I appreciate you!!

[ Tag List ] [ AO3 ] [ Spotify Playlist ] [ Series Masterlist ]

By the next time Dieter is able to come visit you, the snow has long since melted, and the idea of wearing a jacket sounds like hell on earth. Even now, when the sun has gone to bed and the moon is glowing full and luscious in the sky, the air is a thick soup that clings to Dieter’s skin as he walks the block from a liquor store to your apartment. He’s clutching a brown paper bag, which contains a bottle of whiskey, per your request.

When he finds the entryway to your apartment complex and buzzes your unit, your voice comes crackling over the speaker into the tiny echoing glass box of a room, “Whooo is iiiit?!”

He flinches back at the unexpected intensity of volume, but presses the speaker button and responds, “Dieter.”

“DEEEE OH MY GOD HI! Come in, come in!!” you squeal, piercing his eardrums again, quickly followed by the buzz signaling the door being unlocked. He winces back. The slurs in your voice are evident already.

I'm too fucking sober for this shit.

Dieter yanks the heavy door open, limbs feeling exhausted and all too real. The plastic seal of the whiskey bottle crackles as he twists the cap off on the short stroll to the elevator.

The circular button with an up arrow lights up when he presses it. He lifts the heavy glass bottle to his lips and takes three deep swallows of the intoxicant. A soft ding chimes, and the elevator's aluminum doors slide open. He steps inside, carefully avoiding his reflection in the mirrored walls as he smashes 5 on the panel of floor choices. His eyes fix on the glowing circle until his focus fades into abstract.

He regrets not making another stop between his hotel room and your apartment. The deep yearning to snort a line of a powdered god complex straight to the back of his skull twists around his skin. It works in tandem with the tacky layer of sweat and humidity coating his body, exposing his nerve endings to the unrelenting stimulation of the world around him.

As the elevator signals its ascent, he shifts his attention to the open bottle, to his fist wrapped around the crinkly brown bag at its glass neck, and raises it to his lips again. He tips it upside down and it glug-glug-glugs down his throat in time with the ding of the elevator flying up past floors 1, 2, 3, 4.

The love-hate relationship he has with the smooth burn wages inside him when he reaches floor 5. He lowers the bottle, hissing as his mouth-to-stomach pipeline protests the whiskey. His head whips back and forth violently and his body shudders. The elevator doors slide open and he steps out, rolling his shoulders and tapping his fingers against the crinkle of the brown paper bag.

He strolls up to your door, pausing to take a deep breath. His knuckles wrap against the dark wooden door. You bellow from inside, “IT’S OPEN!”

When he opens the door, he looks around and immediately regrets coming here. You’re sitting cross-legged on the velvet, eggplant colored couch, half-empty beer bottle wedged between your thighs, wearing nothing but a loose, white, Fleetwood Mac tank top that hangs off one shoulder and a pair of black boyshorts. Tattooed, puzzle piece skin fully on display, looking butter soft in the golden light that emits from a floor lamp in the corner.

Your beauty and lack of modesty isn’t what sets his hair on end, though.

It’s the string bean of a man sitting next to you, hard eyes looking all too sober in contrast to how obviously wasted you are. His long, dishwater blonde hair is pulled back in a tight bun at the crown of his head. He’s wearing a pair of gray basketball shorts. That’s it. What Dieter assumes is the man's navy blue t-shirt is discarded on the plush, white carpet of your living room floor.

His fingers slide along your bare thigh possessively as he sizes Dieter up. You look like you barely notice the touch, or even the person, as you clap your hands together and wave at Dieter, “Deeeeeeee ohmy godddd I’m so excited to see you, come here!”

You jump to your feet, sending the beer bottle toppling onto the floor. The mystery man looks irritated and hisses as he flinches back at the sudden movement and its subsequent mess.

“Oh noooo!” you giggle and snort, then try to bend over and pick the bottle up and stumble forward, catching yourself before you fall into the unlit gas fireplace.

“I got it, I got it,” Dieter strides into the kitchen and trades the bottle of whiskey for a roll of paper towels off the countertop, bunching a few into a wad as he makes his way into the living room. You grab them from Dieter’s hands, then drop to your hands and knees, pressing down into the wet spot, soaking up the spilt beer. His eyes flick to Mr. Mysterio, who’s staring down your shirt, no doubt getting a fantastic view of your tits.

Dieter goes back to the kitchen and rifles through cupboards until he finds a glass, then pours himself a hefty dose of liquor, and asks, “Either of you want a drink?”

Mr. Mysterio shakes his head, “Nah, I’m good, thanks man.”

“Yes, please!” you chime as you climb to your feet and clumsily make your way into the kitchen. Dieter shudders as your hand trails across the small of his back when you pass him.

You free throw the saturated, balled up paper towels towards the garbage. Your attempt fails, and the wad hits the linolium flooring with a wet smack. It goes unnoticed, and you grab a glass from the cupboard he left open, then set it down with a clink next to his.

You lean back against the counter, gazing at Dieter with a hazy, half-there smile, “Thank you, boo.”

Given your current state of sloppy drunk, he considers tricking you into drinking water instead of booze, but you’re eyeing the glass expectantly. Against his better judgment, he pours the amber liquid into the glass.

“Who’s your friend?” Dieter mumbles, nodding to the shirtless man.

You look ponder this, then tilt your head sideways to Mr. Mysterio, whose balls deep into something on his phone, “What’s your name again?”

“Max,” he answers without looking up.

“Max,” you repeat, grabbing the glass and pushing yourself off the counter.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You tip toe back to the couch, swaying like a pendulum as you navigate the path. Dieter swallows the contents of his cup and pours more before he joins you two lovebirds on the couch.

“So, is this gonna happen or not?” Max sighs. He finally peels his eyes away from the iPhone screen to roll his head on his shoulders and look you up and down.

You frown and furrow your brow at him, “Ssss what happening? What’s happening?”

He raises an eyebrow, “Sex.”

Dieter has to physically bite his tongue. The muscle writhes beneath the grip of his teeth. Un-fucking-believable. This fucking scumbag is still trying to fuck you.

“Mmm,” you toss your head back and forth, as if you’re actually fucking considering this, then look from Dieter to Max, “Not unnnnless Dee canjoin.”

“No,” both men say simultaneously, but for very different reasons.

Max stuffs his phone in his pocket and rips his shirt off the ground, then tugs it over his head, “Thanks for wasting my time.”

Dieter’s teeth release his tongue, and he sneers, “Were you seriously gonna fuck her?” Dieter's eyes narrow in a glare at Max's back as he walks by, “She’s shitfaced.”

Max chuckles as he heads for the door, disregarding the comments.

Dieter’s nostrils flare and he stands up, noting that his body feels lighter, more fluid. The whiskey is hitting him. He trails behind the douchebag and fumes, “She can barely fucking stand, you think she can fucking consent?”

“Hey, man, she messaged me and told me she wanted me to come fuck her in the ass,” Max asserts, turning to face Dieter with his hands up defensively, “I was just tryna hold up my end of the deal.”

“There no fucking deal if she doesn’t know what she’s doing,” Dieter bellows, getting heated now.

“Listen, I don’t give a shit,” Max scoffs and walks to the door, calling back as he exits, “Good luck, man.”

Once the door closes, Dieter stomps over and deadbolts it. He mutters under his breath, "Dare you to come back here, you fucking little shit."

When he turns around, you’re folded in on yourself, arms wrapped around your legs, face buried between your knees. Shattered sobs wrack your body.

Dieter throws his head back and looks at the ceiling, hoping his gaze shoots straight to whatever omnipotent being hangs out at the end of that backlit tunnel he never made it to the end of. He sends a psychic signal, asking, “What the fuck did I do to deserve this?”

The almighty tunnel demon or whatever doesn’t respond, and he supposes it doesn’t fucking matter anyway. This is happening. His shoulders sag as he releases a sigh that’s the exact square footage of his lungs. He grabs the bottle of whiskey en route to the couch, then plops down next to you and coos, “You… you ok?”

He was never good at this whole “comforting” thing. Maybe he should just leave. You probably won’t remember anyway. He seriously considers this, and he’s tossing the idea back and forth across his brain when you turn to face him. His body goes rigid as you meet his gaze.

Your eyes are bloodshot and glassy, your pretty face sopping wet with tears. Maybe some snot, too, but you’re still fucking beautiful. Which is insane. Your face folds in its sadness and you whimper, “Why’d you say that, Dee?”

His mouth gapes open and he furrows his brow, shaking his head from side to side in confusion, “Wh-what?”

“You said ‘were you seriously gonna fuck her?’” your face contorts as you put on a faux deep voice, and Dieter assumes that’s an attempt to mock him.

“No shit, Lua-” he scoffs, throwing his hands up in disbelief. Are you seriously mad at him for shooing away the fucking creep that tried to date rape you?

“Why would you say it like that? Like ‘who would fuck her, that’s disgusting’? Is- is it because of my scars?” your eyes are welling with tears again and you self-consciously run a hand along the side of you that was put back together by sutures.

He shakes his head and turns his body to face you, “No-”

“Am I really that fucking ugly?” you squeak and your body shudders as you inhale a sob.

“Absolutely fucking not,” Dieter booms incredulously.

Your face is wet and crumpled up like the beer-soaked paper towel on the floor beside your kitchen garbage can. You’re still crying. Is this what the whole night is gonna be?

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat and runs his hands through his hair, sending it every which way, and sighs, “You are… fucking gorgeous, Lua,” he pauses, then his brow quirks as he admits, “The things I would do to you… Unholy, unspeakable things, really, honestly. I would fuck you senseless any given day. I mean that.”

A dopey smile spreads across your lips and you giggle. His face falls into earnestness, and he searches your face, “But I wouldn’t touch you if you were too drunk to consent. That’s a shitty fucking thing to do," he grits his teeth and cocks his jaw, dropping his gaze to the floor, "Which is why I asked that rat-faced fuck if he was seriously going to fuck you.”

This explanation seems to satisfy you. Your puffy, red eyes finally stop producing tears. They’re far away and searching, like you’re deep in thought.

“It’s fucked up that he would even consider it, let alone encourage it,” Dieter scratches the scruff on his neck and mutters, “Where’d you even find this guy, Lua?”

You shrug and take a deep, shaky breath, exhaling the residual cobwebs of sorrow that accumulated while you cried, “Jusss tinder.”

“Tinder,” he repeats with disdain, looking around the room at anything except your beautiful face, “Having any luck on there?”

“Sss fine for what I need,” you inhale deep and unfold yourself, stretching your hands and feet as far away from your body as they can reach. The tank top you’re wearing pulls up and exposes a generous helping of your mid-drift. You let out a squeak and arch into the stretch. He has to avert his eyes to keep from ogling at the curve of your breasts that peak out from beneath the shirt.

“And what’s that?” he looks down at the bottle of whiskey, then raises it to his lips, taking a big, burning swallow.

You shake out your limbs, then look from the armrest, to him, “Can I lay m’ head on your lap? Looks comfy.”

Dieter stammers, “Oh, uh… yeah, sure.”

He makes room for you, leaning his back against the velvet couch as you scoot over and lay your head in his lap, draping your legs across the arm rest. Mentally, he pleads with his dick to not make a fool of him. The army green cotton shorts he’s wearing are thin and loose, and will absolutely not fucking conceal any kind of rumblings down under.

“Hookups,” you tell him, looking up with a devious smile from your place on his lap, “No strings, y’know.”

“I am all about no-strings-attached,” he touches his fingertips to his chest and grins, peering down at you.

“Deeeee,” you whine, gripping his free hand and interlacing your fingers with his. His dick jumps at the contact. God damn you. You don’t notice, just snuggle his arm against your chest like it’s a teddy bear and pout, “Can’t hook up with you like those guys. Too, um... stringy.”

The admission twists his guts up in a confusing knot. He’s feeling numb around the edges, though, and moves past it, chuckling, “Too stringy?”

“I like you too much,” you blink and nod, then reach up and tap your finger to the tip of his nose and giggle, “Boop.”

“You are so fucking drunk, Lua, holy shit,” he starts laughing, hiding the heat spreading across his cheeks. He takes another long swig of whiskey, then snorts, “I’m tryin’ to get on your level.”

You don't respond except for an amused hum. Some time passes in silence, your hands clasped together, huddled against the warmth of your chest. Sweat pooling between your skin and his. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the couch. In this darkness, he can zero in on the thudding of your heart as it pumps blood through your body, keeping you alive.

He's envious of each blood cell that gets to course through your veins. How they get to know every square inch of you in a way he will never be able to. How they are always within the temple of your body, a civilization of organisms working tirelessly to keep their goddess alive, worshiping you on a microscopic level.

