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konigbabe · 7 months

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eleusinian mysteries

DAY 7 ⇢ Gangbang Pairing: Satoru Gojo x fem!reader x Toji Fushiguro x Kento Nanami x Choso Kamo Word count: 4k Tags/warnings: no y/n; smut; gangbang; oral sex (F & M receive); p-in-v; anal sex (F receive only); pure filth; fingering; cunnilingus; rimming; deepthroat/throatfucking; praise kink; protected sex; ass slaping (like once); pet names (each one calls you differently); basically 4 men 1 female gangbang Summary: How did you find yourself passed around by four men might remain a mystery; at least it's off of your bucket list now. [Part of NSFW Gojo Week 2023]. Divider is mine. A/N: With NSFW Week oficially over with this piece, I wanted to give special thanks to the radiant Fae (@kennedyswhore) for her unconditional support [that kept me from dropping the event], sublime Kit (@vagabond-umlaut) for her encouraging and kind words (that subconciously pushed me to finish each piece), Karma (@kazushawty) who infected my mind with her filth (in a good way) that resulted in this mess (and kudos to her tutorial for this GIF) and to you, who's reading this [series]. Thank you for the support! ♡

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There's a thin line between reality and a dream – which can easily be blurred. Especially when the present blends with the past and gets a hold of the future within its grasp.

"What's this?"

Satoru lies spread wide on the bed; torso bared to the world and stretched out, his physique like an invitation to explore. Especially with the way the moon casts its shine onto the mop of silvery strands that crown his head.

With a soft sigh, you position one knee on the plush expanse of the bed, flicking your eyes on your lover. His curious fingers dance towards the petite diary on your nightstand; a beacon of secret desires nestled in the soft glow of tonight's moonlight.

"A journal," you reply, "of sorts," the mumble that leaves your lips is faint, tinged with skepticism. Unease. Shame maybe – even.

"Can I?" With the book already ensconced in his slender fingers, he throws you a questioning look. Seeks your permission. Your silent approval is conveyed through a gentle dip of your chin.

Satoru unfurls the pages. Flips through them. Hair clinging to his forehead, eyes darting across each paragraph and list; he takes his time reading, studying each entry. Flipping through the pages, you notice the crease between his eyebrows deepen as he reaches the last page.

The last page.

There are no hidden feelings between you. You are an open book for him – now in a more literal sense than ever before.

"This page's interesting," he mumbles to himself, yet his words reach your ears clearly. And you know what he means. A warm flush sweeps across your cheeks, causing your eyes to divert towards the sheets, where your nervous fingers fiddle with the fabric, "is this a bucket list?"

His utterance is clear, and you grasp the implication quickly.

"Yeah, well, everyone has dreams."

You feel the bed on your side dip. Satoru shifts, sits up, the sheets cascading around his lithe waist. Warm breath fans over your cheeks, adding fuel to the fire smoldering beneath your skin. His hand finds its way onto your exposed thigh, thumb caressing the damp skin.

"Yours are rather," searching for the right descriptor, the hand that was on your thigh now slips underneath your chin, gently lifting it to align your gaze with the deep, cerulean depths of his eyes, "provocative."

Filthy. That'd be more fitting, you think.

The answer on the tip of your tongue refuses to budge.

"I like that," he adds after a while. "And if you want," sitting straight, his face now stands in front of you, a breath away, "we can do number three now."

When you don't respond – only watch his face inch closer, lips hover over the curve of yours – he licks a thin stripe across your lower lip.

"And I can arrange number seven if you want," he mumbles against your lips, pushing your face towards his.

How such a simple conversation led to this will probably remain a bit of a head–scratcher. How Satoru managed to have all of them agree to this will be a mystery. Maybe he has a knack for bringing out people's hidden desires or a way of making everyone comfortable enough to do this.

But these thoughts don't really stick in your mind. Especially with the way Nanami's tongue continues to lick thick stripes over your drenched walls. Back flat against the table, legs up and spread wide. Toji keeps a vice grip on one of your ankles with Choso gripping the other one – the two men keeping your legs open for the blonde man to devour you comfortably.

You'd never imagine there would be a day when all of them would see you like this.

And that there would come a day when you discover the taste of each of their lips; the unique sensation each of their kiss can bring.

Satoru you were familiar with – hungry. Sloppy. Messy. Remaining filled with passion even after years of familiarity. Holding your face with both his hands, cradling your cheeks. Like the first plunge into a lukewarm sea that turns into swirling foam – enveloping and capricious. He always speaks with his entire body; grinding up against you and wrapping his arms around your back. A boisterous lover.

Nanami – Nanami's kiss, on the other hand, is a contrast to Satoru's intensity. It's precise, measured, and full of depth. A slow dance of passion; like the waltz. His hand comes to your face and cups your chin, lifting your head up just the slightest amount of space so that when his lips meet yours, they nestle in there perfectly. His lips meet yours with a calculated tenderness. There's a sense of control and mastery in his kiss, and it leaves you with a feeling of being cherished and understood.

Toji – like a storm. Wild and untamed, coming out of nowhere with an intensity that left you breathless. An untamed force that sweeps you off your feet. Fingers gripping your chin with iron strength, thumb pushing against your lower lip to part for him more. Tongue both demanding and teasing, as if he can't decide whether to be gentle or let the beast out. The taste of danger and desire both eminent on his lips.

And Choso – the perfect blend of sweetness and ardor. His kiss is unexpectedly tender, considering his broad, rough exterior. A hand resting on your nape, not pushing or anything, with the other sliding up and down your arm; making you feel like he had waited a lifetime for this moment and wanted to savor the warmth of your skin under his palms. He tastes like moonlight on bare skin.

So when all four kiss you, the sensation is a whirlwind – a summer storm. A combination of the intensity of Satoru's kiss, the depth of Nanami's, the wildness of Toji's, and the tenderness of Choso's.

"Mmph–fuck," Toji rumbles, teeth showing in a grimace as nails dig into the flesh of your calf. Your fingers tighten around his base when you feel Nanami's fingertips collect your wetness, spread your lips apart before his finger teases your open hole.

You want to answer, urge Nanami to finally let go of the restraints – feeling like hours have passed since he went down on his knees and buried his face between your legs. Yet it's hard to do so when Satoru's cock plunges into your mouth. So deep in your mouth that you can barely breathe as he thrusts it into you; our lips and the back of your throat rubbing raw against its pulsing flesh. You feel him hit a soft barrier and push harder.

Hands slide across your chest. Slick with saliva before the softness of someone's lips envelops one of your nipples. A kiss, soon followed by a nip of teeth. Gentle, exploring – Choso, you guess. Compared to how Toji keeps squeezing the other one. All rough and fast, his thumb flicking over your erect nipple whenever your finger presses against his slit.

"Daamn, baby," you pick up Satoru's mumbles. And with your head thrown over the table's edge, you manage to look up. To see the underside of his chin, see how he's looking up; how his hand continues to caress your hollowing cheek, thumb collecting the tears that spill over your waterline.

A moan slips past the tight seal of your lips when Nanami's finger is finally buried all the way inside your drenched cunt. You arch against him, hips grinding against his moving hand before another one presses down onto your lower belly.

"Don't move, love," Nanami's voice echoes, hot breath skittering over your wet folds moving to your aching nub, "just let me prep you."

You tighten your grip – both of them – which only earns you deep grunts. Choso's teeth swipe over the tender flesh of your breast, over the soon-to-be bruise forming upon his attack. Tongue swirling over the silk-soft skin, making it stiffen with prickly heat. Your moan and twitch at the touch.

Toji flicks your nipple, rolls it between his fingers. Eyes drawn onto the sight before him. On the way your body lies completely bared; body offered on a platter of lustful ecstasy, like a sacred offering.

As Nanami's hand slides inside of you, heat spreads through every inch of your body. His fingers are merciless, relentlessly adding another finger and curling them both up to press against your walls. Searching for that sweet spot, that one point of ecstasy that will have you seeing stars.

"Baby," Satoru whines, thumb pressing against the corner of your mouth to draw your attention to him, "gonna cum. Think you can swallow me?"

Your hands continue to slide up and down Choso's and Toji's cocks, each on either side of you. Satoru stops moving, the throbbing tip of his cock resting on your upper palate. Your tongue swipes over his leaking slit, collecting the briny, pearlescent droplets before swallowing.

"Mhm," you attempt to nod, taking a deep breath through your nose.

"Good," Satoru responds, holding you in place by digging his fingers into the nape of your neck as his cock expands against your throat walls, pushing every nerve ending until a burning pleasure washes over you.

You can feel the heat spreading through your body, coalescing in the space between your legs.

Nanami's fingers continue to massage your walls, pressing against that slightly ridged spot deep inside – the one that tightens your throat, makes you clamp down on his fingers, grip Choso and Toji tighter. Everyone feeling your pleasure rise–

Satoru stills inside you. And you feel him spill. All hot and heavy; flowing over your tongue and melting on your taste buds like an ice cream cone in the summer sun. Tengy but savory.

–and rise until the dam breaks. Warmth flooding your nerves, overwhelming your senses until you surrender to it completely.

Nanami doesn't stop moving. Instead he speeds up, his fingers working you over until you are soaked in sweat; not a single inch of your skin dry or cool.

Fucking you through the first orgasm of the night while Satoru withdraws from your mouth. A feral groan escapes his lips as he watches scant droplets of his cum escape your mouth and rustle down the side of your cheek, smearing the sensuous skin with slick fluids that threaten to drip into your eyes. He leans down and sweeps up the droplets; plunging his sticky fingers deep inside your mouth.

All while the azure depths of his eyes lock onto your hazy gaze, you watching the upside down image of your boyfriend.

"You're so good," he praises, withdrawing his fingers and licking them clean. You can taste it on his tongue; the saltiness, the sweetness of his spent, "ready for the real fun?"

Nanami's fingers scratch your quivering walls once last time. His lips – soft and velour – press against your opening, tongue teasingly licking along the entrance before he stands up.

"Mhm–definitely," you murmur and watch. Watch as Nanami stands up, torso sculpted into perfection. Muscles rippling under pale skin, the veins visible beneath the surface. Your fingers itch, coming closer until the tip of your middle finger nudges against the graven abdomen.

His hips pitch forward upon your touch. Hand tightening around his cock as he gives it a few pumps.

You want it. Want him. Want to feel the stretch as he sinks inside.

"Condoms," Satoru chimes in from your side, stern but only reminding everyone as his hand strokes your cheek. Nanami grips your thighs to spread your legs wider for him. Nodding, he reaches to your side, grabbing one from the small stack of them you prepared beforehand.

With one hand on your inner thigh, her rips open the foil packet with his teeth and rolls it down the length of his leaking cock.

"Ready," he asks to which you nod.

The burn is intense, numbing as you're filled in one smooth motion. His cock feels even better than you imagined it would; slick and hot inside you. You can feel every inch of him, every inch that fills you up. His hands tighten around your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he stays still.

A mewl cascades past your parted lips. Body shifting, seeking more friction; movement. Nanami responds with a roll of his hips – exploring. Testing whether you opened up for him enough. And when he feels the unrestrained slide of his cock inside you, he can't help it any more. At first it's slow, shallow thrusts that have you biting your lip in anticipation.

"Fuck, get it over with already Nanami or I'm gonna explode," you hear a gruff voice.

Toji.

"Y'know," it sounds more like a moan rather than words but all four sets of eyes snap to your face, "I have two holes, don't I?"

Nanami shudders against your cunt, and you could swear he got more swollen upon your words. Choso's eyes snap to Satoru as Toji grabs the bottle of lube from the table. Yet Satoru's gaze lingers on your blissful expression.

"You sure about that?"

When he asks, your chest tightens, pulse gallops.

"She's a big girl, she can decide for herself," Toji responds, hand on your hip. He nods at you and then turns to Nanami, who looks up at him. They exchange a few words, a conversation that passes by your ears.

"Hey–"

"Satoru," you interrupt the man by your side, hand reaching upwards to touch the side of his neck, "s'okay. It's a gift for me after all."

You whimper when Nanami's cock slides out; now feeling the emptiness all over again.

"Gonna move this to the couch," Choso retorts–

Everything feels weightless. Surreal. Each kiss a caress, each touch a fire. Your thoughts are muddled, consumed by the need for him. For all of them.

–and soon enough, your legs are spread wide around Nanami's waist, his cock nestled deep inside you. You move in tandem, slow and shallow thrusts as you straddle him. He leans back against the couch, his head hidden in the nook of your neck; while at the same time, Choso stands behind it, with your lips sealed around his dripping tip.

Toji stays crouched behind you. Any other day, your face would burn over the thought – of having someone's finger up your ass. It's a strange feeling – the steady pressure of his middle finger as he twists inside you. Even with the generous amount of lube, it takes Nanami a few good thrusts and encouraging words – You feel good. Relax for us, yeah? – to get you mellowed enough for Toji to add a second finger and scissor them inside.

All while Satoru stands by the doorframe; fully naked, skin pale with pinkish hue. It feels as if he's glowing, radiant, when your eyes open and he's standing in your peripheral vision.