“Can I tell you a sssecret?” you whisper loudly. His head downswings and he snaps his eyes open to meet yours, all stretched wide and dilated, like a doe's.

“Hit me,” Dieter advises in a gravelly voice, grateful for your numbness, otherwise you might notice the way his cock is twitching at the sight of you.

Your clutch on his hand tightens and you grin, “I wanna do this thing with the mirrors. To, mmm, talk to Ethan. With the mirror. I forgot what it’s called,” you frown and tilt your head, “psychomathlium.”

“What is it?” he cackles at the clumsy way the made up word falls from your lips.

“Hang on-” you sit up, letting go of his hand, and start digging into the creases of the couch. He drinks to the loss. When you find your phone, you hold it above your head victoriously, “AHA!”

He cannot fucking fathom that you have ever been able to convince yourself you're ugly.

“Gotta find the thing-” you mumble, tapping and sliding your index finger around the screen with one eye open. Dieter notes that the pulls of whiskey he had on the elevator ride up have fully saturated his nervous system, making him feel loose and wavy. You start trying to pronounce a word, only able to get as far as, “psychom-psychom-”

He outstretches his hand, “Can I see?”

You drop the phone in his palm, then get comfortable again, resting your head on his crotch.

“Psychomanteum,” Dieter reads out loud. He crinkles his nose at the description google gives:

In parapsychology and spiritualism, a psychomanteum is a small, enclosed area set up with a comfortable chair, dim lighting, and a mirror angled so as not to reflect anything but darkness intended to communicate with spirits of the dead.

“Yes!” you snatch the phone from his grip to scroll down the screen, then toss it on the floor haphazardly. He watches your face fall from excitement to sadness, and your voice comes out small when you say, “I wanna ask him why.”

“Ask him why, what?”

“Why he tried to kill us,” you answer, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He searches your face in confusion, but you're staring off into the distance, paying him no mind. His hair stands on end.

“What do you mean?” Dieter asks hesitantly.

“He crashed the car on purpose,” you close your eyes and stretch your hands above your head, “But he wouldn’t tell me why.”

He recalls the car ride from the diner in February, the frantic whimpers that fled your lips when you were asleep. The only discernible phrase Dieter could hear was, “Slow down, not buckled-”

There are a million questions that cross his mind. Was he abusive? Was he drunk? Did he say anything to you? What fucking happened, Lua?

When considering which question to lead with, it dawns on him that asking right now wouldn’t be fair to you. Even if the questions itch the insides of his throat. He wants you to want to tell him, and won’t try to divulge your secrets when you’re in a vulnerable state.

“So… you want to make a psychomanteum?” he drags his eyes around your stonewalled face.

“Mmmhmm," you nod loosely. The motion grazes your head against the soft length of him and generates a lusty ache deep inside his groin. With a sigh, you flick your eyes to his and admit, "I’m too scared to do it by myself, though. Sss why you shoul' do it with me.”

“Right… right now?” Dieter’s eyes widen.

“Why not?” you shrug.

His brain sloshes around in his skull as he shakes his head vigorously, “No. No no no. We’re not going to drunk dial your dead husband, who tried to murder you, via mirror.”

Your laugh is squeaky and delirious, and you throw your hands over your face as you snort, “Well, when you put it like that…”

“I do, I do put it like that,” Dieter finalizes. His fingers are filled with energy when he thinks about how soft your hair looks, and he wills himself not to run them through the strands, then he mumbles, “What else do you wanna do?”

“Fuck?” you look up at him with hopeful eyes. Hopeful, half-open, completely offline eyes.

Yes.

“Absolutely not,” he chuckles, resisting the urge to rub his thumb against your cheek, and a spark jolts his insides when he tells you, “Maybe tomorrow. But right now you are trashed. Next idea.”

“Hmmm,” you scrunch your face up and tap your index finger to your chin, then your face lights up, “Wanna lay in bed and watch shitty TV?”

“Let’s do it,” Dieter smiles.

You jump up a little too quick and stumble sideways before gaining your footing with a giggle, then you start down the hallway.

He follows you, but stops dead in tracks at the closed door next to the kitchen when he thinks he hears something inside. His smile fades as a darkness with weight settles on his shoulders. It seeps into his bones, doubling their weight, pulling his soul to the ground.

You pop into the doorway of your bedroom, backlit by the bright ceiling light inside, with a great big gorgeous smile on your face. Your hand extends towards him, “Come on! Do you want umm… pajamas?”

“Is there someone in there?” Dieter furrows his brow and points to the closed door.

“Not… really,” your eyes flick to the door and you shift your weight to one hip, then clamp your lips shut with your teeth and avoid his gaze.

That’s a weird fucking answer. But the twisting in his guts tells him he doesn’t want to know more than that.

“I’ll, um… I’m gonna use the bathroom first,” he mumbles, then averts his eyes as he skirts by you into the bathroom. He closes the door and takes a deep breath, pressing his palms against the bathroom counter over the sink.

That wretched feeling sucks him towards the center of the earth. Like he’s sinking in a tarpit. He shoves his hands in the front pockets of his shorts and digs around to see if, by some divine miracle, a bag of coke has magically spawned inside. No such luck.

Maybe he can just ignore that insatiable burning in his chest. The yearning that’s pulling all the skin in his body too tight for comfort. That chronic emptiness that just intensified tenfold.

What the fuck is in that room?

He looks up in the mirror. The man that stares back at him looks like shit. Darkness like bruises stain the tear troughs under his pained eyes. His skin is dull and lifeless. Fuck, he just looks hollow. Like those vacant-eyed chocolate rabbits people gift children on Easter Sunday. No life to be found here. Nobody's home.

With a sigh, he leaves the bathroom, flipping the light switch off behind him. A sickening shudder runs down his spine when he crosses the hallway to your bedroom.

An image splices itself into his mind’s eye just for a second. Just one single frame of a man’s inky black shadow, somehow darker than the darkness of the room.

A warning.

Inexplicably, he understands that’s what it is: a warning.

Then he steps through the threshold of your bedroom and he’s doused in artificial light. The room, its cream colored walls littered with colorful paintings and shelves of plants, feels different than the rest of the apartment. A plush white rug covers most of the hardwood floor. One large window, visible through the sheer emerald green curtains, runs parallel to the length of your bed, opposite the doorway.

It feels… safe.

You’re laying on your side, hugging a pillow, one leg hooked over the edge of the rust-colored comforter. The flesh of your thigh is exposed to the air. The swell of your ass catches the light. His fingers twitch as they think about how your skin would give under their grip.

He imagines what it would be like to sink his teeth into you.

“You comin’ or what?” you mumble without breaking your line of sight from the tv mounted in the corner of the room. He shakes the depraved thoughts from his head and approaches the other side of the bed, eying the side table drawer that displays a photo of you and Ethan on a beach somewhere with white sands and perfectly tranquil turquoise water.

He looks up at the cavernous black doorway. That warning churns his stomach again.

But then his gaze flicks to you, and you’re looking back at him with your eyebrows drawn together over doe eyes. He thinks of you having to go to bed every night alone in this depressing fucking apartment. With a sigh, he pulls the covers back and crawls between the white sheets.

All of a sudden he doesn’t know what to do with his extremities. How does he normally lay in bed? Surely, not like he is now. Like a corpse boxed into a coffin.

Is it offensive to think that in a dead man’s spot?

You cut him off from his spiraling thoughts as you tug on his shirt and mumble, “Dee?”

He doesn’t say anything, just turns his head to look at you.

“Can you cuddle me?”

There’s such a childlike innocence to the way you ask him this question. It’s all pink hubba bubba and Saturday morning cartoons. He can tell the intention is not romantic or sexual. It’s just comfort.

So he nods and hums in a gravelly voice, “Yeah, come here, doll."

You kick your legs all the way under the blankets and wiggle closer as he wraps an arm around you. Your body settles against his, cheek to his chest, one arm draped across his belly. His hand lands on your hip. It feels natural and innocuous, so he doesn’t move.

It’s like you’re hit by a tranquilizer. Your body melts into his with such ease. His rigid muscles go lax, too. The colorful noise on the TV is just background.

“I miss this part the most,” you whisper the statement like it’s a secret.

He hums in acknowledgement and closes his eyes, sinking further into contentment.

“Do you?” you ask in a yawn.

“Do I what?”

“Y’know, miss cuddling with your wife?”

Dieter remembers the hotel room off the coast of Italy, the day after he and Anika were married. White curtains flapping in the breeze off the Grand Canal. Late morning chatter floating up through the open windows.

Her back was pressed against his chest, a layer of sweat gluing them together. His nose was buried in her golden hair, breathing in the floral bouquet of the flowers that were anchored in her locks 24 hours prior. Their breathing moved in sync. He felt a warmth spread across his body as he marinated in the moment.

He blinked his eyes open, waking at his own pace. When he adjusted his head to peer up at the frescoed ceiling, he studied the cherubs playing in the fluffy white clouds that decorated the sky blue background. His mouth moved in the shape of a silent word.

Too afraid to say it out loud, too bold to keep it inside. It’s what that morning was, though, he was sure of it.

Heaven.

At home in their bed, dozens of times in those first few months, she would nuzzle into him as they fell asleep. As they woke up. After sex. While watching movies. Doing nothing at all. His lips spelled out the muted confession.

Heaven.

“I do,” he whispers his secret in exchange for yours. Evening the scales. Or whatever.

“Do you love her?”

His skin tightens as the question bubbles between the layers. He gnashes his jaw back and forth as he considers this.

In contrast to the months of content cuddling and hot sex, here were months of him reaching across the mattress in the dark, asking, “Can I hold you?” or “Can you hold me?” or “Annie, please, can you just look at me?”

He was always met with silence.

One night he quietly admitted, “I feel like a ghost each time I come home.”

To which she responded, “A ghost wouldn’t leave me here with no one,” then got up to sleep in another bedroom. By the next morning, she looked right through him again. A phantom in his own home.

It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling.

Dieter thinks about the divorce petition his lawyer, Gene, received from Anika’s lawyer. He has 3 more days to respond before the decision could default. Gene left him a voicemail earlier today explaining that defaulting could result in millions of dollars lost.

But he can’t bring himself to sign it.

If he signs it, it’s real. They’re divorced. Anika will go back to Europe. He would rather die than live in that huge, empty house without her. Each room haunted by memories of her, the good and the bad.

“Do you love Ethan?” he finally returns when he’s unable to come up with an answer.

“Yeah,” you breathe a sad chuckle, then sniffle, “That’s why I don’ understand.”

A split-second vision of a man-shaped black hole in the other bedroom invades his brain. The alarm bells start ringing as a shiver runs down his back and clutches his guts. But he swallows hard, clears his throat, and declares, ”We’ll do the psychomanteum tomorrow.”

“Really?” you roll around to face him, and his hand slides to the small of your back. He’s acutely aware of the pads of his fingers resting on your soft skin. How tempting it is to set them into motion, to feel more of you.

“Yeah,” he answers. Your face erupts in this big, beautiful smile that is contagious, making him grin despite the storm roiling inside him.

Then your gaze flicks to his mouth and back to his eyes in a question. A question that divides him as his tongue slides along his lower lip subconsciously. You search his face for an answer, leaning forward enough that he inhales the whiskey taste on your breath.

Your hand reaches up and your nails rake through his hair. A shudder rattles his spine and sucks the air from his lungs. The ache he feels when he holds himself back is torture.

“Why don’t we go to bed, Lua?” he rumbles.

You place your thumb on his lower lip and run it along the edge, sending a tremble down the center of him. His eyes flutter shut, and he feels your whisper hot against his skin, “Sss that what you wanna do?”

No. Absolutely fucking not.

But the slurring in your speech reminds him how fucked up you are, and the warning is twisting its way through his intestines.

“Yeah,” he decides, opening his eyes to flash you a gloomy smirk.

Your features sag in disappointment and you draw back, tucking yourself into his side with your head against his chest. You mutter, “Sorry.”

The pain in your voice is apparent. You’ll get over it, though, once you return to sobriety and realize it would have been a mistake.

“Do you want me to turn the lights off?” he asks, frowning up at the brassy ceiling light illuminating the room.

“No,” you yawn, “Dark is scary.”

He glances over at the darkness hovering on the other side of the open doorway and nods in agreement, “Ok.”

It’s quiet for a few minutes, and he thinks that maybe you’ve fallen asleep, until you mumble out, “Are you gonna leave when I’m asleep?”

“Do you want me to?"

"No."

"Then I won't."

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

But when your breaths get long and deep, and all the residual tension held in your tenuous state of consciousness slackens, the gnawing at his brain starts again. The Big Empty, gutting him and carving him out like a jack-o-lantern.

His eyes are fixed on the TV, but it’s just lights and noise. Nothing is absorbing. All he can think about is how much he wants to get rid of this sinking feeling. He may have promised you he’d stay, but would you really remember? Or would you be more likely to freak the fuck out when you wake up from your blackout next to him?

Really, he’d be doing you a favor by leaving.

He takes a deep breath in and slowly releases it into the bedroom, then cautiously reaches down into his shorts pocket and fishes out his iPhone. There’s an unread message.

> GLENN: > You coming out?

His molars catch the smooth inside of his cheek and bite down. A soft little snore emits from your throat. His eyes flick to the dark bedroom doorway and the tar pit of sadness starts sucking him down. Static vibrates hot in his veins. He texts back.

< ME: < Yeah. Where?

When you wake, it’s with a start, eyes snapping open with anxiety as you’re catapulted into consciousness. Your TV is blaring 90 Day Fiancé and the bedroom lights are still on. You sit upright and notice the covers are drawn back on Ethan’s side of the bed.

Stomach acid rises in your throat as you start patting down your surroundings in search of your phone, taking a deep breath of relief when you pull it out from beneath your pillow. Two unread texts, sent hours apart.

> DEE: > Going to liquor store then I’ll be there

> DEE: > Sorry, had to go. Text me when u wake up.

You drop your phone and lay back down, covering your face with your hands as you groan out loud, “What the fuck did I do?”

With your eyes clamped shut, you try to recount the night before. Pouring glasses of wine while talking to your mother on the phone. She was crying, telling you about how she was having a difficult time dealing with Ethan’s death. She doesn't understand why you’re not as sad as everyone else. She informed you that when her husband died, she was practically bedridden for a year.

Like you don't remember. Like you weren't the one that picked up her slack to avoid living on the street.

“Just because I’m not calling you bawling or posting bullshit on social media doesn’t mean I’m not fucking sad, mom,” you growled, then emptied the Pinot Grigio into your glass.

Shockingly, she did not appreciate this. Her voice assaulted your ear drums from hundreds of miles away as she snipped, “Well I’m sorry for being a human with feelings, not a robot.”

When you wouldn’t dignify her comment with a response, she continued to bait you, “I thought I could count on you of all people to know how I feel, but I guess not.”

You rolled your eyes and put back the glass of wine like it was a shot of liquor.

“Now I know better.”

A pause to wait for your non-existent response.

“Now I know better than to bother you with my feelings again. Nope, can’t talk to Louella unless it’s about her, isn’t that right? All about you.”

That exceeded your limit for bullshit.

“Yeah, that’s definitely what I’m doing right now, mom, making it all about me,” you scoffed, then hung up on her.

After this, you dug out a bottle of whiskey from the back of a kitchen cabinet. You rejected her calls until you got drunk enough to not give a fuck if she went to voicemail or not, laughing out loud to yourself as each voicemail notification popped up on your screen, "Fill it up, bitch, I don't give a fuuuuuck!”

You remember snippets from there forward. Sexting with some guy on tinder. Dieter’s text letting you know his flight landed, asking where to meet you. The desperate urge to fuck. Laying in bed with Dieter.

Your stomach clenches and you groan again when you remember trying to get him to kiss you. He rejected you.

You lift your phone and send a text to him.

< ME: < Gooood morning sunshine. Please tell me I didn’t make a total ass of myself last night.

To your surprise, he responds immediately.

> DEE: > Lol no way < ME: < Do you still want to hang out with me? Hahahaha > DEE: > Obviously > U hungry? < ME: < Only if you’re bringing food here 👀 < I look like shit and refuse to be seen in public > DEE: > Impossible for u to look like shit lol fucking goddess > Be there soon

Your stomach flips upside down and makes you dizzy. Last night’s inconsolable desire to be fucked hard returns with a vengeance. A tingle twists at the your center when you imagine what Dieter would be like in bed.

You’ve been on the phone with him while he was painting and drawing. He seems to get lost in a trance sometimes, rambling out the narration of his creative process. Messy, passionate strokes. An intuition for detail. Would he do the same with your body as his canvas?

You roll on your side to look at the empty half of the bed. Guilt that’s heavy and blue pools in your chest. It feels like a betrayal to wish Dieter would have accepted your advances.

It’s not like you haven’t been having sex. You’ve actually been very successful in keeping your sexual needs met. There’s a divine kind of peace you find with another body pressed against yours as you work towards mutual ascension. They touch you in delicious ways that make your sorrows melt away, then you never have to deal with them again. Anonymous orgasm donors that you scrub from existence at the first opportunity. It’s exactly what you need.

That, wherein, lies the problem with Dieter. You don’t want to never have to deal with him again. In fact, you like having to deal with him. He’s goofy, fun to talk to, and says nice shit like fucking goddess. You don’t want to dispose of him.

With a sigh, you drag yourself out of bed and into the shower. The hot water falls on your head, washing your sins down the drain. A baptism into this new day.

“How you feeling now, doll?” Dieter asks as you curl up into yourself, resting your head on a black and white checkered pillow. The greasy, tangy scent of Chinese food lingers from half-eaten takeout boxes that litter the end table on the other side of the arm rest, only about a foot away from your face.

You groan, “Still terrible. I can’t believe I invited some fucking rando to my apartment. I’m so sorry, but also thank you for telling him to fuck off.”

He chuckles, “Relax, forget it.”

“Also,” your heart pounds in your chest when you lift your gaze to his, studying his reaction, “Thank you for, um… not… letting me kiss you.”

The corners of his mouth turn down as he sighs and runs his fingers through his hair, “You were pretty drunk, I figured you would regret it.”

You sit up and lean away from the now repugnant smell of lo mein, scooting closer to Dieter, admitting, “I haven’t, um… kissed anyone since, you know, Ethan died.”

His eyebrows raise in surprise, “Really?”

“Yeah,” your face heats up and you continue to stammer, “I’ve like… hooked up with people or whatever, but that’s… different. I- I don’t know.“

“I believe ‘no-strings-attached’ is the phrase you used,” he smirks, turning his head to search your face.

“Oh, is it?” you laugh, throwing your head back and covering your face in embarrassment, “Of course I told you that.”

“That reminds me-”

“Fucking hell,” you groan and drop your head to your chest, mentally preparing for the next embarrassing thing that blackout you did.

“No no no, I told you I’d do the psychomanteum with you today,” he tells you.

Your breath catches. The betrayal you feel towards yourself is deep and cutting. Why would you fucking tell him about wanting to do that? You frown and turn to him, “What did I tell you?”

“I- um, I mean,” he stammers, shifting in his seat as he crosses one leg over the other and looks up at the TV, “You told me that he tried to kill you both. And you wanted to um... to ask him why.”

Shards of glass slice through the soft innards of your belly. Shame, hot and red and viscus, floods from the wounds and fills you to the top. You bring your knees to your chest and hug them tight, folding in on yourself, “Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t need to tell you about that.”

“Wait, why are you apologizing?” he sounds bewildered.

You shake your head and shrug, unable to come up with an answer. Your skin burns with embarrassment and you wish you could disappear.

“Hey,” the couch next to you shifts and his palm presses against your back as he rumbles, “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but if you wanna do the mirror thing, I’ll do it with you.”

A sigh expands your lungs and you turn your head to look at him. His puppy dog eyes search your face for a clue as to what you’re thinking. Tears burn the backs of your eyes and you choke out, “I feel like an idiot for telling you about it. I don’t know.”

He hums and rubs the back of his neck. Tilts his head from side to side, then scratches his chin as he tells you, “When I was a teenager, I had a friend named James.”

You sit up straight and furrow your brow at him. He leans forward, pressing his elbows into his knees, “We were military brats, both our families were stationed at Fort Lejeune in North Carolina.”

One of his legs starts bouncing rapidly and he traces the lines of his palm. You reach out and grab his hand, interlacing his fingers with yours, then give him a firm squeeze of encouragement. He glances over, meeting your gaze. His eyes are tear-brimmed and bloodshot. You nod, as if to prod him forward.

He frowns and drops his eyes to your clasped hands, then continues, “We had to move. I wrote and called him for months, but I never got a response, so I gave up. A year after we moved, I found out that he, um… he drowned in the river.”

“Oh, Dee-” you breathe, and tears tingle behind your nose and eyes before they overflow onto your cheeks.

“I’ve tried to contact him on a ouija board more times than I care to admit,” a sad little chuckle bubbles up from his chest, out his nose, “So, yeah, I get it. Wanting answers, closure, all that."

You nod and watch him, studying the tics in his facial muscles. He’s obviously lost in the expanse of his brain. Your thumb sets itself into motion, smoothing a circle against his hand. He takes a sharp breath in and looks up, shaking himself out of his trance, then says, “Anyway. I’ll do it, too. See if I can talk to him.”

An ache of affection radiates across your chest. You sigh, feigning annoyance as you grin and squeeze his hand, then release him to wipe away the tears on your face, “Fine. Ok. Let’s do it.”

[ Next Chapter ]

#psychomanteum #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal fic

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bluemoonshadow561 · 1 year

Text

The Bag

Damian glanced nervously at his brother in the passenger seat. Arias had been complaining of a stomach ache all day. Now, he was hunched over with his arms tucked around his middle.

The car jerked to the left as Damian steered around the exit ramp. Arias groaned softly.

"You good?" Damian asked.

Arias swallowed. His stomach lurched and he gagged. Saliva trickled from his lips onto the car floor. "I think I’m gonna throw up."

"Shit." Damian reached into the back seat and fumbled around for something to prevent the imminent disaster. He grabbed an empty fast food bag and shoved it into his brother’s lap.

Hands shaking, Arias opened the bag and held it under his chin. He burped and spat a few times. He breathed out through his mouth and leaned his head against the window. His head ached and he felt dizzy.

Damian watched Arias out of the corner of his eye. Normally he would be pissed having to deal with a vomiting passenger in his car, but his brother looked too awful for him to feel anything but pity. Trembling and curled up against the door, he breathed in and out in short sporadic bursts that trailed off into whimpers. His cheeks were flushed, the rest of his face was pale with a sheen of sweat that left his brown curls damp and pressed against his forehead.

Arias retched and clumps of his lunch spilled into the paper bag.

Damian cringed. "You okay?"

Arias heaved again, liquid crinkling against the bottom of the bag. He coughed, sniffled, and weakly raised his hand into a ‘thumbs up’.

"Just hang on," Damian said. "We’re almost there."

Arias’ stomach reeled, violently expelling a torrent of vomit. His head pitched forward and he struggled to catch his breath. He belched and more gushed from his throat.

The bottom of the bag had turned to mush, and it’s contents seeped through a hole and dripped onto Arias’ lap.

"The bag…" Arias choked out before vomiting again, this time the bulk of it coating his gray sweatpants.

"Fuck."

#emeto #vomiting #sickfic #emetophilia

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stormkobra-5 · 2 years

Note

Hi darling 💖 congratulations on your 1600 followers 🌟! If requests for the prompts are still open, could I request 14) our muses aren’t together yet but one of them asks the other to stay the night so they won’t be alone. With Steven Grant please? Thank you 💫

Hello and thank you! ILY!!!

Prompt: 14 ) our muses aren’t together yet but one of them asks the other to stay the night so they won’t be alone + Steven Grant

Rating/Warnings: 18+ graphic nightmares, gore/violence/major character death, angst, hurt/comfort, mention of Marc and Jake but they don’t have a big part, reader and Steven have been friends for a very long time, the beginning is very dark IDK WHAT HAPPENED OK

Steven was running.

His lungs burned for air and his muscles shook he’d been running for so long. He could hear the jackals’ howling laughter gaining on him, but he couldn’t see them. He couldn’t see anything. All he saw was shadows, aside from the faint hues of purple light that glowed softly before disappearing, lighting up streets that looked vaguely familiar. He couldn’t summon his suit; he couldn’t hear Marc, or Jake. He couldn’t even feel them. Hell, he’d even accept Khonshu right about now.

Steven skidded to a halt, trying to catch his breath. A flash of deep indigo lightning cracked overhead, lighting the black clouds and… and your flat building.

Why was he here?