The motion tugs at something deep inside you. And you moan around Choso's cock. Hollowing your cheeks, tongue pressing flat against his underside as you feel pleasure washing the shame away.

Suddenly, Toji's presence leaves your body. Letting go of Choso's cock, you hold it in your hand, thumb swiping over the sensitive slit, earning you a grunt of appreciation as Satoru's eyes lock onto yours – and you feel a small smile tug at your corners before–

"What–"

Something wet slithers around your rim as Nanami stills once again. Teeth nipping at the skin on your clavicles, your lips press momentarily against the ridge of Choso's tip, tasting the saltiness before you use Nanami's shoulders to steady yourself enough to twist around. To look at Toji, crunched down, hands spreading your cheeks apart with face buried between them. His eyes, verdant windows to his carnal soul, glint in the faint luminescence as they look up at you; you can't help but gasp, mouth running dry. His tongue like fire, skin searing under his touch as he swirls around your ass before pushing inside.

"Wait, I–ugh–"

Satoru shifts in the corner of your eyes.

But somehow, it feels good. So fucking good and delightful.

"Relax, not my first rodeo," Toji rumbles when he pulls away, sinking his teeth into the plump flesh of your ass; then he goes back for more.

"Feels weird," you let out a chuckle, nodding in Satoru's direction, "but good." Hand grasping Choso's cock – who's been patiently waiting for your return – you kiss the side of the burning flesh while letting Toji devour you.

Nanami's hands slide from their spot on your hips, tracing the curves and dips of your body; settling around the globes of your breasts. They squeeze the abused flesh, kissing the tender spots. Hips having mind of its own, you circle them on top of him, causing Nanami to grow into your skin.

For what feels like an eternity, you stay this way – squeezing, warming Nanami's cock inside your dripping walls. One hand resting at the back of his head as he kisses your chest, massages your nipples and caresses your sides. The other hand moves along Choso's length, lips tightly wrapped around it as you bob your head, Choso's hand resting on top of your head, gently urging you to take more.

With Satoru watching over it all.

"Good," a sharp slap, sting on your ass when Toji finishes and stands up, "arch your back for me, kitten." His hand presses against your lower back, urging you into position.

Your body curves into Nanami's, like water around a rock.

Nanami spreads his legs more, opening you when Toji spread more lube over his cock. Tugs a few times to spread the slick, sticky substance over the condom, dipping the fingers in your ass to loosen the upcoming friction more.

You expect pain; pain of being stretched to the limit. Yet there's none when the tip of his cock slips past your rim and slowly slips inside you – further and further, until his hips are pressed against your ass.

"Fuck–good girl, ain't ya," Toji mumbles, more for himself as he feels the heat of your insides hug him tightly.

"You're doing great," Nanami's lips brush against the shell of your ear, tone quiet – just for you. "Wanna ride us?"

"Mmph–," you nod. Fingers sliding along Choso's cock, taking him in your mouth when you start to move on your own accord.

Which doesn't last too long as pleasure increases, makes it difficult for you to find a good pace. As if he can feel your struggle, Toji grasps your hips, stabilizing the pace as Nanami moves his hips.

Satoru watches on with a mixture of curiosity and admiration as Nanami starts to move; his cock sliding inside you with ease, meeting up with Toji's pace. You can feel both their cocks pushing deep within you, adding fuel to the fire inside.

Their hands never leave your body, grasping at whatever they can reach.

"Ah–" Choso's hips stutter the moment his cock breaches the entrance to your throat. You keep going, deepening the movement with each plunge. The sensation builds up in seconds, making it impossible to keep still as he grunts your name, feeling himself nearing the edge. "Gonna cum–ugh– damn."

His hands grasp your face, hips rolling forward. You grasp Nanami's shoulders, letting Choso ride out his high, his cum sliding down your throat before he slips out – spent and satisfied – and watches with grateful gaze as you swallow him down, not leaving a droplet to escape.

"Shit–," Toji speaks up after a second, "you just got tighter," and he grips your hips, moving Nanami's hands out the way as the intensity of his thrusts increases. "Look at you. Always knew you were a dirty one."

You can't even respond, just focus on the intense pleasure coursing through your veins. Pulling away, Choso takes a step back; steading yourself on Nanami, using his chest as leverage, you pull back. Back meeting Toji's solid chest, his hand wrapping around the side of your neck while he brings your head to his – cheek to cheek, lips pressed against your ear.

"Would kill to have you cum raw on my cock alone," he mumbles. And you know the reason for the quiet whisper. You can feel Nanami's hands move to your hips, steadying them as he thrusts in time with Toji. Together they create a perfect tempo, pushing you closer.

"Ah, ah–" you moan out as their combined rhythm sends pleasure through you, building up the intensity until it takes over every inch of your body. Until your walls shudder around them, body tensing before you let loose.

Nanami doesn't stay behind; his hands slide up your waist to grip your ribs. He feels you tense around him, and the sound of your name slipping past his gritted teeth echoes in the room as he drops his forehead to your collarbones. With one final thrust, he spills inside the condom with a groan. You can feel the tension in his shoulders relax; as if a weight has been lifted from them.

Still in haze – eyes closed – you let out a small sigh, feeling the last of Nanami's warmth seep out of your body before the scene shifts.

Satoru has you pinned against the wall, Toji standing behind. His hands grip your hips, pushing his hard, slick cock inside your loose asshole while Satoru moves in front of you, taking your face in his hands – his hands move down from your chin to your jaw, then to the side, to the sensitive skin along the bottom of your ear and your collarbone. The strong wide thumb of his right hand presses against the corner of your mouth, gently.

So you open up. Legs supported under Toji's wise grip, you offer yourself to the two. You can feel Toji behind you, his breath hot on your neck as he thrusts back and forth. Teeth marking your nape, electrifying your sensitive body – still high from another climax mere seconds ago, yet neither of the two stopped –

Satoru's lips move to your wet cheek before he inches closer again, lips ghosting yours until the tip of his tongue finds its way inside your mouth – warm and wet – a silent command for you to reciprocate, and you do. You let yourself get lost in his kiss while Toji's hips crash against yours, pushing you both forward.

The sensation is overwhelming – a mixture of pleasure and pain as both men push against each other, letting out groans of pleasure and grunts of delight that blur the line between lustful and loving. Primal and affectionate.

"Fuck–kitten," Toji grumbles, chest vibrating against your back, "gonna cum."

And even with the condom on, you feel it. Feel the sudden rush of warmth as Toji's cock pulsates inside you. His name sounds like a prayer on your tongue when he stills, flexing his arms and spreading you wider for Satoru's harsh thrusts to reach deeper. Pelvis massaging your swollen nub each time he buries himself balls deep inside your cunt – raw, unrestrained, without a barrier. Unlike the rest.

All while Toji relishes in the squeeze of your ass, the snug fit whenever Satoru hits that deepest spot inside you and bullies his cock in your walls (even if he hates to admit it).

The sensation sends your body into a new frenzy and you can feel the tension building up. Again. Watching Satoru's eyes close, the crease between his brows deepen. Hips stuttering, his hand cradles your cheek as he lets go. Your arms sneak around his shoulders, face nestled in the sharp contour of his neck.

(With all the sensations buzzing inside your body, in each nerve, you don't notice Toji leaving silently.)

A strong arm sneaks behind your back, the other placed on the back of your neck. Hips pushing into your softness as he grunts appreciatively; you feel the slickness flood your walls, paint it pearlescent white. He holds you close, whispers sweet nothings into your ear. Heat rolling over your body. His voice like honey and the sound of it alone is enough to bring you back to earth.

Until it all ends in a beautiful mess. A gluttony of pleasure, skin slick and breathless.

And somehow, you want more.

"Think we can do round two."

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loganlermanstanaccount · 8 months

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Rigor Mortis (part 9)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 8, Part 10

summary: You both come to a realisation.

warnings: smut! f! masturbation, grinding, humping, fingering, (implied) recreational drug use, alcohol, dubcon (-ish! reader is drunk but the interaction is consensual, tagging just in case xx), teeny tiny bit of mutual pining. 18+ Minors DNI

a/n: yuhh

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 7.2k

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all that light lost in gaps

You're gone, in the morning.

…he should've expected it. Miguel stumbles out of sleep, groggy and disoriented. He finds himself reaching out for something in the half-light.

He finds himself reaching for you. And when you're not there, leaving a person sized gap at the crook of his arm, his stomach churns. He pretends it's not disappointment, or the sharp crack of yearning ; settling at his chest like a crowbar, and prying open his ribs. It's worry, he decides resolutely, a perfectly normal, healthy amount of worry. As your roommate; and nothing else, he keeps reminding himself; he's just worried about where you've rushed off to, especially after yesterday.

Senior year. He was assigned a bullshit paper in a Civics class – one he'd usually half-ass for an easy A. He'd wax poetic about morality – amorphous, vague platitudes about duty and societal expectations. By the end of the year, he had it down to a science: a couple thousand words remixed and plucked from lesser known philosophers, videos online, and overdue library books. Either he was getting too good at it, or his teacher was too stupid to notice; but regardless, he coasted through the class right up until graduation. His last paper, and he remembers it distinctly, was on the book of the same name; aptly titled What We Owe Each Other. A plodding, pluralistic read; of which he had only scanned through, anyways. Extra credit, anything to graduate early, and he'd had more than enough on his plate at the time.

And so, he wasn't expecting the B+ underlined and circled in red ink on the front page. It felt like his teacher had handed it back to him face down, slammed onto the desk like the thunderous crack of a whip. And he didn't need that A, strictly speaking. Yet, he had found himself staying over after class, crinkling that piece of paper in hand as he'd asked why.

She sighs. Miss Hunter's glasses slip down her nose, as they are prone to do.

"You're an outstanding student. I hear you're graduating early, and you're off somewhere prestigious in the fall. This is… definitely not a bad grade, and it's nothing, I promise you."

It doesn't work like that, for him. His teacher doesn't get it, but it will eat him up inside-out if he's not able to understand.

"Was it my referencing?" He fumbles with the strap of his bag.

"No. Not at all–"

"I did the extra reading…the article you mentioned in class, and–"

He's cut off by the scrape of a desk chair. Miss Hunter gets up to close the door, before settling on her desk.

Arms crossed, she seems tired. Worried, maybe, but it doesn't register with Miguel. The thought doesn't even cross his mind, that there are others with the capacity to worry about him.

"Technically, it's well written. As usual, Miguel." She gives him a weak smile. "It just… lacked heart."

His brows jump up. "...heart?"

"There's not really a narrative voice, here."

He taps at the paper on the desk, frustrated. "You didn't ask for a narrative voice, though. You didn't ask for… for heart. I read the book, I did the extra reading, and I wrote a report. That was the brief."

"Not quite." She says it gently, but it still sounds like nails on a chalkboard to him. "The brief was vague, intentionally so. 'What Do We Owe Each Other? Discuss.' I gave examples, sure: excerpts from the book we touched on in class, articles, academic papers, etcetera. They were… suggestions."

"...suggestions." He's incredulous.

She nods. "You followed it to the letter, Miguel. You gave me a summary, with a few key links. Fully referenced, yes. Well-written, yes. But this feels like a sum of parts. It doesn't tell me anything about you; your perspective, your angle. Your voice."

He's biting back choice words. It sounds like bullshit to him, for lack of a better word. Flowery, hoity-toity BS; served up to him on a steaming platter. That's it?

Maybe it shows on his face, because she's asking, as delicately as possible,

"Is everything okay?"

Instinctually, he seizes up.

"Yeah. Yes. I'm good."

"I know you don't take this class as seriously because it's not an AP, or an elective, or maybe not as challenging as you need it to be. And that's okay, Miguel. I'm happy for you to use my class as a break from all the other stuff." She swallows thickly. "You're not from our usual feeder schools. The Academy is particularly rigorous. But considering your… situation, we can make exceptions. If there's anything I can do–"

"There isn't a 'situation'."

"Right. Of course, I'm sorry. But if you need a couple days off of school because of…" She pasues, saying the next part softly. "Because of the baby… I mean, you're already acing my class–"

"No." He says it firmly, eyes trained onto the wood grain peeking out from underneath piles of documents. He wants to ask how she knows, and how he's always the last to find out that rumours have spread, and–

"Miguel." Her voice cuts through dense fog. She repeats her previous statement. “If there's anything I can do–”

“If you want to help, you can give me that A.” It's bone dry, said with the kind of sarcasm he's grown accustomed to. He wears it over his shoulders, sometimes; draped to keep out biting cold, or unfamiliar warmth from a stranger - it all feels the same, now.

She gives him a rueful smile. “Need more than that, m'afraid.”

Heart. Voice. What We Owe Each Other – and he doesn't know why that phrase sticks in his throat. It's been drilled into him since childhood; family and community, helping each other out of the starting blocks; and beaten out of him during adolescence. The creaking and cracking of bones after each step, where out in the world it's a different matter entirely.

His mama has bad taste in men, and he finds himself picking up the pieces. Gabi is more sensitive than he'll ever admit, trying not to cry amongst broken plates and chicken-wire hidden in a bouquet of peonies: prickly words that cut and hack, and it's Miguel that wipes the tears from his brother's cheek. That devastatingly gentle sigh when he had told his mama what he had done - how he had fallen for a soft bed and even softer lips at the ripe age of 16 and a half - and Miguel carries that weight. What We Owe Each Other – and he's only ever fed entitled egos. Not his family, of course, but he's been burned. He's had more than his fair share of it.

He doesn't owe the world shit, he thinks.

He doesn't owe you shit.

It doesn't help that he's been stuck in place, grasping at cushion covers and a raggedy blanket. Trying not to drown in the heady scent of you, he's been dragging thick fingers over the fabric as if in a trance. You don't owe him anything, either. Nary an apology, an explanation; so much as a sorry spilling from pretty lips in that way where they quiver like a gentle flame.

He's touched them, felt them drag across his skin like the finest silk, and dropped to his knees in search of something you've never given him. It doesn't matter if you don't; kiss him , that is; the swirling, desperate sort that leaves him heaving and creaking and begging for more. He thinks he'd still scuff up the denim at his knees if you asked, regardless - he'd do anything , if it was for you.

It's not realistic to expect anything from you. You don't need to tell him where you've gone or why you've left so early. You don't need to, and yet he finds himself reaching for his phone.

Miguel sends a well placed message; deft fingers tapping away at the screen. Before he changes his mind, it's sent; and he's chewing his lip whilst waiting for a steady three dots. Lyla is slower than usual, but she comes through. She doesn't ask questions - because she knows him better than he knows himself - and gives him a thumbs up.

They'll call each other later, that much he's sure of, but for now he reads between the lines. Short bursts of text, like firecrackers flashing across a night sky, and only through nonsensical emojis and odd slang can they understand each other.

This part, he can do. And he'll do whatever he needs to, not what he owes.

~~~

You make it to Pam's just after it opens.

At 7 o'clock sharp, you've made the journey; in an empty subway car, spilling out onto the streets like treacle left in the neck of a bottle. It's not quite a squeeze, passing by only a handful of people, with nothing but a jacket thrown over last night's clothes. In a daze, you realise too late: it's Miguel's. A dusty, worn thing; brown leather crackling at the sleeves and heavy on your shoulders. It feels like a hug, and it feels like him : warm and stiff. It smells like him too, and you bury your nose in the collar on the subway, sleeves kissing your palm like his hand is in yours.

It's a feeling that takes you all the way to the doors: past the slats bolted shut and down a familiar alley. You push past them, sneakers on slick tiles, and give a weak smile to the woman that perks up from behind the counter, kicking away the mop and bucket.

"Hiya, welcome to Pam's! How can I–"

"Oh, God , no." You wave her off. "Take your time. I need a minute, if that's okay."

Settling on the barstool, you watch as the young woman smiles, picking up a rag and wiping at the counter. You sit in it, for a while.

Dregs drip in through the front. The bell at the top of the door chimes, tinny and cheerful in the relative gloom of a quiet morning.

It's cold , outside. Autumn, biting at your fingers and nose. Eventually you opt for a coffee, piping hot to stave off that chill. Bitter, the aftertaste lingers at the back of your throat. You find yourself picking at the chipped mug, chasing away that taste with fluffy pancakes. The combination doesn't feel quite the same – not after many a morning with your roommate.

You settle into the seat. You wrap that old jacket around you. You sip at tart coffee and pick at your nails. A quiet morning, one to yourself, one to keep hidden at the crook of your chest. Some semblance of peace , wrapped up in the spindles of a dandelion. That is to say; delicate and fleeting, whipped away by the breeze.

You've decided not to think too hard about it. That kind of thinking ends dangerously, you've realised: with long, hot nights spent tossing and turning. It ends with a head full of cotton, and a pounding at your chest. With blood, with tears, with a stranger in your bed. And so, you go for the cleaner option. The safer one, all things considered, that's less likely to end in a broken heart.

You float around for a while. Walking without a real destination, trying to ground yourself. Eventually, you end up home, opening the door to an empty apartment. There's no traces left of a night spent in Miguel's arms. Good, you think, slipping your shoes off at the door. It doesn't feel good , but if you say it enough times you just might believe it.

The cleaner option; the one with less gristle and bone; is a familiar one. You settle into a shower; steamy and soapy, taking your time to clean out the blood from under your fingernails. The grime, the dirt ; you watch it swirl into the drain, hands running across soft flesh. You try to do it like Jamie did, once upon a time. It doesn't feel right, and has you leaning onto the cool tile. The shower head sputters, a shaky pressure on your back but you lean into it and close your eyes. You rub a hand at the crook of your chest, and then down, down, down, circling your breast and then following the curve of hips to the apex of your legs. Tipping your head, letting the hot water stream through your hair and then your back; and you touch, feel , and you can almost taste him ; sweet and saccharine Miguel, at your lips.

With two fingers flat against your clit, you rub little circles at the nub, dipping into your hole for much needed wetness. Your other hand travels up soft skin, pads of your fingers grazing collarbone, and then they curl around your neck. With a little pressure, your thumb grazes your jaw. Like he does, except your hands aren't as deliciously rough or as large. You slip a finger in, and then two, water pounding your back and eyes screwed. You push past that initial tightness, searching for a little give. When it comes, cunt clenching around your fingers, just shy of that sweet spot as you press your clit with the heel of your palm; you're imagining it's your roommate. He'd wrap those thick forearms around you, press his cock to the crest of your back and touch you like you deserve.

You do it like Miguel would, reverent , touching you as if you were clay at a potter's wheel. In the hands of God herself, you cum; falling, falling, falling; tumbling down white water rapids and spit back up into the rushing water. You're panting, now, out of breath.

When you sink onto your bed, you realise it's not quite enough. Still in a fluffy robe, steam curls from your skin like clouds – ones that smell of cheap body wash and shampoo. Before you know it, you're reaching for your phone, sending two quick messages to a certain somebody.

[Sent: 15:32]

hey mig

[Sent: 15:32]

where did u go?

You don't expect a quick reply - he's never been much of a texter. But those three dots pop up in no time at all, much to your surprise.

[Received: 15:33]

Out.

[Received: 15:33]

Running errands.

It's succinct and to the point – of which you expect nothing else from Miguel. Your thumbs fly to the screen to reply but another message tugs the rug out from under your shaky legs.

[Received: 15:35]

Is everything okay?

[Sent: 15:35]

yeah

[Sent: 15:36]

all good

When that provides no response, you're left chewing on your lip, anxious. He's seen the message, he's read the message; but for some reason, several minutes go by and there's no response.

You're ready to give up and chalk it to your roommate's hot-and-cold nature, when your phone rings.

Immediately, you pick up.

" Don't believe you." His voice rings out, tinny, nestled amongst the covers.

"Hey, Mig." You settle down on the bed, putting him on speaker and placing it by your ears.

" Did you hear what I said?" His tone is deep and intense, making you shiver. It's not quite the same, of course, but you're reminded of nights spent with his lips tucked close the shell of your ear.

You swallow. "Yeah. I… I did."

" You sure? Because you suck at lying."

"Don't be an asshole."

" Think I get a free pass when you disappear for the whole day."

You roll your eyes. “You didn't call–”

“ Would you have answered?”

Ouch. He sounds frustrated, the quiet chatter of his background bathed in heavy silence. Silence thick with tension, and you almost choke on it.

He breaks it with a heavy sigh. “ You okay? ”

“No. Not really.”

“ Okay. ” He lets it sit for a while, before saying, “ I'll be home, soon. There's leftovers in the fridge, and you should eat, sweetheart. You want anything from the store? ”

His voice is so, so soft. It crackles like kindling on a fire: warmth that blooms and spreads to your chest. Like slipping off frozen gloves to thaw off in front of a heater, and he just makes you feel impossibly warm.

“Not really, thanks.” You mumble it, and hear a satisfied grunt from the other end. Before you change your mind, you say, “Sorry. M'sorry.”

Miguel gives a light chuckle and you think you can hear him smile, the kind you always chase after a stupid argument: one that tugs at the corners of his pretty lips.

“ You've got nothin' to be sorry about .”

He gives you a moment to feel the weight of his words, and ends the call. That heat at your chest blooms.

If Miguel O'Hara is the Sun, then maybe you don't mind being pulled into his orbit; bathing in steady light and warmth.

~~~

He comes home with flowers. A beautiful bouquet; delicate and balanced, featherlight wildflowers and brush, interspersed with sprays of blue and purple and pink. It's wonderfully dense, reminding you of the tangles of colour a child might decorate a picture with in wobbly crayon. Simply put, it's nothing short of a vision, and you notice how delicately he places it on the dining table.

With the rest of the grocery bags, Miguel clatters in, and you can't help but be curious. You're poking through the bags, sitting on the counter as he puts them away – after offering to help, of course, but he bats you away easily. Your bare legs bristle in the chill brought on by the window cracked open, and he just breezes past.

The cabinet opens with a thud , and your roommate busies himself with putting away food. Carefully, you watch the way the muscles of his back flexes this way and that - cut and lean under that thin sweater. He’s otherwise occupied, and so you take the opportunity to stare, playing with a loose string at the hem of silky shorts. And so, it makes you jump when your phone buzzes beside you. Innocuously, you glance at the notification, and your eyes go wide.

“Who’s that?” Miguel asks, voice light. With that freaky sixth sense of his, he doesn’t need to turn around to know, it seems.

“Lyla.” You murmur, reading the rest of the message.

“ ...And? ”

“Uh. Well…” Blinking, you can’t quite believe what she’s asking. “ Girl’s Night . I-I mean… she’s asking me to come with her for a Girl’s Night.”

“Really?” His tone is surprising, and you can hear how he beams by its lilting nature. Maybe he’s laughing at you, maybe he’s not, but you snap back regardless.

“ ... don’t act so surprised.”

“ You sound surprised.” He laughs.

“It’s different when I do it.” You say simply. “I just… I didn’t expect it. I didn’t even know we were close enough to–”

“Bullshit. You text her all the time.”

“A couple of times, Mig.” You correct him, trying to pin down a suitable response to give Lyla. You draw a blank. “I don’t want her to feel like she has to, or anything.”

He turns around, sleeves still rolled up. The look he gives makes you wither: one that could say about a million things. You think it means cut the crap , but he could just be constipated: you haven't quite mastered the art of reading Miguel O’Hara.

“Do you want to go?” He gets closer, hand flat on the counter next to your thigh.

You nod, and his hand creeps up and up.

Giving you a little smile, he shrugs. “Then go.”

It makes you shy. Bashful , even; and you’re wriggling as he squeezes the flesh. A hand on his forearm, and he’s close; so much so that all you can feel is the press of skin, and feel gentle breath fluttering past your cheek. You’re stuck underneath the gaze of his pretty lashes, and entranced at the way he licks his even prettier lips. A sudden thought seizes you - so heavy it makes your chest tight and leaden.

Oh. You want to kiss him.

In a moment, it’s gone. A broad palm nudges your thigh aside, and you’re shifting so he can reach the drawers just by your legs. You oblige, falling back into familiar routine.

Life moves on. Like Miguel said it would, and you find yourself entwined with the idea of time passing. Lying awake each night, picking out sand from underneath your fingernails, after clawing your way out of the hourglass. Steady, slow dregs; and it's tipped over each morning, restarting the clock.

The flowers disappear from the dining table. Miguel retreats into the folds and dark corners of your apartment; you see him less and less. Passing ships in the night, you seem to miss each other by a fraction of a second. All of a sudden he's busy , and all of a sudden you're swamped with work. You only see each other at night, looking out for the bits and pieces left as proof of life: sometimes he'll leave a hot flask out for you in the mornings, and you'll greet him with a cheesy soap in the evenings. If he's not leaving later and later after work, that is.

He looks tired, you note. Exhausted; prone to little yawns as you turn to him every now and then whilst watching on the couch. It's sweet, the way his frown has made way to a dopey smile, but it's frayed at the edges, tinged with something you can't quite place. You let him sleep that night, bringing pillows to lay his head on, and wrapping him up in that old blanket.

Girl's night creeps up on you. It shakes you by the shoulders when you collapse on the sofa after a long day – and you're rushing to get ready. There's no Miguel to make sly remarks or prod you into action, this time. You wonder what he'd say about what you're wearing; a leftover dress buried in boxes from your ex's apartment.