He heard the vaguest echo of a scream. Then again— your voice, calling his name, you were screaming— oh god—

Steven bolted up the stairs, knowing his way to your door by heart. No, no no no no no not her, please not her, let her be, don’t hurt her—

Your screams grew louder as he closed the distance between him and your door in a run that would’ve put even Marc’s to shame. But he wasn’t fast enough, he was moving too slow, far too slow…

“Y/N!” He tried to yell for you, to let you know he was coming, but his voice was stuck in his throat. The hallway seemed to lengthen, making his movements like sludge. Allowing him to hear every second as your bloodcurdling shriek was torn into a gargle, as he heard ripping and tearing and crunching and he was too late, too slow and too late…

He finally rounded the corner to find the jackal hovering over you, but… but you were everywhere, blood and bits coating your entire melting flat in a way that should be impossible; maybe a rational part of his brain knows that this can’t be real, it’s impossible, but all he knows is your screams, and you’re all over him, you’re all over him—

Steven jerked violently awake with a terrified scream of his own, flying out of bed and frantically wiping at his body. The dream-afterimage of your remains dripping from his hands and soaking his clothes was burned into his eyes, even as Marc and Jake sprung into action to try and calm him down.

“Buddy, hey— calm down. What happened?”

“Breathe, hermano. Breathe.”

He was trying. Steven knew he should probably find a brown paper bag or something, because he was sure that he was hyperventilating. He hadn’t even realized that he’d summoned his suit as he fumbled for his phone, struggling to dial your number.

“Steven?” Your voice— calm, gentle— made him let out a choked sob of relief. It only concerned you, but at least you weren’t screaming. He couldn’t stop hearing it on a repeat in his ears. “Hey— Steven, honey, what’s wrong? What happened?”

“C-can I come see you?” Steven managed, although it was a struggle. “Please?”

“Yeah, of course. Should I come to you?”

“NO!” Steven yelled, and he can just picture you flinching in surprise. “I-I mean… Just… Just stay there, yeah? And grab a knife. Hide. Until I get there. Please? Don't open the door unless it’s me, ok?”

“O-ok, Steven. You’re worrying me— what’s happening?”

“I-I—“ Steven’s shoulders shook, a high-pitched whine coming out of his throat as he struggled to hold his sobs back. He couldn’t stop seeing it, your body, destroyed… “C-can you stay on the phone with me? Please? While I’m on my way?”

“Yeah,” You answered softly, and he heard you moving around. “I have a big kitchen knife. And I’m hiding under the bed. Is that ok?”

Steven was bolting out of the flat. He didn’t even lock his door; was it even closed? He didn’t care. He knew it was just a nightmare, like his alters were telling him, but he couldn’t… he couldn’t leave you on your own now. He didn’t want to wake up tomorrow and know that a jackal tore you apart because he wasn’t there.

With the suit, it took a lot less time than it would have if he’d chosen to run to your place without it.

You were his best— and only— friend. He’d met you back when he’d still worked at the museum, when you snarked at Donna in his defense; and you’d been nigh inseparable ever since. But maybe Steven felt a little more for you than just friendship.

He loved the ways your eyes lit up when you talked about something that you were passionate about, showing a window to your fiery soul. He loved the way you showed kindness to even the smallest of things. He loved that whenever your favorite season came around you were pulling him around to twenty different places just to experience it.

He loved you.

You were the only one he loved. He wondered, sometimes, if you loved him, too. You’d never had a boyfriend in the years that you’ve known him, and you’d frown whenever he’d try (and fail, purposefully or not) to go on a date of his own, convinced you’d never fall for him.

He wondered.

But what if something happened to you? Like his nightmare? What if he never got to tell you? What if? What if? What if?

Steven listened to your breathing after telling you to keep quiet so that no one heard you. In, and out. In, and out. You’re breathing. You’re fine.

Steven started rapidly pounding on your door when he reached it. “I’m here, love! I’m here!”

He visibly sagged with relief when he saw you, disheveled and startled and awkwardly carrying a knife. Alive and uninjured. Steven started to say your name, but couldn’t; he rushed forward to drag you into a tight hug, sobbing into your shoulder. He didn’t realize that you’d guided him to the couch until you sat him down, urging him to breathe.

“Shh, Steven, it’s okay; I’m right here, okay?”

He tried to focus on your voice as he evened his breathing, following your instructions, forcing himself to breathe like you were.

Steven stared at you. At your loving eyes full of concern and your soft hair and your perfect face. His suit was gone, allowing him to reach up and take your face in his without stopping to take his gloves off. He ran his thumbs over the apples of your cheeks, feeling you. Feeling your warmth against his skin. But it wasn’t enough.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was leaning up and pulling you close for a tender kiss.

Your lips molded together perfectly, and at your little whimper of surprise he gave a soft moan. He licked into your slack mouth, prompting you to actually return the kiss; he swept an arm around your back and pulled you flush against him. He pulled back for air with fresh tears streaking down his face and new sobs on his lips.

It took him several seconds to realize what he’d just done, but his voice came out as only a whisper. “I… I’m sorry…”

“Did you mean it?” Your question caught him off-guard. You looked hopeful. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking on his part. “The kiss? Did you mean it?”

Steven’s eyes locked with yours as he tried to calm down. Did he mean it? More than anything. “Of course I… ‘Course I meant it. I’ve always… I’ve…” He head fell as you cradled his shaking form to your chest, shushing him. “I had a nightmare,” He sniffled, and he felt you run your fingers through his hair. “I… I lost you. I wasn’t fast enough. And I lost you. I couldn’t save you. And there was just…” Steven leaned into you, squeezing your torso tightly. “...There was so much blood…”

“Steven,” You breathed after a few moments, “I’m here now, okay? It was just a nightmare. It wasn’t real.”

“Yeah?” Steven muttered into the crook of your arm, wet from his tears— he was still trembling uncontrollably. You reached for a blanket to cover him with, laying back on the couch with him. “...Can… Can I stay the night?” His voice was so small, so scared. You hugged him closer.

“Of course you can, Steven.” For emphasis, you kissed the top of his head.

“Can I… take you out to a proper dinner, tomorrow? Maybe?”

He felt your smile against his scalp and finally started to relax into your loving— and very much living— embrace. “Yeah. I’d like that, very much.”

Give me a character and a prompt!

#moon knight #steven grant #marc spector #jake lockley #steven grant x reader #marc spector x reader #jake lockley x reader

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ghostcicadas · 1 year

Text

Prologue of a Story I’ll Never Write

Excerpt from: The Bad Kid Curse (also called, Anathema)

Length: 742 words

—

A soft sound that rang like music in the surrounding, dead air. Across, a boy tilted his head to the sky and breathed in stagnant oxygen that served as reminder to this violent dance between him and what was long considered his other half. Star-crossed lovers till the end of time as he had been told day and night again. Phrases like, You’ll marry her one day, and don’t mess this up. What you two have can never be replaced, rung in his head like untreated tinnitus. Not like he could treat this invisible head wound with something like therapy or other.

As things were, therapy didn’t work well on him, confirmed by Dr. Bogues when, in secret, she timidly requested that his parents send him to a psychiatric facility (of course, he overheard this sentiment from behind the stairwell and changed his behaviour accordingly, which then prompted his parents to praise her for “fixing him,” as it were). He didn’t rely on listening to some Doctor Bogus telling him what problems she thought he had, and thought it best to avoid psychiatric doctors like the plague. They were as maddeningly curious and insistent as the rest of humanity yet they prided themselves on having some doctorate, some slip of paper that gave them the right to pick into his brain and churn him into the upstanding man he ought to be.

As he thought about it, he felt more indifferent to therapists than indignant. It was, as all things were, a mild annoyance that stood as a shackle to his freedom, of which he could cleverly retain if he used his natural charm. The obstacle in front of him could not be described in that way. She was not a shackle he could avoid, but a parasite who had her venomous spurs lodged in the neck, trailing up the back of his skull. He had to disarm her with force.

There was no other way this waltz among the stars could end. He had to tear away from this thin tether of light that trapped him and move along to join normality. Today, he would release from this tangled web of craziness.

Her face was wet and her eyes oozed more wetness. She creaked like old floorboards, sounding an ear-scraping screech like some violent bleeding animal. He strode forward as she scraped her nails in the patch of garbage waste, some mangled attempt to get her footing.

“Please, I swear I’ll love you more than anyone else. I won’t even look at the other guys at school, it’ll just be you and me! We’re everything, right? You said so!” She whined with gasping breaths that only proved her true pathetic self more. Clawed at her throat and tore the silver necklace—a priceless 6-month anniversary gift—from her body, throwing it at his feet. It reflected its shining silver as brightly as the object in his left hand.

Right—the knife he grabbed from her house had become accustomed to his warm fingers (Blood pumping through veins beneath his skin… he had always wondered what they would look like when cut. Did they shower wildly like a crimson fountain as he had seen in movies?) Holding this felt natural. This was the right thing to do after all.

She used an arm to push herself up, but the bulging bag of garbage she was using as leverage broke, spilling some unknown brown substance all over one half of her body. Her outfit was tainted; he had bought that for her, too.

She continued screaming, but she and him both knew no one could hear her. “Get away! You’re a fucking psychopath! Everyone was right about you!”

He actually pondered those words, pausing his slow and steady gait. He had heard those words before, and they should have no affect on him. But, he realized it wasn’t her words that bothered him—it was her tone. She was pleading with a sense of hopelessness embodying her every pore. Her plan had ultimately failed; she wouldn’t get the only thing she ever wanted, and that thought sparked fire in his chest.

His shadow covered her form and he raised the knife gripped tightly in his sweaty palm. White teeth gleamed as he parted his lips, fervour growing hot in the reflection of his pupils.

The moon watched from afar, knowing the stars were right all along, as they had never been wrong before.

#writing #excerpt #writeblr #writing excerpt #prologue #writing community #villain writing #horror writing #funnily enough i am a psych major

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zacharybosch · 2 years

Text

Tasseomancy - chapter 6

📞stede and ed have a lovely little chat on the phone!!!📞

chapter 1: tumblr / ao3

chapter 2: tumblr / ao3

chapter 3: tumblr / ao3

chapter 4: tumblr / ao3

chapter 5: tumblr / ao3

read chapter 6 of Tasseomancy below or on ao3!

It had been a long day for Stede, very long indeed. Nothing had gone right; he’d been woken up at the crack of dawn by two seagulls urgently trying to copulate outside on the window ledge directly by his head, and then it all went downhill from there. Customers today had been rude, his sewing needles had all been dull, and he hadn’t had a spare moment to make any further progress on Ed’s bag. To top it all off, it had been four days since their very enlightening conversation about dildos over lunch, and Ed hadn’t raised the subject again. Stede very desperately wanted to, but every time he tried he just ended up wheezing and then hastily started talking about something else.

But he was back home now, and there were no seagulls shagging on the window ledge, and Ed had texted him a photo of cool shell he found at the beach, and best of all: he had a tin full of delicious tea sitting in his cupboard, courtesy of Ed, and he was going to brew a lovely hot cup and just let all his worries melt away in the leaves.

He hung his bag up on the hook by the door, and set his pile of post down onto his miniscule dining table. There was a letter from his bank, trying very hard to persuade him to get another credit card — that could go straight in the bin; a menu for a new Chinese takeaway that had just opened up round the corner, and he was definitely going to keep that for the next time he had a little treat money; a letter from the building manager to all residents, politely reminding them to please not encourage the seagulls; and finally a parcel, wrapped in brown paper, about the size of a shoebox. Strange, Stede didn’t remember ordering any shoes. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had money enough for shoes.

He tore open the paper, and promptly dropped the box. Was this right? He checked the name and address on the discarded paper, and yes, it was definitely for him. It was— well, there was no use beating around the bush, really, it was a dildo. Purple and a little bit curved, with a smooth tapering head and a wide flat base. There were even— wow, okay, Stede took a deep breath and blinked a few times and yep, there he was, he was back in the room— there were even soft little bumps and ridges on one side, certainly not so big as to be scary, but prominent enough that Stede knew he would feel every single one as it slid into his body.

Oh god, Ed must have sent this. Ed had bought him a dildo and now he had opened the box and was holding it in his hand and thinking very hard about how to say ‘thank you’ without also saying ‘will you show me how it works?’. Because he absolutely could not say that— could he? Was that allowed? Was any of this allowed? They were friends, and friends definitely didn’t teach each other how to use sex toys. But then, friends didn’t send each other sex toys either. So why had Ed sent him this?

Stede’s stomach did some very violent acrobatics as the first spark of a new and thrilling thought started crackling in his brain, but before he could examine it too closely and realise what that thought actually was, his phone started to ring. He dug it out of his pocket, still clutching the dildo, and saw that it was Ed calling him. What absurd timing.

“Edward, did you send this to me?” Stede said by way of greeting.

“Send what, mate?” asked Ed, in an amused tone of voice that told Stede he knew exactly what he was talking about.

“This… implement. Not that I don’t appreciate the thought, it was very kind of you, but give a guy a warning at least!”

“Yeah yeah, I’ll make sure it says ‘DILDO ENCLOSED’ on the packaging next time.” Stede’s brain stalled briefly on the words next time. Ed giggled to himself, and then paused before he asked, a little hesitantly, “Do you like it?”

Stede gave the dildo a little squeeze. It felt nice in his hand, firm at the core but squishy outside, and it had a very pleasing weight to it. Almost like the real deal. “Yes, I do actually. I expected it to be… I don’t know, tawdry somehow. Plastic and nasty. But this just feels natural. Lovely colour, too.”

“It’s silicone, dual density. Gives it that real dick feel.”

“Yes, it certainly…” Stede’s sentence trailed off as he gave the thing another exploratory squeeze, and was immediately hit with the mental image of him squeezing Ed’s dick instead. “…certainly feels real. Wow.”

Ed’s breath was staticky through the phone. “Bit overwhelming, is it?”

“A little,” Stede admitted. “I’ve never tried anything like this before. Not sure where to start.”

There was a long silence, and Stede had just begun to ask if Ed was still there when he interrupted with, “I could tell you what to do, if you want. Talk you through it.”

Stede’s heart was suddenly beating very fast, and his mouth was dry, and his fingers were clumsy as he gripped the phone tightly against his ear. His body clenched in some strange way he wasn’t used to, and he felt the ripple of it settle down between his legs.

So Ed was offering to talk him through it. Maybe this was something that friends did after all? If he was being perfectly honest with himself, Stede had never really had any close friendships and so had no idea what actually constituted normal behaviour in such a relationship. And Ed was a very worldly guy who seemed to know a lot about everything, so if he was casually offering to teach Stede how to use a dildo then it must be normal, right? And that… shivery, full-body clenching thing, that must be normal too. Whatever that was.

The thought that this was all perfectly normal sat a lot more comfortably in his brain than that earlier stomach-flipping, electrifying thought had done, and so he figured it must be the right one. With that settled, Stede took a deep grounding breath and very carefully, very evenly, said, “Thank you, that would be… much appreciated.”

Another long pause from Ed, before he said very quickly, “Okay then, right, okay. Cool. Um. You’ll probably want to lie down in bed or something, and, uh, take your clothes off. Don’t wanna get those messy. You got the lube as well right, that was in the box?”

“Yes, all present and correct. I’ll just need to put the phone down while I get myself arranged…”

“Put me on speaker. I’ll be waiting.”

Stede really needed to get control of himself. Ed was just— being kind. He understood how anxious Stede was about sex and his lack of experience, and was very benevolently helping him practise in a safe and non-judgemental environment. But god, his voice… Deep and rich and husky and delicious. Something about the way he said I’ll be waiting just sent an electric shock straight to Stede’s dick, and it was all he could do to keep from moaning. He wanted to roll around in Ed’s voice and smother it all over his body.

But no. He had to focus. This was strictly business. What did he need to do next? Right, clothes off, onto the bed, lube on the side table. Done.

A few deep breaths to centre himself, and he was ready. “Good to go when you are, Ed,” he said, with far more conviction than he felt. Was he really ready, though? Talking to Ed while naked was… a lot. He hadn’t been expecting that.

“Okay. We’ll just— get right into it. So uh, step one, you gotta finger yourself. You’ve had a poke around down there before, right?”

“Well, yes, I’ve tried plenty of times. But I don’t think I’ve ever really managed to stretch very much—”

“It’s not about stretching, man. You’re just trying to make yourself relaxed, open, receptive, horny, you know? You’d be amazed what you can fit up there in the right state of mind.” When Stede didn’t say anything, just carried on breathing down the phone, Ed pressed on. “What makes you relaxed, Stede?”

Stede had never felt less relaxed in his entire life. “Um. Lavender oil in a hot bath. Putting on my face cream. Hearing the ocean in the distance. Listening to you talk…”

“Really?” Ed purred, sounding warm and pleased and somehow, impossibly, even lower and sexier. “Guess I better carry on then. You’ve got me on speaker, right? Plop a bit of lube on your fingers and then just get ‘em down there and have a little rub around. Don’t worry about where you’re going, just do what feels good. If you wanna dip a finger inside, go for it. But don’t do it because you think you need to stretch out, do it because you’re horny and you want something inside you, yeah?” Ed paused, and Stede could hear him rustling and shifting about on the other end of the line. “What’s your free hand doing?” he asked, breathing a little heavier.

Currently, it was being squeezed very tightly into a fist. Stede forced himself to uncurl it, one finger at a time. “Nothing.”

“Right. Put it somewhere that feels good. Maybe not your dick just yet, if you want this to last. If you, uh, need some ideas, I find the inner thigh’s a good one. Give it a bit of a rub and a squeeze. Or like… the chest. Are you into nipple stuff? You can do that. Um, neck’s pretty nice too. Just like, stroking and holding around it, you know? Wanna get some shivery, tingly feelings going. Are you doing it?”

Stede gave a squeaky little “Mm-hm,” in response. He’d moved his free hand to his chest, just feeling the weight of it and dragging his fingertips over his nipples. It was nice, it was really fucking nice, but hearing Ed saying all these words to him in that voice of his was doing a far better job at making him open and receptive than Stede’s fingers could ever do on their own.

“Perfect. Okay. And you’re still… with the other hand, you’re still doing that too, right? How’s it going?”

“It’s going good… thanks,” Stede said, and immediately cringed. ‘Thanks’?? He could hear Ed giggling a little, and valiantly soldiered on. “Whenever I tried this before, I just stuck the fingers straight in and it always just felt a bit weird. Not very sexy. But you were right, I’m touching and stroking and just pressing a little and now I feel like… like—”

“Like you’re empty. Like you want something inside you, to fill you up. Something to clench around.”

“Yes, yes,” Stede said breathlessly, as his fingers slipped inside, “exactly like that.”

“Are you going to do it?” Ed asked, voice rough. “Put one in?”

“I— I already have. Two. While you were talking about, about being empty. And filled up. Oh god, Edward, I had no idea it could feel like this.” He was touching his cock as well now, slow, firm strokes that made his whole body feel like it was throbbing.

“This is only a fraction of it. When you’re with m— when you’re with a partner it’ll be even better. You’ll feel their pleasure as well as your own. It’ll be so good, Stede. Just doing what comes natural to you, no over-the-top fantasy shit. Just real, and good.”

Stede couldn’t have conjured up any kind of fantasy man even if he’d wanted to. It was Ed in his ear and in his thoughts, only Ed. “I— I think I’m gonna come.”

“Fuck, okay, fuck. You wanna just go for it? You don’t have to try the dildo if you don’t want—”

“No I want to, I really want to, what’s the best way to do it?” Stede said, rushing all his words out on one long exhale. He wasn’t entirely sure that he’d be able to hold off long enough to do whatever it was Ed told him to, but he was certainly going to try.

“Get a cushion or something, stand it upright on that and then just kneel and push yourself down onto it a little. Your body will find the right pace.”

Stede scrambled about on the bed to get himself positioned on a suitable cushion. He could hear Ed through the phone making soft noises, breathing a little raggedly. Was Ed into this? Was he touching himself just like Stede was? Surely that couldn’t be—

“Talk to me Stede, tell me what you’re doing, please,” Ed said, and it almost sounded like he was begging.

“I’ve got it— oh, fuck, it’s just— Ed, I don’t think it’s going to fit—”

Ed’s breath was very loud. “It’ll fit, mate. I know it will. You can take it. Just keep going.”

Stede started to speak again, but his sentence soon collapsed into a drawn-out moan and the loud, wet sound of his hand working his cock with renewed vigour. “This is incredible, Ed, I can’t— how does it feel so—”

“Do you like it?” Ed asked, sounding just as wrecked as Stede. “Do you… do you like that I bought it for you? I bought it for you and now you’re fucking yourself with it and you’re going to come with it inside you.”

Oh god, Stede did like that very much. Ed paid for it, technically it belonged to him, but now it was inside Stede and his whole body felt like it was melting. “I love it, it feels… you feel so good, Edward—”

“Yes, fuck, yes. It’s me, I’m there, Stede, I’m fucking you nice and deep just like you deserve, you’re taking it so well, you look so fucking good—”

“Ohhhhh fuck, fuck, I’m coming, I, Ed—” Stede collapsed back against the bed as the force of his orgasm sapped all the strength from his body and he came hard and hot all over his hand and stomach, Edward’s name still on his lips. Distantly, he could hear Ed making the tail-end of his own frantic, strangled noise, and then lapse into silence.

For a long minute, neither of them spoke. They just breathed, and listened to the other breathing.

Eventually, Stede pushed himself up on shaky, boneless arms and said, “Wow. That was… really something. Um, I— thank you for talking me through it. For making it good for me. I know you’ve probably got better things to be doing with your time than hand-holding a clueless middle-aged man through basic life experiences—”

“Aw shut up, man. We talked about this. Don't speak about yourself like that.” Ed hesitated for a moment, and then carried on, more softly: “I’ve said it before: I like giving you things. I liked giving you this.”

Stede smiled, warmth pooling in his chest. When Ed said things like that, simple and uncomplicated, feeling better about himself suddenly became the easiest thing in the world. “I like you giving me things too,” he whispered, absurdly feeling a little shy. He went to run a soothing hand through his hair, only realising a little too late that he’d not yet cleaned himself up. “Oh, yuck.”

“Cummy hands?” Ed asked with a laugh. “Go on, go and sort yourself out. We’ll talk soon.”

Stede was just about to say his goodbyes and disconnect the call when he suddenly remembered: “Oh! Ed, did you have something you wanted to ask me? You were the one who called me.”

“Yeah, shit, it was me wasn’t it? I completely forgot. Um, I was just gonna ask when you wanted to go shopping. You know, for clothes for the fundraiser.”

“Oh gosh, of course. Well, I’m free this weekend if you are? We can go to the department store again if you like, but I’d actually love to show you round some of the designer boutiques this side of town, in the Old Quarter. It’s a little less convenient than having a personal shopper bring everything to you, but I think you’ll love the kind of clothes you can find there.”

“Sounds fuckin’ amazing. Old Quarter’s quite near to your place, isn’t it? I’ll swing by, pick you up on the way. Saturday, about eleven?”

“I’ll be waiting,” Stede said happily. “And thank you, Edward. I really mean it. I… like it a lot.” Stede wasn’t really sure if he was talking about the dildo or what they did with it together or just this whole weird thing they had going on with each other, but Ed seemed to understand.

“I do too.”

#our flag means death #ofmd #ofmd fic #gentlebeard #blackbonnet #edward teach #stede bonnet #my fic

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wives-natlho · 3 months

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Carmen Weaver

She nervously tapped her pencil on the desk, rapidly heralding the end of her hour, but in ticks much faster than the chronometer on the wall. A burly Roegadyn student cleared his throat, accusingly.

Shut Up, he signaled with the guttural noise.

The pencil tapping stopped, replaced by her leg jiggling up and down on her toes. She rested her forehead in her left palm, elbow stabilized on the desk. She stared at the page some more, as if re-reading the problem along with the jiggling leg will jostle something loose in her brain. It hasn’t worked so far. Her left hand gripped her hair, threatening to undo the tight braids keeping her blonde locks out of her way.

Why can’t I remember?! Carmen questioned the gods and whoever else might have been listening to her thoughts.

Theoretical Aetherology was a breeze for her last trimester, but Applied Aetherology just doesn’t flow the same way. It hides itself somewhere in her brain, and she absolutely cannot seem to find the formula in her mind needed for this equation. Or the next one…

She picked up the page and flipped it over.

Or the one after that…

“Time’s up. Pencil’s down.” The professor droned. He’s done this before.

Carmen, furious at herself, stood up rapidly and jostled the desk in the process. It made a wood-on-wood squeal, loudly. She looked up to see the rest of the class staring right at her, all still seated, waiting on instructions about turning in the test. Her breath caught in her chest, and the dread turned to anger. The heat of awkwardness hung in the air for a moment before she made any move. The Midlander snatched up the paper on the desk, crumpled it dramatically into a ball and threw it violently against the back wall. She snapped her pencil in half and chucked it at the ground. The rest, including the professor, watched silently. Another hot moment passed. She spun around, snatched her bag, and stomped out of the room.

Once outside, she could hear the class burst into murmurs behind her. The embarrassment increased her already elevated temperature. She hastily struggled at the clasps on her coat and opened them up, letting her breathe a bit better. She looked up, and saw the students and professors in the hallways eying her as well. Judging.

She bundled her possessions and left the building as quickly as possible.