Short, tight, snug; it has you feeling glamorous – but you hope it doesn't look as fanciful as it feels. Too much; yet again, you're worried about being too much. Even though you're running a little late, you take the time to carefully apply makeup; something shiny on your lids, a dab of blush, and gloss slathered onto your lips. When you sling on little heels, and snatch a petite bag from the hooks near the door, there's barely enough time to catch that last glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Down and out you go, into a dusky night.

~~~

“I had to go through her manager– and wait, can you believe this girl has a fucking manager, now?” Lyla bats at MJ's shoulder, and the redhead laughs good-naturedly.

“It's not– she's exaggerating! My manager's just my mom, I swear.”

“It's a good thing, no?” You smile, taking a healthy swig of a brightly coloured cocktail.

“It means she is booked, and–” Lyla hiccups, raising an unsteady glass that threatens to tip. MJ straightens her elbow instinctually, before raising her own. “ – very busy .”

It's your turn to laugh, glass held high in the air. With a clink , there's a clash of crystal that's all but drowned out by the chatter in the upscale bar.

Somewhere fancy, courtesy of Lyla. One of those places that serves tiny portions in big, empty plates, a fusion of cultural food with white, upper class owners. No-doubt the result of summering somewhere in the ever-broad global South , Lyla had said slyly, under the lip of a menu.

There's powdered sugar on the rim of your flute. It dissolves on your tongue. You down the rest. Sickly sweet, and you wipe what drips onto your lips.

It has you checking your phone. Miguel hasn't called, not that you were expecting anything. Whilst Lyla and MJ talk, you scroll mindlessly through his chat; a smattering of one word answers. Missed calls. Unanswered messages.

" –what about you, babe?"

Your eyes snap back up to meet Lyla's, expectant.

"Uhhh…"

"Nevermind." Sharp eyes travel to your phone, and there's a flash of recognition. "Miggy said you're in school. He said you're gonna graduate early, this year."

"He said that?" You're confused. "I mean… I'm trying but it's not looking like that, right now."

She wags a finger, shaking her head like she's trying to remember something. "No, no, he seemed adamant. Said you're working hard, doing well."

"Doing better ." You correct her, shyly.

" Bullshit. " She says it the way Miguel does, and it makes you laugh. You see it now; he's the product of the people he loves. A kind of Frankenstein's monster, he's stitched together those bits and pieces; he's made himself beautiful. You wonder what piece of you he carries. If he even holds you that close to his chest.

"I bet you're doing amazing. " MJ finishes. Her smile is warm, and copper-coloured; it feels hazy and ambered in your little corner. "Better than me, anyways. I would rather die than go back to college."

"Back?" You ask.

"Oh, of course! You don't know." She giggles, leaning in like she's about to say something scandalous - the drink is clearly doing its job. Her next words are an exaggerated stage whisper. "I dropped out."

" Seriously? " You play along, with faux shock.

"...damn right she did." Lyla gives a drunken wave to a nearby waiter, asking for another glass of wine. Something expensive, she whispers, giving a deceptive smile.

"It just wasn't for me, I guess. I went because everyone around me was going, even Pete. Uhh, English Lit, or something. And it didn't… I–I mean it just wasn't–"

"It didn't click."

" Right!" She snaps her fingers. "It was too much. I didn't know what I was doing, I was 18, for God's sake. Think I stuck at it for a bit too long, honestly."

"...and the world didn't explode." You breathe.

MJ answers with a knowing nod. She chugs the rest of a crisp Mojito, raising the empty glass once more.

"To doing better ."

You're quick to follow. "To doing better."

Lyla frowns, looking for a glass that's tucked into the corner. The room must be spinning already, with the way she pats around for it. You nudge it towards her with an elbow, and she's raucous; crumpling into a fit of giggles.

One drink turns to two, two turns to three, and then four ; until you're ready to spill out onto the busy strip. When the waiter places a slip of paper into the centre, one with so many zeroes it makes your eyes bulge, you don't even have to pretend to reach for your wallet. Gleefully, Lyla picks up the bill, sliding a shiny Amex card onto the dish.

She's generous, you note, as she buys a bottle of wine to go when MJ picks up her bag. She's perceptive, too. You see it when MJ wrings her hands, still tipsy and stuttering in her heels as you pile onto the street. She's making apologies already - I've got an early start and need to see my May - but Lyla intercepts. There's the gentle clink of a bottle thrust into her hands, something expensive, and she kisses the apples of her cheeks before sending her off in a taxi.

Her own cheeks are ruddy, rosy with drink and she splits into a wide smile. The back of her hand comes up to your neck. Warm , she whispers, before linking arms with you like a schoolgirl off to do something they shouldn't.

Eventually, with shaky legs, you end up in a nightclub. She knows someone who knows someone, apparently, and you're ushered into a packed place just off 76th. Lights and pounding music, a flurry of limbs; you let the crowd take you in. If this is what it means to be a part of a whole; some writhing, heaving beast, to be more than your hand in someone else's and theirs in yours; then you could live here forever, you think. Forever, for the night, for the next ten minutes; you blink , and time passes.

You're having fun, you think. Letting the blood rush to your head, hips swaying to the music and you don't push away the quiet snap of a phone camera, nor it's red recording light. Dancing, singing, many seem to be pulled into orbit around you. This is how it works , pushed into an ebb and flow of people held together by broken lyrics and a thumping bassline. You let it wash over you, all-consuming, dragging yourself into murky depths.

You're in a booth, now, anchored by a dainty hand around your wrist. Pupils blown, she cups your face to inspect you, to figure out where you've gone. Someone's bought you a drink, there's a stranger's arm around your shoulders, but Lyla pushes them both away. Too much? It's a question, of which you shake your head firmly - lolling and with a distinct lack of fine motor skills - no. Not enough.

You blink. Bitter liquor hits your throat, and you chase the taste of somebody else's lips. A stranger, and even under the influence you know it doesn't feel right. Bile rises, and you're gone, clamping onto your stomach and trying not to hurl.

You blink. You're on the sidewalk, with a heavy head on someone's shoulder. The strap of your heels dig into your ankles and you fumble with it, trying to stop the road from spinning. Lyla holds you up, not much more up to task than you are.

A car pulls up, and at first you don't recognise it; entranced by shiny rims coming to a stop. You look up, still buried in Lyla's thick jacket; and you see it. You see him.

Miguel's wearing glasses. That's the first thing you notice, stumbling to your feet. Immediately, your face cracks into a dopey smile, leaning onto the lip of the open window. He gives you a once over, swallowing thickly, brows drawn.

Quiet chatter flys straight over your head. Lyla arguing, Miguel wagging a finger at her; but all you can see is him. It's like you've got blinkers on, tunnel vision making you focus on the curve of cheekbone, and the way his eyes scrunch up around black rims and glass.

You clamber into the backseat.

“Get in, Ly.”

The other woman seems resolute. “ M'not –”

“Did you take something?”

“Fuck you.” Flashing a middle finger, she wraps up her coat like a robe, walking away down the road.

He's adamant, driving up next to her. You keep your head on the glass where it's cool.

“Let me take you home. Please. ”

Frowning, she stops. When he leans over to open the passenger's side, she slips off her boots, and sidles in.

Their voices feel like a blur. You can barely register, only picking up half of the words hissed under their breath.

“... I called you, you can't give me a lecture…”

“...not fair, Lyla…. can't keep babysitting…”

“... fucking hypocrite… not the only one… I'm going through some shit…”

“...too far…. always taking it too…”

He drops her off outside of the apartment. From the backseat, you're sobering up; able to catch his heavy sigh as he watches her through the window. It's only when he sees her walk in does he turn to you, passing bottled water kept in the console.

“You want to come out to the front?”

You like the way he says it, for some reason. Any anger or frustration he had towards Lyla dissipates. He doesn't bring that into a quiet conversation with you.

He's too solemn, too serious, and so you clamber into the front over the console; limbs and legs everywhere, as obnoxiously as you can. A slight elbow to his chest, a hand clutching his shirt; you want to make him laugh. As you settle onto the seat, you see it: huffing dramatically, he gives you a small smile.

Miguel reverses back out onto the road.

You blink, and you're home. Legs still shaky, he helps you up the stairs, settling you onto the sofa. Car keys clink onto the dish by the door, and he slips off his coat – that brown one, your favourite, you think.

Fumbling with the strap of your heels, it must be too painful for him to watch as Miguel settles by your feet. His big, strong hands are surprisingly deft when he undoes the dainty buckle.

“Are you mad at me?” Meekishly, you watch and he shakes his head, not making eye-contact. Maybe it's the alcohol, but you're staring; looking for that light in his eyes amongst the dark room.

Now, he looks up. “What?”

“M'just looking.” You say, chewing the inside of your cheek as one shoe slips off. “ I'm not allowed to look?”

The other one comes off, and he hisses when he spots a little cut where the strap dug into your ankle. He can't help it, rolling it gently in his hands, trying to ease the pain with a massage.

“You wear glasses.” You say it softly, more to yourself than to anyone else. Giggling now, you cradle his face and he sits up. “I didn't know that.”

“ That's not – I've always worn glasses. You're just not paying attention.” He shrugs lazily, but he's smiling.

“Not true , Mig. I would've noticed.”

“You're drunk–”

“When it's you, I always pay attention.” Absent-mindedly, your hand curls into his hair. He keens . “Like… your hair's getting longer.”

Gently, he shakes out of your grip, getting up. “I know, I know. I need a haircut.”

“I like it.” Starry-eyed, you look up at him. “You're so pretty, Mig.”

It makes him heave. Still tipsy, your legs spread ever so slightly, hand taking his and pulling him closer. Placing his hand on your thigh, you let it trace up, up, up, catching at the hem of your short dress.

He practically caves in, collapsing next to you on the couch.

“You should–” His eyes are glassy as you ease yourself onto his lap. “ F-Fuck . You should go to bed, sweetheart.”

Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, you roll your hips, watching as he groans wantonly.

“But I'm not tired.” His hand ends up on your waist, applying just the right amount of pressure. Underneath, you can feel him stir, increasingly hard under loose sweats. “And you haven't touched me in weeks. ”

You're exaggerating, but it goes to his head anyway. He buries his head into the crook of your shoulder, whispering into the bare skin.

“I know, I know…”

“Just the tip, Miguel.” You're grinding your clit onto him, pussy barely covered by a thin thong. Whispered into the shell of his ear, you're a siren, honeyed words dangerously close to breaking him down. “Just the tip, and I promise , I'll let it go. Please , baby.”

Your dress rides up, and his hands come down to palm at your ass.

“ Please…” You're pleading, lips on his neck as he squeezes, forcing you down to hump directly over his cock.

“Oh, shit.” His hips jump once, twice; and then he stills, hands at your hips and ass to stop you.

Desperate, you whine, trying to fight against it. He doesn't let up, hand cradling your chin so you can look him in the eye.

“ Bed .” He says, shakily. “Not like this.”

He slips you off, noticeably adjusting his pants. Legs spread wide, head tipped back as he sighs; he looks delicious , and you're fighting off the urge to let him take you right there and then.

You stumble through the little hallway, pushing past some doors. Something clatters into your thigh, and you hear a dull thud as another thing falls to the floor. Frustrated, you strip down to your underwear, something light and lacy and it leaves very little to the imagination.

There's a bed, and you collapse on it; swimming in the silky sheets. It smells like him - musky and oaky and gentle - and you think you must be dreaming already. And then, you sit up, realising too late - this isn't your room.

Miguel wasn't too far off, hearing the thumping and clattering; hesitant as he opens the door. You're wrapped up like a present, spilling out of lingerie on his bed. He swallows, turning away to dig into his wardrobe, intending to pull out a baggy shirt for you.

“ Miguel .” You croak, but he ignores the want in your voice, so heavy it goes straight to his cock. “Miguel, please. ”

All his shirts blend together. He can't concentrate.

“Do you think I don't want it? Because I do, fuck, I need it. So bad, baby, please.” Your body heaves with a half sob.

Heart splintering, he turns. Finally, you meet his eye. You spread your legs.

“ Here. Right here .” You tap your clothed cunt with shaky fingers, pulling your thong to the side. His eyes drink it up, the way you glisten when your cunt eats up the fabric. You know he's watching, and you take advantage of it, circling your clit with the pads of two fingers. “Like this . When I touch myself, I think of you… d-did you know that?”

Swallowing roughly, he can't take his eyes off of you.

“What… What else?” He croaks.

“I think of your tongue, a-at my pussy. And your fingers… God. ” You slip a finger in, and he watches as your cunt clenches around it; gushing and sloppy. “Your l-lips. Meant it, before. When I said you were pretty. Want to sit on that pretty face and watch you melt– oh-h- fuck- ”

He wants to lick it up, all that slick that sluices from your hole. His mouth waters, just thinking about it.

“Put another one in, for me.” He says it low, sinking to his knees to watch you fuck yourself.

Nodding, you oblige.

“Does it feel good?”

“ Yes. ” You don't hesitate.

“Can you fit another one? Want to see how good she looks when she comes, sweetheart.”

Three fingers in, now, and he slides your thong a little further aside; reaching up to press his thumb to your clit. Light streams in from blinds cracked open and highlights your thighs perfectly. Nevertheless, he adjusts his glasses to make sure he doesn't miss anything.

The twitch of your leg, the way your hand cramps up, the way your lips curl into a delicious O - he sees it all, commits it to memory.

“ Faster , please.”

“ Doesn't –” You're frustrated, clearly chasing something that refuses to surface. “Not the same. Can't fucking reach. ”

He titters, nipping at your thighs and soothing the bites with the flat of his tongue.

“Poor baby. Will you let me help?”

Fervently, you nod, slipping out your fingers as he takes off his glasses. They're discarded, too foggy to be useful right now.

“Did I tell you to take them out?” He sighs and gestures for your hand. Wrapping his lips around them he sucks them clean, humming lightly. He pats your clit with a wet slap, content. “Put two fingers in, sweetheart.”

Doing as he says, your head feels full - cotton wool and bubble wrap, only able to focus on the pleasure building behind your clit. And when he slots two fingers in next to yours , it rips out a gravelly moan.

“ Here? ” He says dragging himself deeper, curling his fingers up. “Or is it… here? ”

You groan, limp against his hand as you feel impossibly full. It reminds you of the stretch of his cock; creaming around the base of his two fingers and yours. That wonderful curl as he pumps himself in and out, cupping your hand in the process to make sure you match his pace. He can feel your walls spasm around him, impossibly soft and velveteen.

“Can't say no to you,” His eyes are low, grunting as he palms himself roughly. “Even though… fuck … even though I should.”

It's wet, the slap slap slap of skin against skin echoing in his room. Miguel sits up, pressing his lips to your neck, and you take the opportunity to slip your other hand into his sweats. You start pumping, in time with his ministrations, eyes blown as you swipe your thumb over his weeping slit.

You know he likes it rough, and you jerk him into your palm; fast and hard and you watch as he matches your pace. Even now, you're competing, trying to catch the him up; to see who can make the other cum first.

You push back on his fingers, hips slotting against his, whispering nonsense into his neck. You're too fucked out to care; confessions you never thought would see the light of day. All the little things you like about him, things he says, things he does; and you don't even register the ochred flush smattered along the ridge of cheekbone.

He spills into your hand, and you're quick to follow; cumming around him as his fingers stutter in and out. It feels good , dangerously so, and has you pressing shaky kisses around his mouth, and nipping at his bottom lip.

He stills, but you're greedy, aching for more. You want him in you; seating his thick cock deep inside, painting your walls with hot cum, and pushing it back in with deft fingers. Every part of you is on fire, barely satiated by your heated foray.

You tip back onto the bed, and he joins you; caging you in with thick forearms, looking at you like you've stolen all the stars in the sky. That feeling , again, slams into your chest like a bullet. Messy hair, ruddy cheeks, hand gently tracing your jaw; he looks gone, and oh so soft. You want to kiss him ; and it's a thought that sticks, embedding itself somewhere you can't reach to dig it out.

“ Miguel .” You whisper, enough alcohol at the edges of your mind to stop thinking and spill your guts to him, unfiltered. “Are you sleeping with someone else?”

His eyes flit over your face before answering and he shakes his head.

“No. No. Just you. Only you.”

“ Don't believe you .” But you want to. So, so desperately. “Promise me?”

“I promise, sweetheart.” He swallows. “Are you?”

“No. Don't think I could if I tried.” It comes out watery, stuck at the back of your throat.

He just looks, for a moment, cradling the back of your head.

“I want to kiss you.” It spills out from your lips.

“I know.”

“Then why won't you kiss me?”

“Not a good idea.” He strains, kissing your forehead, and then each cheek. Hesitating, he places a gentle peck to your chin. “Ask me tomorrow.”

He says it simply, too easily; and it makes you want to sob. When Miguel slips away, and you hear the sound of a light turned on in the bathroom, you can't move. Catatonic; you blink, and he's cleaned you up, and slipped a shirt over your shoulders. Laying back in his bed, you watch as he lingers by the doorway, shrouded in shadow.

Goodnight. Y ou think you say it out loud, but it echoes in your head.

He says back, but not really. Instead, he leaves that goodnight hanging by the doorway like an old coat, and you wrap it over your shoulders.

It keeps you a little warmer through the night.

Rigor Mortis Taglist: @bunnyrose01 @lavenderslemonade @tsukkie-daisuke @malxoxo @thekidscallmebosss @vvitcxen @theyoutubedork @doublevirgogirl @jnghs @taleiak @noblesavagex @cumikering @rebeccawinters @evanpetersrightbigtoe @saucypeanuttt @pix-stuff @maliarenee @truthuntolddd @honeycovered-bandaids @aiyaaayei @aeeliy @amplsblog @sikrettt @opuffmango @spear-bitch @maddielikesmoths @lemonpepsi @sweet-strawberryhoney @lacedinweb22 @bubbsby @jing5uan @ellaandorersoct @hibarbiesblog @valentxi @kittym1ka @delulu-dia @melovetitties @yohoe-hoe @acollectionofcells1 @froggi-mushroom @thund3rthighs

@bonthebunnie @natthernandez @strawberrymiguel @twwcs @mammonispunk @um-well @renn-pumkin-head @ietherealkistar @smallishbook @sonderspider @spear-bitch @cryingintheclubdhmu @mageneire @notdyl4n @slezhara @funkyfoxx0 @smol-beb @iceclaw101 @lixhizy @errorundyne-exe @707xn @beantokki@twentysomethingwereyote

#miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #rigor mortis 😼#miguel o'hara #miguel o hara x reader #kat_writes😼#spiderman 2099 #miguel o'hara smut #miguel x reader #spiderman 2099 x reader #angst #heavy angst #mutual pining

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gloomwitchwrites · 11 days

Text

Just Like Dad (4 of 4)

Content & Warnings: referenced military career, domestic fluff

Word Count: 957

A/N: Part of the Imagines & What If Series

Checking through his daughter’s backpack strikes up a difficult conversation.

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // just like dad masterlist

Price has no idea where his daughter’s disorganization from, but it certainly isn’t him.

Opening her backpack, Price cringes at the mess. It’s all crushed papers, broken pencils, scattered crayons, and food wrappers. Sighing, Price turns the backpack zipper-side down, the contents crashing to the dining room table.

She is going to sit down tonight and organize this. No exceptions.

Frowning down at the wreckage, Price begins sorting through the papers, glancing at a few just to find some order in the chaos. He picks up a piece of paper and pauses, his gaze landing on the title.

All About Me reads the top of the page.

Price smiles as he starts to read over his daughter’s answers.

Favorite color? Blue.

Favorite animal? Dragon—all capital letters with lots of exclamation points.

Happiest memory? That one just says “ghostie tree.” Her teacher will have no idea what that means, but Price knows, and he laughs so hard he almost chokes.

Price’s daughter adores Simon, and whenever he’s around, she turns into a koala, hanging off every limb. It doesn’t matter if Simon is standing or sitting down. And how does Simon feel about it? He’ll act bored, like it hardly bothers him, but then he’ll strike, tickling her until she runs away screaming only for her to return minutes later to do it all over again.

Flipping it over, Price continues to read, pausing when he reaches information about parents and guardians. This is where he slows and observers her writing. She already filled stuff out about mom, and Price knows you’d get a laugh out of her answers, but the sections about him cool his amusement.

Her answers are idyllic versions of himself, nearly whimsical in the way she describes what he does and how proud she is that he is her father. That makes him ache, brings a tightness to his chest that pushes out all other feeling. Price is proud of his work, and of his career, but it is not a beautiful thing.

It is not sweet or kind or tender.

It is rough. It is hard.

It is heartbreaking.

He has lost so many people. So many good men and women. He’s done horrible things. Stained his palms with blood. These are difficult truths he faces every day.

But there are softer moments in his career of watching those he’s mentored be promoted, of victories and celebrations, of marriages and births, and of all those he’s worked with who have gone on to lead fulfilling, happy lives.

All of that, and this isn’t what stops him.

It’s her answer to the question “what do you want to be when you grow up?”

I want to be like my dad.

Price sighs and sets the paper down on the table.

How does he respond to that? Should he even take the initiative? Should he approach the topic at all?

Price isn’t certain.

“Daddy.”

Price starts at his daughter’s voice. He turns. She’s standing just inside the archway to the living room. She has a perplexed look on her face as she glances between him and the mess on the kitchen.

“What’ve you done with my backpack?”

Price blinks, and then chuckles. “It’s a mess, love. We’ve taught you better.” Her face flushes slightly as she slowly walks up to the table. “You’re sitting down and going through this. No exceptions.”

She nods sheepishly.

Price picks up the questionnaire. “Want to talk about this? I have to sign off on it.”

Her flush grows deeper. “Did you read it?”

“I did.”

She looks up at him expectantly and Price waits a moment to see if she’ll say anything. She doesn’t.

“You said some nice things about me,” he says softly, and she beams. It reminds him of your smile, and that melts his heart down to his toes.

“It’s true,” she says brightly, happy that he’s mentioned anything at all.

“You want to be like me?” She nods. “And what do I do?”

She blinks. “Didn’t you read what I wrote?”

Price barks a laugh. “Yes, love. I did. But I want to hear it from you.”

She squares her shoulders and looks up at him with fierce determination. “You protect people. I want to protect people.”

True. But not entirely.

“How do you think I protect people?” He can see her brain processing the question and attempting to formulate an answer. She chews on her bottom lip, shoulders sagging slightly.

“I don’t know,” she finally says. “But I know that you do. You protect me and mom.”

“That’s because you and your mother are mine to protect.”

Protect is not the right word. While his actions and the things that he does might prevent horrible things happening at a global level, doing so often results in pain and suffering. It’s just what happens even when he tries to prevent that.

“Can I not do that?” she asks.

“You can do whatever you want when you’re older.”

But military life? No. He doesn’t wish that for her, and it’s not because she’s a girl. He’d feel the same if she has been born a son. No parent wants to see their child in potential danger. Doesn’t matter what age.

“So I can be just like you?”

He wants to say “no,” but instead diverts the question elsewhere. “You can’t be anything if you don’t organize this backpack.”

She groans and starts rummaging around in the mess.

Price kisses the top of her head. When he glances up, you’re standing in the archway, a soft smile on your face. Did you hear the whole conversation? Or just the end?

You stride forward and reach out. Price meets your outstretched hand, threading his fingers with yours.

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @childofyuggoth @miaraei @coffeecaketornado @aykxz98 @kayden666 @unhinged-reader-36 @miss-mistinguett @keiva1000 @cherryofdeath @pertinentpostmortem @enfppuff @kittytiddywinks @berarenado @saoirse06 @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @marispunk @thewulf @hayleybarnesx @lxblm @ferns-fics @ooldcardigan @beebeechaos @enarien @sw33tsnow @kessi-21 @makayla-666 @lifes-project @burn1ngw00d @heeheehoohoohahahihi @lulurubberduckie @ravenpoe67 @jade1605 @contractedcriteria @lovely-ateez @gingergirl06 @kidd3ath @leed-bbg @nelladowney @blackhawkfanatic @suhmie @tulipsun-flower @ghosts-hoe @jaggersinclair

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serenescribe · 2 months

Text

the once (and many) prince(s) Twisted Wonderland | 3.3k Summary: Silver is, has always been, and will always be, the crown prince of his kingdom. AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54424864 Collaboration with @ohsleepie | Potential spoilers for elements of Chapter 7

Hi everyone! @ohsleepie and I are back at it again with another collaboration based on his wonderful "The Prince and his Physician" AU! This fic is meant to act as a companion story of sorts to the Malleus-focused "the prince's physician," this time focusing on Silver within the AU! Once again, this fic features incredibly beautiful and amazing art drawn by Sleepie; please check him out and follow him, if you haven't already!

I hope you all enjoy!

The worst part of reincarnation, Silver thinks, is the constant cycle of relearning everything all over again.

Okay, perhaps it would be a bit of a stretch to call it the worst part. There are many negatives, many downsides, far too many to count, to being stuck in a loop of constantly dying and reincarnating. But this particular aspect is, in Silver’s honest opinion, one of the worst out of them all.

There is a bookshelf carved from expensive ebony that sits in his chambers, nestled against one side of the wall. There are several bookshelves in his room, but this is the only one that Silver ever uses, filled from top to bottom with centuries worth of journals — leather-bound books gilded with gold and silver, every detail immaculately painted and carved, the cover opening to expensive parchment made from calves. He tends to absentmindedly run a hand along the spines, eyes glazing over the muted leather colours, before plucking out a book, and reading it through.

Silver only lives a good seventeen years at best, always dying before crossing the pinnacle into adulthood. How much of those seventeen years consist of just… reading? There are, of course, his early years, where he is much too infantile to read and write. But he barely has a few years of reading simple children’s stories before the latest journal is pressed into his hands, and he is briefly explained about the details of his curse.

He pores over the words of those who came before him — the Silvers who came before him, his previous iterations, all dying to form the next one. Their handwriting ghost his own, not just similar but straight up identical, and if he stresses his brain hard enough, he can almost conjure up wispy, fading memories of putting a quill to paper, ink curling across the page in the same, sweeping cursive.

And yet, it is a necessity to read all of it, all over again. Because Silver remembers — but not enough.

His memories are shattered, like an ancient mirror that has been cracked right through the middle, fractured into thousands of tiny, individual pieces. It is akin to a kaleidoscope of lifetimes; when he gazes into this metaphorical mirror, a thousand Silvers stare back, each one reflecting his exact appearance, yet distinct and different in their own ways. And yet each piece is but a shard; Silver remembers only the smallest bits of each past life, the pieces coming together to form a jumbled jigsaw of sharp-edged recollections.

He has lived far too many lifetimes as Silver — the crown prince of his kingdom, the only living heir of their royal family. He has lived far too many lifetimes as a Silver — distinctly different with each rebirth, living a short number of years until the day he inevitably dies.

Silver is immortal, and yet he is not. He lives on as the royal, the prince, a beacon of hope—

But Silver the person changes, with each new looping cycle.

(And so he reads through their journals, no matter how much it exhausts him.)

Many a time, his gaze wanders to his bedroom window.

As the sole heir to the royal family, Silver resides in the largest chambers of the castle, a sprawling set of multiple rooms, from a drawing room to receive guests, to his private bedroom where he slumbers at night. What this also means is that he is privy to the best views of everything within his kingdom, from the area stretching across the castle grounds, to the rest of the kingdom beyond tall and guarded stone walls.

There are many things for him to peer at, but today, he is gazing at the soldiers’ barracks again. They have their own section of the castle, tucked out of the way, but Silver can view them from the sanctity of his study, a room where he pens his thoughts in his journal and reads through old ones.