Once outside, she found a bench against a wall down the side of the Studium, in an area normally untrod by those going from place to place in Sharlayan. She sat down, took a deep breath in, and let it out in deep sobs. They started quiet at first, but elevated to loud, ugly cries rather quickly. After a couple minutes she felt spent, and wiped her eyes.

Oh, gods. What time is it? She thought, panicked.

Just as she asked, four chimes rang. She’s late for her next class. She grasped for her bag next to her and swung it around to clutch it to her chest as she started to sprint towards Aetherobiology 201. A few steps in, she plopped her left leg deep in a mud puddle. Her muscles tried to continue the run, but the mud refused. Her foot slipped from the boot, and the surprise interrupted her stride. She stumbled, and realized too late that her arms were tangled in her rucksack in front of her. She falls.

Of course. She thought, resigned to call today a wash. A much-needed wash actually after she slammed face-down in mud. It covered her entire front, including her prized coat. She lay there for a moment, marinating in mud and shame.

—-----

She walked through her own front door.

“Carmen?” Her mother called from the kitchen. “You’re home early!”

Carmen didn’t respond.

“I thought you had class— Oh!” Glenda turned the corner. Her hair was blonde, too, and also tied up, but was a bit more brown at the roots. Glenda’s ears came to a point, being half Elezen. Carmen’s ears rounded like her father’s, though.

“Yeah.” Carmen sighed. “Rough day. Decided to skip.”

Glenda wanted to protest, but didn’t. Schooling isn’t cheap, and the family is spending most of their savings on Carmen’s classes. Instead she swallowed her words and moved to help Carmen get out of her muddy clothes and draw a bath.

—-----

Carmen pondered her life, and her classes. Her loose hair soaked in the soapy water. When loose from the braids, her hair went down to her mid back. Carmen loves her hair, and normally ties it up to make sure it doesn’t get damaged or get in her way. She takes far less care of her lips and fingernails, all of which she chews on constantly.

She lay back, stretched out in the huge tub. Her muscles relaxed and she breathed in the steam from the hot bath, and smiled.

Aetheric elemental coefficient PLUS the square of total aetheric density and THEN divide.

The answer crashed into her mind. It would have solved questions two and four, had she remembered it in time.

“Fuck”, she hissed at her own faulty memory.

—--------------

Nouliths were easy for her for some reason. They just made sense. She knew how to connect to them, mentally and aetherically, and she could make them dance in the air around her without much effort. Her shots of condensed aether hit their mark almost every time. Even controlling all four at once was simple for her. Most early students could only manage two.

She stood in the training yard, practicing forms, and striking wooden dummies with focused energy. The crack of the air as the light aether condensed into laser-like beams was satisfying for her. She loved that sound.

Zzzap!

She grinned.

A bystander cleared his throat.

She frowned.

“Excuse me Miss Weaver, may I have a word?”

Carmen sheathed her nouliths and spun in place, gazing on her Applied Aetherology professor. She was fully expecting to be expelled from the class. “Of course.” She hid her palpable fear as best she could.

“I could tell you were struggling with your examination last week, and I haven’t seen you in class since then.” Professor Rouneaux was a tall and dark-skinned Elezen man. Carmen assumed he had some Duskwight heritage despite his clearly Ishgardian name. The professor spoke softly on most occasions, including this one. The look on his face tipped Carmen off that he was more concerned than upset.

“Yeah, I…” Carmen sighed. “I cracked. Didn’t feel like I was welcome back.”

“Well, you aren’t.” The professor said coldly. “But not by my choice.”

Carmen looked dejected. This was it… Her parents’ money, wasted on a year and a third of schooling, all for nothing.

“The leadership wants you out of the school.” His cool tone paused and a heavy silence settled in. The quick beat of nothing felt like forever to Carmen, waiting for him to say anything else next. Maybe some kind of good news this time. She held most of her professors in high esteem, and Rouneaux was one of her favorites. “And I agree with them.”

“What!?” Carmen shouted, surprised by her own yelp. She stammered and looked around rapidly, searching for something to say in her defense, or perhaps to get one last word in before being shunned by Sharlayan society.

“However,” Rouneaux interjected holding up his finger, “I think I have an opportunity you will appreciate.”

Carmen paused, and calmed down. Her anger cooled as quickly as it heated up. She gazed into the eyes of her professor. He seemed genuine as far as she could tell. After a long and stern look, she decided on her response.

“Okay. Let’s hear it.”

—--------

“The Arcanists’ Guild!?” Glenda was beside herself. “I thought they taught math to pirates. Why are they sending you there?”

“Because they can teach math to pirates.” Carmen was packing a bag, trying to convince Glenda it was a good idea. “And I’m apparently about as smart as a pirate when it comes to math.”

“But pirates, Carmen.” She was incredulous. Glenda was pretending to help fold clothes and pack, but she was mostly just getting in the way, trying to talk to her daughter.

“Well, not technically,” Carmen recited some knowledge she was given a few hours earlier by her professor. “Limsa Lominsa has outlawed piracy officially now. They’re a city of merchants.”

Glenda dropped a folded shirt into a bag. “Uh huh.” She didn’t believe it for a second. “How can I make sure you’re safe?”

“You can’t, Mom.” Carmen stopped what she was doing and took her mother’s hands in her own. “Look. Dad would have wanted me to take this. I’m sure of it!”

“He wanted you to study! In School!”

“But I’m terrible at school. I can’t learn anything more here. I need a different teacher!” Carmen gave a pleading look to her mother.

Glenda sighed and gripped her daughter’s hands tightly. She didn’t say anything for a moment.

“And…” Carmen tried one more tactic. “I’ll make sure to bring you back a souvenir!”

Glenda smiled and stifled a giggle. “Just come back alive. I’ll consider that enough.”

“Does that mean I can go!?” Carmen grinned wide, expectantly.

Glenda simply nodded. Carmen cheered and returned to packing, happier now. Her mother watched for a moment, before going back to helping. Actually helping this time.

—-----------

She was sure she’d spend about a season in Eorzea before heading back home, wiser. She’d convinced herself learning the Arcanist trade was akin to some form of Applied Applied Aetherology. Maybe she could even learn some forms of aether manipulation that would help her with her nouliths.

The salty sea breeze was invigorating for her. She spent most of the trip on deck, watching the waves and feeling the air on her face and hair. This was her chance to prove herself. Maybe her last chance. She had to make the most of it. The city came into view early in the morning, its glow signaling its presence before any of the buildings could be seen. Carmen cinched her hair back into a braid and a knot, and started gathering her things.

Later, in her finest Sharlayan traveling attire, Carmen Weaver’s heavy boot clunked onto the wooden plank at the docks of Limsa Lominsa.

#Carmen Weaver #ffxiv #ffxiv roleplay #ffxiv oc #ff14 #final fantasy 14 #ffxiv rp #oc fic #fanfiction #ffxiv fic #ffxiv fanfiction #ffxiv fanfic #fa

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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years

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Prompt: Vampire Chris drunk on blood?

CW: Drunkenness, drug addiction, blood drinking, vampirism, creepy abusive comfort, WWI-period-appropriate xenophobia and brief vague possible homophobia reference, dehumanization, war whump

"Now, that'll get you blotto faster'n French liquor," Kirk says, sinking back against the muddy trench wall, careless for the dirt caking itself into the hair at the nape of his neck.

His helmet lay beside him upside down on the ground, and his brown hair was free to explode in its wealth of curls, a kind of halo around his head. He had one arm out, sleeve rolled back. His hands were caked in mud and smeared with drying dirt - above the line of his sleeve, though, the skin was paper-white, almost clammy.

It was this white skin that the vampire's fangs were buried in.

"Shit, Holden, y'gotta have 'im bite you, too." Kirk's grin widens. The shells had gone silent but every man flinches, now and then, hearing a phantom sound or feeling a rumble beneath their feet.

At least it's finally stopped goddamn raining.

The venom rolls through Kirk's veins, soothing his jangled nerves. He can barely feel the trembling in his hands and it feels like his mind, when it's in him. He's a farm kid from western Nebraska, the second son and not needed so much as the first to bring the crops in. So here he is, learning to love the feeling of teeth in his skin.

Maybe when he gets shipped back home he'll stick to the cities. They say the vampires have their dens there, where they can hide. You can buy venom enough to quiet your mind for a day or two, the city boys tell him.

They're in it as deep as he is, now.

Feels like half the American army is itching for venom these days.

"No thank you. I'm not gonna get sent home and start chasing fangs like the rest of you." Holden squints, looking up into the dark sky, the rolling clouds that seem far too close to the ground. "It'll rain again soon."

"When isn't it going to rain again soon? Oh, right, when it's already bloody raining." That's a Brit, they just call him Tommy. No one knows his real name.

He claims to hate them all, but since half his unit was blasted apart two days ago, he's hung with the 'Yanks' close enough. Kirk thinks he's fond of them, even if he won't admit it. Or just scared to be alone. He can understand that. He's terrified of the thought himself. "Shove the little vamp over to me, Kirk, I want some."

The vampire pulls his fangs free, licking over the wounds he's made until they close. He's a skinny little thing, pale as paper with bright red hair they stuff under his helmet when he's running medic checks in No Man's Land, trying to make him less obvious. Sure, he can't die from gas, but he can be blown to bits by a whizz-bang fast as any living soldier can.

"Please," The vampire says, turning big green eyes up to Kirk. "I, I, I'm tired, please, can I sleep?"

He's got heavy dark circles under his eyes. It's kind of cute.

"No," Kirk answers, curt, shoving the vampire away by his head, watching him fall into the mud. His uniform is marked with it, now, a dab of dirt over the 'V' sewn next to his medic's cross. There's a satisfaction, in Kirk, just in seeing the little thing laid low.

He won't die in this war, and Kirk probably will, but before that happens he can at least hurt something he can see. You can't see old Fritz when you fire on him from a distance - but you can see a vampire flinch in the dirt. It's not much.

It's something.

"Must be daytime," Holden speaks up, still staring up at the clouds. "You can't tell, weather like this, but if the fangs're tryin' to sleep, must be day."

"He sleeps when we're done with him, and not a moment before." Kirk's voice is a murmur, eyes half-closed. He's drifting in it, the way the venom dulls and deadens the eternal ache in his back and legs. The Germans could come roaring over the bags right this second and Kirk wouldn't give a damn at all. Let them kill him, at least he can go with venom in his veins, not as a basket case carried off the field. "Not a second before. Go on, bloodsucker. Get over to Tommy and help him get some shut-eye, huh?"

"I've been drinking all night, pulled some rations off someone," Tommy groans, rubbing his fingers at his temples. "It's done no good at all." It's a funny little gesture, so oddly normal and casual. Reminds Kirk of home.

His throat tries to close, homesickness bowling him over. The wish to return to his mother's worn smile, sit down to dinner and have her ask him about his day, when his problems revolved around the harvest and the hard backs of the pews in church-

He takes a breath, forcing it back, and gives the vampire a vicious kick in the ribs, listening to his high-pitched cry and how he curls around himself with a smile of his own.

Oh, he'll die, probably. The others from his town already have. But he can remind himself he's still alive, for now. One way or another. He can cause pain he can't feel himself, for once.

"I said get over to Tommy and smooth out his sharp bits, bloodfuck."

"Yes, um, y-yes, Kirk," The vampire says, pulling himself onto his hands and knees. His fingers are smashed into the mud deep enough to nearly disappear. If they could only get a few days of sunlight to dry out all this dirt, it wouldn't be such hell.

As it is, his socks've been damp for weeks, his boots feel like they're caging his feet in a swamp. He's worried about trenchfoot and trying not to think about it. He stole these boots off a dead German when his own started to fall apart, anyway.

He could've probably gotten new ones, but... it had felt good, taking something from Fritz after Fritz took so much from him.

Kirk tries not to remember that the German soldiers he fights have never caused him a single moment's harm on purpose. They're only fighting for the same reasons he is - because someone higher up who doesn't give a damn about them said to.

Kirk had been all gung-ho for the war until he'd been sent over here to fight it. All those articles in the newspapers, all the speeches given by men standing in town squares... it had all made it seem so patriotic.

They never tell you, Kirk thinks bitterly, that you'll be sent into a slaughterhouse. They don't tell you you'll spend your day breaking a vampire's fingers one by one just to watch them heal back into place and listen to his little cries.

Just to pass the time.

"Trade me your flask while the fangs takes care of you," Kirk says, and Tommy hands it over easy enough.

He watches Tommy grab the vampire by one arm and yank him over, vicious and violent, making the vampire boy cry out again. The sound is starting to grate on Kirk's nerves. It makes him sound too human. He hates being reminded that every vampire used to be a person.