The emotion that dwells within him is nigh imperceptible, difficult to describe. It feels as though someone has tied a rope around his ribcage, double-knotting it and pulling it tight before tugging at it, and pulling him forward. There are twinges and pangs that cross his heart, a hollow cavern yawning as his soul collapses into itself.

He feels this as he stares out the window at the soldiers training in their courtyard. His eyes fixate on the swords in their hands, at the way they slash and thwack their weapons against straw-stuffed training dummies. Occasionally, he will spot the soldiers gathering together, jumping and yelling as two of them spar with wooden swords, all of them oblivious to his peeping.

He wants this. He longs for this. He—

“Your majesty?”

Silver blinks. It takes him a split second, pulling himself out of his thoughts, shoving away the deep desires that permeate his heart, but he quickly turns around, eyes fixating on the familiar figure in the doorway.

“Malleus,” Silver greets, shoulders relaxing as a smile slips onto his face. Of course it is Malleus; there are few who have his explicit permission to enter without needing to knock, and his physician is one of them. He waves his hand, ushering him in. “How long have you been standing there? Come on in, take a seat wherever you’d like. And what have I said about the formalities?”

Malleus is here for another check-up, and Silver gladly acquiesces. He can think of no other person he trusts more with his very life and soul than Malleus himself. He allows the man to lead him through familiar routines, magic permeating his body as he searches for something Silver cannot see, before shifting to more physical methods of testing Silver’s health.

Still, as Malleus works in a near-silence, preferring to focus and get his duties done before they can relax and spend some time together, Silver cannot help his thoughts from wandering off again. His desires are not new; he has seen them expressed across multiple journals, scrawled in identical, curling scripts across expensive parchment. The desire to pick up a weapon, to learn to fight and defend, to learn how to wield a blade like a true prince — that is what he so desires.

But he is frail, and the council insists that he stays in, that he can learn to fight once they break the curse. So never, Silver thinks bitterly, eyelids slipping shut as he feels cold claws brush against his forehead. Never in this lifetime, and not while I’m alive.

Malleus is many things.

To the populace, he has many names, many signifiers, viewed in many different ways. He is a blessing and a curse, for his magic is by far the only thing that can cure their prince, but all of it comes at the cost of his very existence itself: A fae; a deplorable, wicked creature; a monster that is the very scum of the earth itself. The history of their kingdom is written in the blood of their ancestors, shed through grievous wounds inflicted by the sharp claws and gleaming maws of the fae that slaughtered them all.

To the nobles, the members of the council who govern over the kingdom in Silver’s stead, making decisions on his behest, Malleus is something they tolerate. They do not speak of what will happen after the curse is broken and Silver is cured, but Silver knows, from their whispers and sly glances, from the words penned by the others who came before him, that they wish for nothing more than to rid the world of the last of the wicked — not, and never, fair — fae.

Humans gaze upon Malleus with distrust, wariness, abject hatred.

But for Silver, Malleus is one simple thing alone.

To him, Malleus is his friend.

There are two distinct points in the history of Silver’s incarnations: Before Malleus, and After Malleus.

The difference is like night and day. The journals of before are dismal and depressing, imbued with a bone-deep loneliness that carried all the way through into the parchment pages, stained in the very ink used to scrawl thoughts across the pages. The Silvers of that time tried — truly, they did — to cling to hope, to believe in what their people believed: that one day, their prince would be freed from the shackles of his horrific curse.

But with the passing decades, the many years, the many Silvers that lived and died, they all seemed to suffer from the same truth: there was no cure in sight.

And then there was Malleus.

The guards found a young fae child today, lurking in the borders between what remains of the valley and the kingdom, his own handwriting reads, the parchment yellowed with age, the ink long-since dried. This, Silver knows, is the first point at which Malleus is mentioned, though not yet by name, tucked away in a notebook he recognises by the distinct fern-green colour of its cover. Even now, as I write this, I still cannot believe the abysmal state he was in upon meeting him. No child, whether human or otherwise, should have that many injuries on their body, and though I have had a stern word with those who found him, I fear for his safety.

He shall remain with me for the time being.

Though Silver does not have favourite journals — for such a concept is lost on him when all the journals are such a drag to read, recounting the day-to-day experiences of his past selves, a depressing fog seeming to permeate every page of words — this one is perhaps the closest one to such a concept. Because this journal is different — he clings to every word, phantom feelings of a fierce protectiveness flaring within him, as though this particular incarnation has stirred somewhere deep within him and seized his soul.

It is so painfully obvious how much his past self had cared for Malleus — taking care of him, granting him such patience and endless kindness, spending time with him teaching him the human tongue, of how to read and write. There is a page filled with endless delight upon learning the fae’s name, ink smudged together where the page reads Malleus. Their activities did not end at the crude essentials; there are sweeping recounts of games played together, of crayon drawings and delicious platters of sweet treats — and Silver aches when he reads every word of it, possessed by a longing to return to those simpler times, when Malleus was not his physician, and was merely his friend.

And this care is made so apparent by the last few pages, the cursive made shaky by the cold, approaching winds of Death. To the next Silver, it reads, take care of Malleus. If there is any hope of breaking this curse that ails me, it lies within the powers of the fair folk. And yet, the rest of the page is filled with sentiments, rather than explaining how Malleus is the key to breaking the curse:

I wish this could last forever, these sweet days of playing together. For much of my life, I have been haunted by a bleak loneliness, isolated by my circumstances, and haunted by the weight of all our pasts. I have never had any companions my age, and I know from my readings that all of my predecessors shared the same lonely fate. To indulge in such fleeting luxuries, to have someone to speak to as though we were on the same level, intimately so— it is a happiness unlike anything I have ever felt before.

Blotchy circles stain the pages, the ink smeared in places.

Things may be different from now on. I understand that the council wishes for him to begin his work when the next cycle begins. And it is with that knowledge that I must remind the next Silver: Malleus may be our physician, and he may be tasked with breaking our curse—

But before that, before any of that, he is our friend.

Never forget that, for as long as we may live.

“Thank you for joining me today.”

Wispy trails of steam rise from two cups of tea, sitting in elegant saucers. Before Silver, and in the middle of the round tea table, is a small spread of sweet delicacies: scones accompanied by small glass jars of jam; finger sandwiches, some filled with goat’s cheese and roasted pepper, others filled with cucumber and salmon; and a small, round cake, tiny enough that it’s perfect for just the two of them.

“Of course,” Malleus replies, his voice smooth as usual. He raises his head slightly, slitted-eyes roaming over the tea-time spread before them, before he dips his head. “I thank you for the invitation, your majesty.”

“We have been over this many times, Malleus,” Silver says, unable to hide the exhaustion that spills into his voice. “You need not refer to me by such formalities.”

He knows why Malleus does so, of course. The answer is written across several different journals — It is difficult for him to reacquaint himself with us in each new cycle, and I truly cannot blame him. How alienating must it be, to witness someone you grow close to, time and time again, look upon you with no familiarity in his eyes? There is another reason too, though one of mere speculation, for Malleus has never confessed the truth by his own tongue — Earlier today, I witnessed a council member chide Malleus for regarding me with such familiarity during our meeting. I do wonder if this may be another factor into those needless formalities.

Thankfully, Malleus always obliges whenever Silver asks this of him — though whether it is because Silver is his prince, or because Silver is his friend, he never knows. “Is there any occasion for this meeting, Prince Silver?” Malleus asks, as Silver beckons for him to help himself, unwilling to dig in first when the fae’s eyes are flickering over the food, glinting with hunger. I wonder if he has forgotten to eat again, Silver thinks. Malleus carries over a scone and a sandwich with his utensils, leaving the cake intact. “Not that I mind it, by any means; it is always a pleasure to spend time with you.”

“There is no special occasion,” Silver answers, finally reaching for the spread as Malleus cuts into his meal. “I… only wished to spend time with my friend.”

Their relationship is a strange, tenuous thing. There is undoubtedly a bond there, from the way that Silver always feels so safe and secure in Malleus’ presence, and the gentle way that Malleus treats him, always appearing whenever Silver calls for him. There are even some rare occasions where the facade of dutiful physician slips, a careful veneer crafted for the sake of survival in the court, and Silver relishes those times, watching as Malleus’ expression sours, the stinging barbs that spit from his mouth more endearing than his usual regal elegance.

But all the same, compared to the earlier journals after Malleus’ appearance, filled with much more warmth and life — even as he learnt his role, Malleus would still happily chat with those Silvers, accept his offers to play games, spend the night with him on many occasions — there is a gap between them now. Driven by age, driven by time, and driven by the eternal, scathing judgement of the many humans of this kingdom, who cycle in and out of life and death, but are all fuelled by the same spiteful hatred and prejudice, taking it out on the only fae they know.

Still, Silver tries his best. He knows Malleus does too.

He sees it in the way the fae’s shoulders relax, expression smoothing out at the edges. “In that case,” Malleus says, after a moment’s pause, “let us indulge. How have you been lately… Silver?”

It is a good day for the two of them, Silver reflects. They drink their cups of tea and drain the pot of its excess drink, and the tray of delicacies are filled with nothing but crumbs by the time they’re done.

Even the cake, a dessert regarded with conflicting feelings by Malleus, is finished by the end of it. For once, Malleus eats his slices with a small smile, both their forks scraping the bottom of the plate as they help themselves to their fill.

Death no longer scares him, unlike everyone else. Death, in its own way, is a comfort, an inevitability: Silver knows he will reach his demise at the same time, at the same age. Very few people can ever be privy to such knowledge, going through their lives not knowing if they will pass on at age fifteen or fifty.

In that vein, what does it matter if Silver chooses to speed up the process?

He is not allowed proper access to weaponry. The council states that it is because there is no need for him to pick up a blade when he has guardsmen patrolling the halls around his room at all times, but Silver knows better. This is not the first time he has longed to die earlier than he usually does; he can count the other occasions on two of his hands, based on cryptic journal endings dated months earlier than they usually do.

To an extent, a part of him wonders what the point of it is. He will die, inevitably; why inflict such pain and suffering if he knows he’s going to come back? What is the point of it all?

The point, Silver tells himself, is that there isn’t one. He’ll always come back. He’ll always return — and so why should he languish and rot in his bed as his body slowly gives out on him? Why waste those months feeling his muscles weaken and his grasp on reality slip?

Why not do everyone the honour of ending it early, ending it now?

(The silver blade of the dagger, requested from some rookie soldier who knows no better than to deny this particular request from the prince, is cold against the flesh covering his heart.)

Silver is so, so tired. His life is stagnant, unchanging; he lives and he dies the same person, the same name, the same cursed prince of the same bloody kingdom, every childhood filled with days of reading the same handwritten journals signed with the same, stupid name.

When will he be allowed to rest? The weight of a legacy, the weight of his people’s hopes and dreams, drag him down, like impossibly heavy weights that are shackled to his limbs, pulling and pulling until he’s flat against the ground. He never asked for this — and god, it’s so selfish to even think of that, but it’s true.

Nobody ever thinks about him, Silver the person. They are only ever concerned with Silver the prince, Silver their saviour.

Except—

A memory flashes to mind, unbidden — of twisting, dark horns and raven-spun hair, and slitted green eyes that crinkle at the corners as he smiles at him.

(His hands tremble.)

Malleus.

The name fills him with an ache. If there is anything Silver can take comfort in as he straddles the line between life and death, it is simply that Malleus will always be there. Malleus is a constant throughline throughout Silver’s life, and while Silver may ebb and flow, weaving in and out of the many, many years of a fae’s long lifespan, Malleus will always be there.

And though the thought of that face, rendered a child once more in its shock and sadness, causes his chest to knot itself with hesitance and reluctance, Silver steadies himself.

The humans may come and go, live and die, but Malleus will always remain.

(And the blade plunges down.)

#my writing tag #writing collaborations #twst #twisted wonderland #twst fanfiction #twst writing #malleus draconia #twst silver #the prince and his physician au #once again it was an absolute delight to be able to collab w sleepie on this!#i really do love this au so i'm so happy to get to write something for it

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animasola86 · 7 months

Text

Kinktober: It is that time again.

Notes: Listen! I woke up feeling naughty again this morning and yet I somehow produced a fluffy, wholesome family life lovey dovey omg they are so freaking cute piece, at least for three pages, after that we're going straight to the topic of @kinktober2023: breeding kink.

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!reader

Genre: Fluff/Smut // Words: 8k // [Read on AO3]

Warnings: NSFW! MDNI! Marital sex. Oh and also: breeding kink.

Warning: After you die of diabetes or cute aggression by reading the first part of this, there will be severe filth following. (Though to be fair, I think I've written worse before >_> Still, it's smut: so if you want to keep your innocence, please look away!)