He drinks whatever's in the Brit's flask, and it burns down his throat just the way he needs it to. Wipes out his worries, relaxes shoulders that seem always to be tensed up nearly to his chin.

His mama's a teetotaler, back in Nebraska. He'd been one, too, until the first bombardment. Now he drinks anything he could get his hands on, and the officers mostly looked the other way.

"Bite," Tommy orders. Kirk raises his eyebrows when Tommy doesn't roll up his sleeve but pushes the vampire's face instead towards his neck, turning his head to the side to bare it.

His eyes meet Kirk's, and he smiles, bitterly. "Works faster this way," He explains. Kirk just watches as the vampire's fangs glint in the eternal dim twilight, hesitating before they bury themselves in Tommy's skin.

The little monster's back arches, pressing them chest-to-chest. A low rumble comes from somewhere deep inside, the animal sound the vampire makes during a good feed. He doesn't do it much with the regular unit any longer, they mocked him for it and one day he stopped.

The vampire's throat works as he drinks, and Tommy's arm slides around the monster's thin shoulders, forcing him closer. He's nearly kissing his forehead, this way.

It's an embrace, and altogether more intimate of one than Kirk thought he'd ever see from the cold, standoffish Brit. He feels a blush creeping up his neck and his cheeks as Tommy lets his head fall back, groaning softly in a kind of contentment as the venom hits. The sound isn't quite like a groan at all, it's more like-

"Fucking hell, Tommy, are you an invert?"

"Invert suggests I give a damn what bites me," Tommy replies, without opening his eyes. His slurred speech deepens, goes slow. His hand curves around the vampire's shoulder, holding him tightly. "I'm after oblivion, lads. I don't care what parts the fangs have that give it to me."

"Fang-chaser," Holden says, good-naturedly. Clearly not bothered the way Kirk is. Maybe that's just his farmboy past talking, that he's even unsettled at all. Maybe Tommy's got a point - who cares what's between a vampire's legs if you're only interested in the damn thing's mouth in the first place? "Fucking fang-chaser, that's what you are. End up in a den getting your hips bit like Oscar Wilde."

"Who's Oscar Wilde?"

Holden laughs. "You should try reading a book or three sometime, Kirk."

"Sure, sure, whenever I get the damn time in-between running over this blasted nothing. In any case, Tommy's definitely a fang-chaser."

"Guilty as charged... just like you two." Tommy's hand slides up into the vampire's hair, gripping tight and gently pulling backwards. The vampire's fangs slide free, and it laps at the wounds, rapidly. Tommy groans again. Kirk finds himself unable to look away at the bob of Tommy's throat. How good does it feel, in the neck? He's never thought to try it. He thinks about it now. "Turn me in to face discipline for unnatural relations with the fangs and I'll do the same to you."

"Yeah, yeah, we got it. Fucking Limey bastard." There's no real animosity in Kirk's voice. He's too distracted, drunkenly considering the vampire boy's mouth. Wondering if he knows how to kiss. "You shared your liquor, I shared our bloodsucker, we're both of us in it to our necks."

"Not me," Holden says, innocent and pure as the driven snow. As if he weren't the one to give Kirk the idea to use the venom in the first place.

Kirk throws a clot of mud at him, which he dodges, laughing. They're all laughing, soon enough, except for the fangs.

The vampire lays there, his head pressed to Tommy's chest and forcibly held in place by his arm. His eyes are slightly wide, unfocused, and Kirk leans forward.

"What's this, then? What'd you do to the fangs, Tommy?"

"Hm? Nothing. Oh, I'm pissed as can be, do they feel the liquor in your blood?"

"I'm guessing they sure do. You drunk, fangs?"

The vampire's eyes drift over to Kirk, move too far to one side, come back again. He swallows, thickly. "I... I think I, I, I am," He says, and tries to push back against Tommy's chest, to free himself.

The Brit's arm crushes him back into place, his other hand moving up to run through the vampire boy's dirt red hair, petting him like one of the ambulance dogs. Kirk and Holden laugh at the vampire's weakness. "Stay right where you are," Tommy murmurs. "Or I'll run you through with my bayonet and let you squirm all day."

"Christ," Kirk says, blinking. "That's a bit rough, isn't it?"

"He's not alive, what does it matter?" Tommy lets out a bitter little laugh. "Might as well get a preview of our own ends, shouldn't we?"

"You two, maybe." Holden crawls into the dugout, the little bed-space, a kind of cave dug in underneath the upper layers of the trench. He lays down on his back, closing his eyes, hands behind his head. "I'm going to go back home and never think of you lot ever again."

"I pray every night to make it home," Kirk says, nodding along. "Not sure anyone's listening, but I got to try, don't I?"

"What happens to the fangs, anyway?" The Brit looks up, rocking a little back and forth. As if the bloodsucker were a baby needing soothing. The vampire boy has relaxed against him, the liquor-laced blood he drank lulling him into a complacent bonelessness. Kirk watches the vampire boy's fingers start to tap over the Brit's chest, a strange movement he's seen the boy do before in his few relaxed moments between the scream of the shells. He hums, low in his throat, tuneless.

"Huh?" Kirk blinks. "What d'you mean, what happens to him?"

"After the war's done. What are they gonna do with the bloodsuckers? Can't exactly pin a bloody ribbon for valor on them and send them on their way, now can they?"

"Nope. I don't know what happens. Maybe they'll just stake them all and have done with them."

The vampire shudders, giving a little whimper. Tommy leans down, lips moving against the vampire's hair. "Ssssshhhh. Not to worry, little fangs. War's not over just yet, now is it?"

"N-... no. Not, not, not, not yet." The vampire's eyes close, pink-tinged tears creating pale tracks in his dirty face. He's a sad drunk, then, Kirk figures.

Aren't they all, these days.

"Maybe you'll outlive us all, and make fools of us for keeping you." Tommy speaks with a patronizing affection, as mocking as it is tender, petting through the creature's hair still. It's... unsettling to watch. Kirk had figured the Brits and French probably killed all their vamps, since they were all disturbed by the sight of the vampire medics when the doughboys first arrived in Europe.

This, though... this makes it seem like Tommy's known a vampire or two himself, in his life. And he's sure as fuck not unfamiliar to what venom is good for outside of giving relief from agony to the injured.

Kirk frowns, thoughtful.

He's turned into a thoughtful drunk, too, thanks to this goddamn war. Sad and thoughtful. What a fucking waste.

"Sleep," Tommy says, almost gently, to the drunk little vampire. "I've got you. Sleep, little one."

The vampire's eyes slip closed. He doesn't breathe - there's no sense of his chest rising and falling. Kirk has to look away before the sense of wrongness, watching Tommy cuddle a corpse, makes him sick.

He takes a long, long draught from the flask, and relishes the burn that reminds him he's human, and alive.

His own eyes slip shut, and he prays for an hour or two of sleep before the next screaming shell bursts overhead.

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @insaneinthepaingame @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @astrobly @newandfiguringitout @pretty-face-breaker @endless-whump @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @doveotions @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @what-a-whump

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s1ater · 3 years

Note

can i request number 2/6 (comedic) for miguel diaz? i'm so obsessed with your writing 😭

calm down. miguel diaz x reader

summary 📣: in which miguel show’s up to reader’s home drunk

warnings 🚫: swearing? and drinking

slater’s note 🗯: hi dovey, thank you ily! also i hope you meant 2 (my pulse is erratic) and 6 (it’s three in the morning) and not 26 but if you did, inbox me again, again thank you :)

first off, join my taglist!

the loud sound of your ringer echoed throughout your dark, quiet, subtle bedroom.

it had taken you awhile to process what was happening. all strange, just the general atmosphere gave you an off-putting mind space until you really sobered up to realize that the ringing noise was your phone.

you hopped up quickly, skipping over the piles of dirty clothes that littered your room just to reach your phone, hoping that it wouldn’t disturb the rest of the silent, sleeping house as it did you.

“hello?”

you squinted in the dark, your throat stinging of morning breath and general sound coming from your hoarse throat.

“y/n?” you heard the voice of miguel say your name as if he was surprised, but by what you wondered since he was the one that called you, “you just wake up?”

you narrowed your brows, looking around the room as if checking whether if were actually supposed to be up, but considered the moon still highlighted the very much dark sky and no sun shone through your open open curtain windows, there’d be no reason for you to be up.

well, unless your very psychotic boyfriend called you at a very unreasonable time.

“it’s three in the morning,” you groaned, “did you just wake up?”

“no, of course not, i’ve been up for hours.”

you shifted on your feet, making your way to your desk to turn on your lamp, mumbling, “of course you have.”

“look, i’m at your house right now.”

“what?” you paused, your hand still on the switch of your small desk lamp before rushing over to one of your windows, searching the lighten streets before meeting his slender figure, waving at you from below.

“miguel, are you crazy?”

“hey, no, this’ll be great,” you watched him press the phone between his shoulder and cheek, beginning to go through a brown paper bag he had in his other hand, “i brought booze and-and before you interrupt me, i brought water, because- incase we need to sober up.” you watched him pull out a six pack of cheap light tiered beer as he rambled on, struggling to keep his phone between his cheek and shoulder.

“miguel, how much have you drank already?”

“i-i-i,” he struggled even more, now looking up to you in the window, pausing and then saying, “you know what, doesn't matter, what does matter is you pull me up into your window because uh-i-uh don’t remember how.”

you exhaled, allowing a soft laugh to be thrown out your throat, “miguel, this is such a bad idea.”

“yeah-yeah, but y’know i just- i just-” his sentence ends up dying into him blowing a raspberry, shaking his head.

you hung up your phone, shaking your head while a knowing soft smile played out on your lips. you could get into so much trouble, especially knowing your dad and the way he took thing way out of proportion.

but despite all the scenarios of how this situation could play out and them all getting caught and in trouble with miguel banned from your house, you still slid up your window, peering down at the smiling boy.

“ah, my lady awaits,” he grinned harder, lifting up his arm swiftly before hurrying over to the tree that was planted by your window.

you watched him quickly climb up to the end where it split up higher, one of his hands still holding the bag of alcohol and water, staring over to you. you smiled, shaking your head at the stupid, ridiculous smile that filled his before reaching out your arm for his.

miguel hopped onto the side slanting roof before holding onto your forearm, but before you pulled him into your room, he dropped the bag, both of your necks craning quickly to see it tumble down the roof and onto the grass with a loud ‘thump’.

it sounded as if the tin cans had exploded, the sounds of violent fizzing filling your ears, making you cringe. the chances of being caught were increasing just by the minute.

he giggled as you pulled him into your room, your jaw clenched as you tried to shush him.

“calm down, cowgirl,” he grinned, grabbing onto your waist before hoisting you up over his shoulder.

“miguel!” you whispered loudly, trying not to break into any higher tone, “miguel, stop, put me down!”

“if you say so,” he threw you on your bed before jumping on top of you, his elbows reaching both sides of your face.

your face burned as his hot, alcohol smelling breath fanned on to the surface of your face. you tried to study his face as a way to calm down, your eyes flicking from his cheeks to eyes to jaw to anything and everything that layered out as his face.

it didn’t help, you could only feel your heart rate increase as you begun to realize more and more of what position you were in, his chest pushed against yours, his nose almost touching your nose, his legs tangled with your legs. and heat, piling up on top of every inch of your body.

“calm down,” he whispered.

“my pulse is erratic,” you said flatly, eyes wide staring into his own. he was calmer now, eyes no longer crinkled with happiness and amusement, but relaxed upon the comfort of his body pressed against yours.

but he shook it off quickly, grinning, shaking his head before rolling off of you, “you really need to live more, y/n.”

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x-reader-theater · 3 years

Note

Hey!

Don't know if you remember when Spencer says '' why all my fan are psycho ''? And like he start to talk with one of his fan (the reader) by letter and one day the reader expose to him one of his theories like he think there is a serial killer in his town and ask Spencer for help and Spencer fear to meet him but when they do reader is like not a psycho and idk sweet fluff and cotton candy?

Please? Love u ❤️

The dots mean that there is more being said, but I didn't want to write it loll. Thanks @mystic-writes for editing, as always.

Gif by @captainchilly

Dear Dr. Reid,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. I am writing to tell you that I admire your work, and everything you do to help people. I know you probably won't see this letter for a while, but today's my birthday and I was dared by a friend to write this. Yes, we are all adults, but most of us missed out on a traditional childhood, so we like to play children's games to bring happier memories.

…

I hope to receive a letter from you soon, though I am not holding my breath.