It is that time again, darling.

It is Friday afternoon in the Sallow cottage, and you're sitting on the couch by the fireplace, enjoying a good book – completely ignoring the loud and certainly obnoxious argument your twin boys are having. They do it all the time, so it's nothing new.

They come after their father in so many ways, it's almost scary. From the messy brunet hair that you failed to comb so many times, to the deep brown eyes that can turn your anger into adoration in only a few seconds (they know that fact by now, which is never a good thing) – to the insatiable hunger for knowledge and the equally insatiable desire to always get what they want.

Benjamin and Archie Sallow surely are Sebastian's sons. As they bicker over who gets to play with the toy train first, your gaze wanders to the corner of the room to your quiet daughter.

Little Anne is in her own world, surrounded by various sheets of parchment and paper, her colouring pencils strewn about as she scribbles away, equally ignoring her arguing brothers. You smile softly as you take in her features. She comes after you, has your eyes and unlike her brothers and father not a single freckle on her pale little face, probably because unlike the men of the house, she likes to stay indoors, drawing and reading with her equally sun deprived mother.

Just as you return to your book, the door opens, and the noise of your bickering boys subsides immediately and turns into a wail of joy as the twins jump up and into the arms of their father. You look at Sebastian with wide eyes and an equally wide smile, you haven't expected him home this early.

“I'm home!” he calls, laughing with one son on each arm as he enters the small house.

You stand from the couch and walk towards him, unable to stop the need to kiss him. As you do, your sons issue grunts of displeasure, yet you only laugh and kiss your husband more.

“Did you miss me?” he asks softly, his dark eyes on you as he sets his sons to the ground again.

“I always miss you,” you whisper and wrap your arms around him.

“You know, I'm only on the other side of the lake, right?” he teases and grabs your chin to plant another kiss on your lips – followed by another synchronised noise of disgust from the twins.

He is right, of course. You chose this house in Aranshire so you can always look over the lake to the castle, imagining your husband walking the halls of Hogwarts, teaching kids in Magical Theory, being in his element. He still spends a lot of time there, has his own room in the castle if his work load gets too much, but every Friday to late Sunday he will come home to you and spend as much time with you and your three children as he can.

“I still wish I'd see you more...” you whisper and lean against him, your hand gently grazing the stubble on his cheek.

“You could teach too, you know? You were offered a position, remember?” he says as he guides you back to the couch.

“You know I can't,” you sigh and look around the house. Your boys are back fighting over the train toy and Anne is still so fixated on her drawing, she hasn't even noticed Sebastian's return yet.

“Soon you can,” he whispers and makes you sit on the couch. “The boys will be at Hogwarts and our little princess here –” he starts and sneaks towards the little girl sitting with her back to the room. “– can handle her own. Hey princess, Daddy's back!” he then says as he grabs his daughter under the arms and lifts her up swiftly. She squeals and kicks, then quickly relaxes and throws her tiny arms around his neck as a wide smile comes to her lips.

“Hello Daddy,” she squeaks, and he laughs softly as he hugs her back.

“How's my little girl?” he asks and tilts his head to look at what she has been drawing.

“Don't look!” she says in that sweet, high-pitched voice. “It's a surprise!”

Sebastian chuckles and presses his lips to the top of her head. “Fine, fine, I won't look! Keep your secrets!” he sets her back to the ground and gently ruffles her hair before he lets her go back to her drawing and finally returns to you.

You reach your arms out to him, and he follows suit immediately, settling down next to you on the couch, your arms entangled as he pulls you closer to kiss your forehead. For a moment you just sit together, looking into each other's eyes, the bickering of your boys just another background noise.

“I've been thinking, darling,” he then says, and one of those wicked smirks comes to his handsome face.

“Yes?” you ask carefully and arch an eyebrow.

He barks a laugh and quickly leans closer to kiss your raised eyebrow. “Don't give me that look, I know for a fact that you'll love it,” he then says and winks at you.

“Really?” you wonder and watch how he disentangles your limbs and stands from the couch, returning to the bag he has left at the door.

“Oh yes,” he calls back and rummages through his bag before he walks to the twins, holding something behind his broad back. “Boys,” he says with a mock-stern voice to get their attention. The mini versions of himself look up with big eyes, their fight momentarily paused. “Have you been nice to Mummy and your sister?”

The boys nod eagerly, already knowing what's coming. He always brings them back gifts when he returns on Fridays. They know the drill and yet they are always so excited about it. You smile softly as you watch the scene before you.

“Well, how about you give your Mummy and Daddy a little break and take this outside?” he then says and produces two toy trains in his big palms.

The twins stare at him, and Benjamin, the cheekier one of the two, raises an eyebrow. “Dad, we already have toy trains...” he says and holds up the toy that he has finally snatched from his brother's hand.

Sebastian laughs. “Not these ones. If you push this button, they'll get bigger,” he says and shows them what he means. “But you can only use them outside, do you understand?”

The twins rise to their feet and crane their necks to look at their father. You already dread the day when they would become as tall as Sebastian, but luckily both of them have yet to hit any major growth spurt. He holds the toy closer and looks at them intently.

“Do you understand?” he repeats in a rather stern voice.

They both nod. “Yes, sir,” they say in unison and quickly grab the toys from his palms and run outside.

“Be good! No terrorizing the cats, alright?” he calls after them and then closes the door again, turning towards you now with that wicked smirk. Through the closed door you can hear your sons laugh and giggle as the sound of a train horn fills the square.

“Will they be alright?” you whisper as you stand from the couch and walk towards him.

“Of course, don't worry! Edgar will have an eye on them as usual,” he says with a disarming smile as he grabs your hand and eagerly pulls you along, right towards your bedroom.

You hold him back and take a look towards your daughter, who is focused on her drawings once again. “What about Anne?” you whisper, knowing what your husband is up to.

“She'll be fine, too,” he whispers back, leaning over you to brush his lips against your ear. “She won't hear a thing...”

You blush at the implication. When you look up at him, you can't help but smile back as he watches you with those dark eyes that can make you do anything. Biting your lip, you nod and follow him into your shared bedroom.

As the door closes behind you, you are very glad that he put up all those silencing charms and protection spells and anything else that will keep whatever happens in here out of earshot of your precious children. Because when he grabs your waist and pulls you flush against his body, you know you won't be able to keep your noises to yourself.

He doesn't waste any time and starts to undress you with nimble fingers, quickly unbuttoning your shirt as he leans down to shower your face and neck with light, innocent kisses. You inhale sharply.

“Do you know how old our sons are?” he then asks as he pushes your skirt down your legs.

You are a little confused by his question and frankly, a little too distracted to think at the moment. “They are... ten...” you whisper.

“And how old is our baby girl?”

“Five,” you reply and tilt your head, letting him nibble on your neck as he gets rid of the last of your garments.

“And do you see a pattern there?” he then says and leans back to look at you with a wide smile.

You blink slowly. “Sebastian, what –”

“It is that time again, darling,” he says with a smirk and quickly pushes his mouth to yours, silencing any doubts for the moment. Your hands reach up and cup his face, and when you finally manage to push him off your lips, you stare at him.

“Are you sure about this?”

He laughs. “Yes! Absolutely! It's time for another one, don't you think?”

“But we already live so cramped here...” you start finding arguments, when in reality you don't see any real reason not to indulge in his desire for another child.

“You realize you are a witch and I am a wizard? We'll just add another room, no worries! And I thought you loved the cosy feeling of our tight little space...” he whispers, leaning back down to kiss your cheek.

You breathe a little harder. “Yes, I do...” you whimper as he sinks his teeth playfully into your neck.

“Then I see no problem with me indulging in your tight space,” he says, and his words make you shiver, or maybe it's his fingers slipping between your legs, teasing at your folds.

“Another one, hm?” you whisper breathlessly.

“Or two, who knows?” he laughs and quickly picks you up to carry you to the bed. You frown at his words. “Those twin genes are strong...”

You groan playfully as he sets you down, and you scramble back on the bed, watching him. He is out of his clothes in no time, and when he crawls over you, settling right between your open legs, he gives you a serious look.

“Only if you're ready,” he says quietly, his dark eyes wandering over your face.

You watch him, and despite the emotional blackmail of those damn eyes, you find yourself smiling and already imagining having another baby. You also think about the last times the both of you decided on adding to your little family. The many hours you had spent in bed together come to your mind, and you can only imagine how long it will take this time. The thought alone causes your legs to twitch.

“Yes,” you eventually say and reach your arms out to him. “I am ready,” you whisper, and when he follows your beckoning to lie on top of you and bury his face in the crook of your neck, you add: “Put your seed in me, Sebastian.”

He leans back immediately and stares at you, not having expected these kinds of words from his beautiful, innocent wife. A sly smirk breaks from his lips. And you smirk right back. He must know by now that your sweet face is only a facade. He's corrupted you a long time ago. And even though you spend nearly every weekend in bed together, enjoying the other's body, the prospect of doing the deed with a purpose, makes it even more exciting for you.

“Then we won't need these,” he says with a wider smirk as he leans over you to the night-stand, rummaging through the first drawer where you keep your contraceptive potions. “Instead we might need... this,” he whispers and produces a tiny flask. “It's going to be a long night, love,” he adds and looks at you, before he downs the contents of the potion he rarely uses, but when he does, you know you're in for a treat – that will last (him) a very long time indeed.

You blush deeply and bite your lip, the heat already spreading through your body. When he leans back, gently putting his entire body weight on you as he cups your face with both hands, you see something you see very rarely: a tear in the corner of his eye. You quickly lean up and graze your thumbs over his cheeks. “You make me very happy, you know that?” he says softly, smiling at you.

You smile back and lean up to kiss him gently. “I'm trying my best,” you reply.

He chuckles. “Oh you don't even have to try, darling,” he says and kisses you back so gently you almost forget about what will come next. “You just do, no matter what you do, what you say, how you look, just thinking about my beautiful wife and all the things she has already done for me...” He inhales deeply. “I love you,” he says and presses his lips to your cheek, his eyes boring into yours. “And I will always love you.”

The warmth his words (and the way he looks at you) create in you almost overpowers the heat you feel for him. Grabbing the back of his neck, you pull him down onto your lips and kiss him deeply. “I love you too...” you whisper breathlessly between circling your tongue around his. “I love you so much, Sebastian. And now fill me up already!”

You feel him chuckling against your mouth. “So eager,” he teases and pushes his tongue deeper into your mouth. When he leans back slightly, planting tiny kisses on your lips, cheeks and jaw, his low voice vibrates through your very core. “My naughty, naughty girl...”

You watch him with your head spinning from lack of air, a small smirk playing around your lips as he moves his mouth to your neck. While you play with his hair, he sucks and nibbles on your soft skin, marking you as his own, as if the ring on your finger and the three children somewhere beyond your closed bedroom door weren't enough proof that you were his and his alone. That is the last time you'll think about your beautiful offspring for this day (or so you hope), as other things settle in your mind and you really don't want them to mix.

When he is done with his mark, gently lapping at your bruised skin, he kisses your neck and leans back on his arms, taking some of his weight off you, allowing your chest to rise and fall faster as you watch him. He looks at you with those dark hungry eyes, and you inhale deeply as he starts showering your bare body with kisses, all the way from your collarbone over the peaks of your plum breasts (that he gives a gentle squeeze with one of his hands as he moves down) until he presses his mouth to your stomach, his fingers softly massaging your skin.

“I can't wait to fill you up,” he whispers hoarsely, kissing your stomach, his fingers pressing down firmly. “I'll fill your womb...” he says and rests his head on your lower torso as if listening for something that isn't even there yet. “And I'll watch you grow... knowing it was my seed that made you so...” You feel his heavy breaths on your skin as you reach down to gently caress his hair, digging your fingers through his locks, smiling softly to yourself.

He stays like that for at least ten seconds, giving you the illusion of peace and quiet and hopeful dreams of the future, a really tender and romantic moment, and once those seconds are over, he presses his lips to your stomach, pushes himself up and quickly leans back, looking at you with that wicked smirk again.

“Let's prepare my beautiful breeding vessel,” he teases and grabs your hips to position himself right between your legs.

You stare at him. “What did you just call me?” you laugh as he puts your legs on his shoulders.

He just smirks wider, and without any warning, he leans down and presses his mouth to your aching centre, kissing your lower stomach down towards your quivering core. You forget about his wording the moment his lips close around your clit. A soft moan escapes you as you throw your head back into the pillow. You feel his tongue prodding at the throbbing bundle of nerves as his fingers wrap around your thighs, squeezing them hard.

“Ugh, call me whatever you like...” you groan, your hips bucking against his face as he keeps sucking with vigour. He chuckles against you, his voice and the feeling of his stubble on your sensitive skin giving you all the friction you need to produce another long moan.