Sincerely,

[Y/N] [L/N]

–

Dear [L/N],

I am happy to hear that my work has brought you joy. And you are right, I am getting this letter long after you have addressed it, but I will still wish you a happy birthday irregardless. Did you know that birthdays were denounced by Christians as a devil worshiping holiday?

…

I am looking forward to corresponding with you further.

Sincerely,

Dr. Spencer Reid.

–

Dear Dr. Reid,

I did not expect to get a 14 page letter in reply. That isn't to say I'm surprised, or annoyed. It was really fascinating to read.

…

Love,

[Y/N].

P.s. I think there's a serial killer in my town.

–

Dear [L/N],

A serial killer? What do you mean? Are you alright?

…

Please reply soon,

Spencer.

–

Dear Spencer,

I have attached all the information I think you'll need and you'll come to the same conclusion I have. Someone is murdering prostitutes. At first the deaths were seen as normal, and no one cared, but as you can see, the violent nature of the murders and the way they're killed, it's not separate homicides.

…

I fear the police are ignoring it.

Love,

[Y/N]

P.s. What do you look like?

–

Dear [Y/N],

Yes, looking through the evidence you've provided I've convinced my boss to come and investigate when we get invited by the local police. Sadly, that doesn't seem to be happening any time soon.

…

I eagerly await your response,

Spencer.

P.s. Why do you want to know what I look like?

–

Dear Spencer,

Yes, I feared that may be the case. I will continue to talk to the police about potentially inviting the BAU to help solve this. I only hope that can happen soon.

…

I want to know what you look like because I don't know. I know I can look it up, but there's a certain closeness to describing how one looks to another. I also try to avoid the news as much as possible, but I have read a number of your papers and I have a pretty clear idea in my head of what you look like, but I want to know how close I am without actually seeing a picture.

I'm sure you have an idea in your head of what I look like.

Love,

[Y/N]

–

Dear [Y/N],

I suppose you're right. There is something inherently intimate about describing oneself to another. But, I will only tell you if you promise to tell me. And yes, I do have an image of what you look like in my head, but I won't share it with you.

…

I am enjoying our correspondence greatly.

Love,

Spencer.

–

Dear Spencer,

That would only be fair, so I agree. I will also not share with you what I think you look like, but with the way you speak I do think you're younger than you want me to know. Maybe mid to late twenties. If you are that age, then I'm a similar age to you. That is all I'm going to say.

…

I'm excited to see what you say.

Love,

[Y/N]

–

Dear [Y/N],

You're right. I am in my mid to late twenties. I am happy to hear you are of a similar age. I was worried what you might think, especially if you were older, but I'm glad to know I have nothing to worry about.

I guess I can start describing myself.

…

I'm very plain. A co-worker calls me "Pretty Boy" but I don't see it.

Love,

Spencer

–

Dear Spencer,

Pretty Boy, huh? The way you describe yourself doesn't sound plain at all. I know you are trying to give exact measurements, but if you are to create a face with those measurements in mind, you are very handsome. I can see why he calls you Pretty Boy. You are also nothing like how I pictured, and that's not a bad thing. Not at all.

I'll start describing myself now.

…

I hope I live upu to your expectations.

Love,

[Y/N]

–

Dear [Y/N],

I have just gotten word from my Unit Chief that we have finally been invited into the local investigation of the dead prostitutes in your town. We're to leave in a few days after the necessary paperwork is filed and we have finished with our current case in DC.

…

Most of my fans are psychotic, murderers, and I don't want you to be that way. From your letters you seem normal, but you never really know. I won't lie, I'm a little frightened to meet you.

Love,

Spencer

P.s. You're not what I expected either. You're much better.

–

You smile as you read the latest letter, your fingers trailing across the indentations of the words carved in the paper. Ever since your first letter, the two of you never brought up the idea to switch to text or emails. There was something about Spencer's handwriting that was so beautiful to read. It was messy, sure, but the kind of messy that showed someone had too many things too say and couldn't write fast enough. His hand couldn't keep up with his head.

You hear a knock on your door and frown, setting down the paper, and you go to your front door. Opening it you see a tall, thin man with long brown hair and a messenger bag slung across his body standing in front of you, looking shyly at you.

"[Y/N]?" he asks and you nod. "It's me. Uh, Spencer."

Your eyes go wide and you whisper, "Spencer?"

He nods, and as soon as he does, you throw your arms around his shoulders, pulling him in for a tight hug. He hugs you back right away, and you bury your face in his neck, inhaling his scent. Again, nothing like you pictured, but so much better. He smelled of books and hand sanitizer, two opposing smells that seemed to fit perfectly for him.

You pull back, and when you meet his hazel eyes, you kiss him.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid #spencer reid x gender neutral reader #criminal minds reader insert #criminal minds x y/n #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds #my work #my writing

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lotusthekat · 3 years

Text

Every little thing he does is magic

Fandom: The Owl House

Rating: G

Relationships: Luz Noceda/Hunter

Characters: Luz Noceda, Hunter (Golden Guard)

Summary: After a mission gone wrong, Luz discovers more about the boy behind the Golden Guard. More specifically, his caring side.

*Not compliant with Eclipse Lake!

Word count: 1.394

AO3 / Fanfiction

A/N: I’m kind of embarrassed to admit that I’ve been thinking about this ship in the past few days, so now I wrote a very self-indulgent fic for them. My very first TOH fic for that matter. I hope this isn’t too OOC, haha.

TRIGGER WARNING - implied child abuse

HATE COMMENTS WILL BE DELETED AND BLOCKED.

There is… a light.

No. More than one.

The smell of fire and the magic woods welcome her senses, her brown eyes finding a small campfire and several light spells, small balls floating around, protecting her from the darkness of the mysterious forest.

Luz’s head hurts, though.

She grunts, and once she tries to try and stand…

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

The voice, at first, alarms her and she’s ready to take Eda’s staff to defend herself. Except it’s not by her side, and when she realizes, Luz is not actually in danger.

A few feet away from her is the Golden Guard – Hunter, she remembers –, sitting by the campfire with a frowning but saddened gaze. His red eyes are dark in contrast to all the light surrounding them, and besides his absent golden mask, he’s not wearing his trademark white cloak, either.

… in fact, said cloak has been covering Luz all this time.

Before the girl could question it, the little cardinal lands in front of her, chirping in happiness.

“Hey, little guy,” Luz awes in spite of her pain, allowing her to sit – with a few struggles. She notices her arm is bandaged by some ripped white cloth, apparently from the cloak.

Unlike the little Rascal, Hunter doesn’t even look at her. He looks like he’s in too deep in the fire, seeing things no one else can.

“Wh… What happened?” Luz asks, unsure.

Hunter refuses to take his eyes off the flames; he seems to hug his knees tighter.

“Kikimora found us in the woods when we tried to escape,” he replies. “Let’s just say, she was less than happy to see us.”

Bits and pieces come back to Luz, having her recall they were on a mission together; as much as she still didn’t trust him, she couldn’t quite refuse when Hunter had gone all the way to the Owl House to ask for her help, in the middle of the night, to fight off the Emperor’s Coven from eradicating the few wild magic there still is.

“Did- Did we at least take some of the wood with us?” Luz wonders, searching for her bag.

Hunter looks down. “No.”

Luz stares at him sadly.

“Sorry,” she mutters.

“… it doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean? T-They were going to destroy it-!”

“Kikimora almost killed you!”

The tone of anger and frustration in his voice shuts Luz for good. Maybe she’s still a little doozy, but she swears she might even see Hunter’s eyes glowing thanks to the light spells.

He takes a deep breath, however, and looks far away into the dark forest.

“We barely got out of there alive,” Hunter rephrases, his voice noticeably a lot quieter, as if afraid the world might hear. “And then, when she had me cornered, you”— his hands clutch his sleeves —“you jumped in to save me.”

Luz remembers.

She replays the entire scene in her head, and she sees herself stepping in. Despite all the conflicting thoughts, Luz did not hesitate; she yelled and took the blow, and that was the last thing she saw before blacking out.

The teenage girl can’t help but hear the conflict in his words. Hunter sounds guilty and confused. Then she realizes. The white cloak still protecting her, her bandaged arm, the light spells illuminating her view…

No one has ever gone out of their way to protect him.

Knowing Lilith, Luz is aware the Emperor’s Coven is hell. Imagine then, how it must be for a teenage boy who could’ve been a normal student at Hexside, being forced to work for Belos. Luz might only see it through Hunter’s scars and his short-tempered and distant attitude, but… truly, the Emperor is not a merciful man.

It’s all he must’ve learned.

And yet he’s so desperate to get out, that he told Luz about his life, he reached out to her… and now, he’s taking care of her. This isn’t a joke, nor a plan.

Hunter must be very confused.

Luz has… so many thoughts. Strange ones. Quite usual for a human living in the Boiling Isles, really.

The little Rascal flies over to Hunter’s shoulder for comfort. The boy might flinch at first, but he relaxes his body. Luz smiles in support, while the other hides half of his face in his arms.

“Hey,” she says, scooting a little closer to him, “thanks for looking after me.”

Hunter finally snaps his head at her, and his face… becomes as red as the cardinal chirping.

“I-I—” He coughs a little too violently, “W-Well, what else could I’ve done? I couldn’t just leave you there, after I asked for your help! I mean- we still have our truce, remember?”

“Well yeah, but…” Luz gestures at the light spells that join them. “I think there’s some light inside you, after all.”

After a few seconds, Hunter groans, “That was terrible.”

Luz giggles along with the Rascal. The boy sighs it out.

“In any case, we’ll have to stay here for the night. You’re not in any condition to fly all the way back to the Owl House,” Hunter observes her, with a speck of worry. He blushes again and avoids her eyes. “Early morning, we’ll get out of here.”

Luz hums. “Roger!”

“… my name is Hunter.”

“Nevermind.”

He shrugs. “I made sure to leave traps near us. I had to use some papers of yours, though.”

“Wow, someone’s becoming a pro already?” She smirks.

“I-It’s not that hard,” Hunter scoffs, “but yeah… I’ve been practicing when I can.”

“Too bad you can’t come to my glyph lessons. I’ve been teaching Eda.”

He raises an eyebrow. “The Owl Lady?”

“Mm-hmm,” Luz grins. “You could learn a lot more from me.”

Surprisingly, Hunter smiles back. “I already do.”

The girl admits, he looks good smiling. Wait.

Noticing that, he returns to his serious persona.

“You should rest now,” Hunter advises, “the healing potion I gave you might take a while to have effect.”

“Okay,” she yawns as soon as he says it. How convenient.

As soon as she lies down, Luz watches Hunter not following his advice at all.

“Well, aren’t you gonna rest too?”

“I don’t need sleep.”

Luz frowns. “Your eyebags beg to differ.”

Hunter hisses silently, like a grumpy cat.

“Hey, we’ve had a long day, some hours of sleep won’t hurt you,” she insists.

“I can’t let my guard down again,” Hunter says firmly. He faces away from her. “I can’t ever lose focus.”

She would’ve teased him more, but it wouldn’t feel right.

“… I’ll be okay,” Luz reassures him. “You made sure we’re safe; they’ll think twice before getting to us again.”

The sixteen-year-old boy holds a very long stare, mentally trying to trust her words. Luz smiles at him with support.

“Right,” he sighs. “You win.”

Luz is, admittedly, kind of surprised he’s complying, but he must be really tired. When does he even get to rest?

Hunter lies down beside her, though he keeps his distance. It allows the Rascal to sit between them, and Luz pets the adorable little bird. As for Hunter, he turns around and she only finds his back.

“Hey, um, do you want your cloak back?” Luz asks.

“You need it more than I do. It’s cold out here.”

“You sure? Aren’t you cold, too?”

“Not really. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay…” Luz hugs the white cape close, and quickly smirks, “I might not give it back though. I’m a known heat stealer.”

Even when she doesn’t see his face, the girl can tell he’s rolling his eyes.

“Whatever. Go to sleep.”

She snorts.

Although the Boiling Isles are not generally peaceful, there’s… quite a beauty to it. Even when she’s being hunted by the evil Emperor himself, this might be one of the few moments of peace Luz’s had since arriving here.

Ironically, with the guy she once hated. She’s not too sure how to feel about him yet… but he’s really just a kid, forced into a destiny that is not his own. He’s really trying to come out of his shell, and it’s pretty sweet.

Luz might lean a little to check if he’s asleep – as it turns out, he’s already sleeping like a rock. Who knows how much he needed it.

She smiles and soon joins him, guarded by his newfound magic.

#the owl house #luz noceda #toh hunter #lunter #abuse mention tw #fanfiction #toh spoilers

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