“Sweetheart,” you hear him say as he releases your clit and plants soft kisses on your heated skin. “Darling,” he continues, and you shiver with every term of endearment and every kiss. “Honey.” He keeps going, whispering more names as he presses his mouth to your lower lips, his tongue gently swiping along them. “Love. Sweetie. Baby...” He pulls your soft skin between his teeth and gently sucks on it, coaxing more moans out of you as your fingers grip his hair tighter. “Kitten. Pet,” he finishes as he releases you again and leans up to look at you.

You watch him out of half-lidded eyes, your breaths shallow. As he holds your gaze, you feel one of his hands moving over your centre, his fingertips tracing the outer edges of your labia. Warmth settles in your cheeks as he keeps rubbing his fingers over your sensitive skin, his dark eyes boring into yours, a concentrated look on his handsome face. When he teases a finger between your folds, he looks down and raises his eyebrows.

“So wet for me, my love,” he whispers and moves his finger up and down your slick, the slight squelching sounds filling the room – and you with enough embarrassment that you turn your head away and put a hand to your mouth to hide behind. “You are so beautiful,” you hear him whisper. “Everything about you... Don't be ashamed.”

When he suddenly leans over you and grabs your face with both hands, making you look at him, you gasp softly. His wet finger grazes your ear, and you bite your lip, swallowing hard.

“No need to hide from me, darling,” Sebastian says sternly, watching you closely. “I know every inch of your body, I've seen it so many times and it still amazes me to this day and all the days to come. What your body has given me in all these years... I cannot express how proud I am of you,” he whispers intently, before kissing you softly. “But I will always try.”

You grab the back of his head and kiss him back with fervour, not letting go of him now. He complies and deepens the kiss as his hand moves back down between your legs, continuing its journey through your warmth. When you feel him prod at your entrance, you whimper softly into his mouth. He shushes you and keeps his tongue in a playful wrestle with yours before he pushes one of his fingers into you.

Yours walls clench around him as he starts to explore your tightness, pushing against and scraping over your soft wet flesh until he pushes as deep as he can from this angle. It is when he begins to pump his finger in and out, slowly at first, then much faster and harder, that you moan into his mouth and hold onto him tighter, feeling the tension building up quicker than you've expected.

Suddenly he leaves your mouth and scrambles back down between your legs, repositioning himself right at your quivering cunt. He adds another finger and continues pushing them into you hard and fast, while his free hand holds down your hips that you can't seem to control any more. More moans escape you, and you have to grip the bedsheets as he leans his head down and sucks on your clit again.

His tongue is eagerly lapping at your nub, rigorously pressing and prodding it, licking and rubbing, while his fingers speed up more and more, the wet sounds echoing through the room. But you're too aroused to be embarrassed now as you thrash your head around in nothing but pure ecstasy. You moan his name louder and louder, and when the tension reaches its highest point – he suddenly withdraws his fingers, and you feel his face pressing against your folds as he slips his tongue past your stretched entrance.

“Come on my tongue, darling,” you feel him mumbling into you, and as he moves his wet fingers to feverishly rub at your clit, you comply without hesitation as the coil burst within you, and you cry out and press your back into the mattress, your release pushing out of you with a force that shakes your entire body as you arch your hips off the bed and right into his face. He moves with you, holding your rear with his free arm while he laps at your juices.

More tremors and shivers rush through you, before you slowly come down again, gently placed back with the help of his hand. Breathing heavily, your heart thundering inside your chest, you watch out of hooded eyes how he eventually emerges from between your legs, his entire face covered in your release.

You sit up then, shaking badly, but you feel the need to do this as your hands find his cheeks, and you wipe at them, watching him with your own cheeks bright red. He chuckles and grabs your wrists, leaning towards you to claim your mouth instead. You taste yourself on his tongue as you deepen the kiss hungrily. When he leans back, you sneak a hand out of his grip and push a strand of his messy hair out of his forehead, smiling softly at him.

He smiles back and gives you another peck, before he gently but firmly pushes you back down on the bed, his hand trailing your chest, teasing at your hard nipples, until he rests it once more on your shivering stomach. Pressing down hard on your skin, you see him lick his lips. You swallow at the sight, knowing what is going through his head right now, and soon enough he moves again.

You watch him scramble off the bed, your eyes inadvertently moving towards his hard arousal twitching slightly (the potion seems to have worked already) as he comes to stand at the foot of the bed. His hungry eyes move to yours, and in the next moment, he has grabbed your waist and pulled you towards him, your legs falling off the bed. You let out a surprised shriek-laugh. He then grabs a pillow and shoves it under your lower back, raising your hips up.

He's always so gentle in his preparations that you sometimes forget what kind of animal he can turn into once he is done with said preparations. Yet he's usually quick to remind you. As he positions himself between your legs, you watch him grabbing his cock with one hand, the other ghosting your stomach downwards until he teases your throbbing clit. When he pushes his tip against your folds, you brace for his intrusion, watching him with your lips parted, yet he takes his time and lathers his girth with your wetness first, slowly rubbing it up and down through your slick.

You moan softly at the sensation, one of your hands moving up to caress your firm and currently unattended breast. While you watch him stroke his cock with confident strength, you roll your nipple between your thumb and index finger, whimpering quietly. His eyes snap to your face, and the dark look he is giving you almost freezes you on the spot. As he stares at you, he aligns his tip with your entrance, and at the same time as he pushes into you with one swift snap of his hips, his hands move forwards and grab both of your breasts at once, firmly squeezing them as he rolls his hips against you.

A loud moan escapes you, and you quickly retrieve your fingers from his grasp before you claw them into the bedsheets. Your walls may have expected his intrusion, but when it happened, it still took them and yourself by surprise. His force is unrelenting, and he only stops pushing into your tight channel when his balls press against your arse. You gasp, barely able to breathe for a moment, as you try to adjust to his size.

He's holding onto your breasts tightly, using them to guide his pelvis flush against yours, and once he's satisfied with how deep he is inside of you, he starts massaging your soft flesh, his palms rolling over your nipples, coaxing more and more whimpers out of you. “I wonder,” you hear him say gravelly, “I wonder how big they'll get this time...”

You chuckle softly, even more so when you catch the slightest bit of pink on his cheeks. Unclenching your hands, you rest them on his, causing him to look at you. His smile is almost shy and reminds you so much of the boy you fell in love with all those years ago. Even back then, he has been able to do the most vile things to you, but when it came to your breasts, he had always cherished them greatly, probably even more so now that they were so much bigger.

He licks his lips and folds his body over yours, moving within you as he does so, causing you to gasp slightly, before he places a soft kiss on your mouth, holding his face there for a moment, as if asking you something he cannot quite put into words. But you know what he wants to do, and with another chuckle, you put your hands down and move your chest up against the firm grasp of his. “Go ahead,” you whisper.

His eyes light up, and as he lowers his face down, moving his hands to hold your waist, his mouth quickly finds the pert bud of your left breast, eagerly sucking on it. As you moan softly, your hand starting to caress his hair once more, you watch him swirl his tongue around your sensitive skin, his teeth grazing it almost a little roughly. After nurturing three very hungry children, feeling the mouth of your husband there doesn't come as a surprise to you.

His words, however, catch you a little off guard. “I can't wait for you to lactate again...” he mumbles against you, and you hide your blush with a soft laugh.

“You might need to put a baby in me first, you know?” you tease him after he keeps caressing your tender tits, sucking on one and massaging the other with his fingers. You even buck your hips against him, reminding him how he's still buried deep within your warmth.

Without leaning back, he looks up at you, the creases in the corners of his eyes deepening as he smirks against your chest. “Who's impatient now?” he teases right back and gives your hard nipple a firm suck and a quick nibble.

You inhale sharply, glowering at him. He laughs as he leans back eventually, his fingers drawing soft lines on your stomach as he does. Once he's towering over you once more, with his hands now firmly on your waist, he tilts his head. Without another word, you feel him pulling out slowly, your walls clenching around him, trying to suck him back in. He almost slips out all the way, but then he thrusts forward harshly, hitting your cervix with a force that makes your breath hitch in your throat.

He repeats the exact same motion several times, each time pushing as deep as possible with as much strength as he trusts himself to exert against you. You quickly turn into a moaning, whimpering mess, your legs twitching badly with every slam of his pelvis against you. In the middle of your haze, you admire his control and wonder when he'll lose it as well. But he stays very deliberate in his movements, guiding his length in and out of you with slow but hard stabs that leave you shuddering and aching for more.

His grip on your waist betrays him though, you can see the veins and muscles popping beneath the skin of his arms as he tries to keep that steady rhythm for as long as possible, even though you know he wants nothing more than to ram into you in rapid, forceful little snaps of his hips as he fucks you open to finally receive his seed.

You watch him out of half-lidded eyes, your lips parted and swollen, your noises bleeding into the slapping of skin against skin that fill the small room. You manage to move your shaking hands down, gently brushing against the vice-like grip he has on your waist. He looks at you then, his eyes darker than ever, his own lips trembling before he presses them together into a straight line. In-between softly moaning, you smile at him – and that is all it takes for him to change his rhythm.

He moves his hands to rest on either side of your hips, clenched to tight fists, as he then starts to plunge into you faster, no longer as deep, but still pushing with as much fervour and vigour as he can muster. His groans fill your ears, and you close your eyes as the sensations build up more and more inside your stomach. Every thrust rocks you up the bed, but before he pushes you further, you raise your twitching legs and wrap them tightly around his waist, the change in angle coaxing even louder moans out of your throat.

Grabbing your thighs, he holds you in place and keeps slamming his pelvis against yours, eventually finding a rhythm that is both fast and deep, and every single inward motion hits that sweet spot right at your cervix. You squirm and writhe, whimpering more and more as you arch your back into the mattress, completely overwhelmed by the pleasure he is giving you. You throw your arms back and grab at the edge of the bed, holding onto it as if your life depended on it. The way your muscles contract it certainly feels like it.

“Come for me, baby,” you hear him grunt quietly, and when your eyes move to his face, you see that he's holding back his own release with how his jaw is clenched.

You start moving your hips with him, and it doesn't take long for you to fulfil his wish. The pleasure explodes inside you, sending you thrashing around on the bed, a long cry escaping you, before your entire body freezes and the coiled up tension dissipates in nothing but pure bliss that gnaws at the edge of your vision. He holds you tightly during your orgasm, keeping his rapid rhythm, forcing you higher and higher, until his hips snap against you for one final deep thrust, and it feels as if he's even deeper now, his tight, quivering balls buried in your folds as he comes right after you with a loud groan.

Your walls flutter around his cock as you feel him twitching within you. His warm seed pumps out of him with every twitch, painting your walls, squeezing into any orifice it can find, and as it does, he moves one of his hands to your stomach and pushes down hard again, feeling the sensation of his release through the deep tissue of your skin. You whimper slightly, and he eases his grip and looks at you, panting just as much as you do, but he still gives you a smile that almost pushes you over the edge again.

You reach your arms out to him, beckoning him closer, and he complies, leaning over you to press his lips to yours as you embrace him tightly. You can still feel him twitching inside you, still filling you up, as his tongue invades your mouth hungrily. Kissing him back, you moan softly against him, your crossed feet caressing his lower back as you do so. The warmth within you is indescribable, be it the actual seed seeping into you or the thought of what it will do to you eventually, it fills you up to the brim with happiness and then some.

You feel the same emotion coursing through him as he holds you firmly, his hands slipping beneath your body as he presses you to his chest and lifts you slowly into a sitting position. Once he releases your mouth again, you rest your forehead against his shoulder, breathing heavily.

Yet as you think he is done with you, happy with filling you up, you must have forgotten who it is that's holding you in his grasp. You should have known better than to think that Sebastian Sallow will leave it at this. He knows what he wants, and you know he won't stop until he gets it. It being the absolute certainty that his seed has found a home in your womb. And as you look at him, your limbs twitching in exhaustion, you know he isn't done with you yet.

That wicked smirk is back on his lips, and as you notice it, he presses his mouth against yours for a quick kiss before he slowly lets go of you, his hands prying your thighs open until your legs fall boneless to his sides. Pressing his hand on your lower stomach, he slowly moves back and pulls out of you. Sitting on the edge of the bed, you bite your lip as you watch him, the sensation causing more tremors to rush through your body.

As soon as his cock leaves your warm embrace, covered in your combined juices, he puts his palm over your entrance, trapping the seed that's bound to spill from you. “Hmm,” he makes in thought and looks from his hand to you and back down.

Raising an eyebrow, you witness the gears turning in his head, amusement settling in your chest. When he then grabs your hand and switches his hand with yours, pressing it gently against your wetness, you frown deeply. “Do you expect me to sit here with my hand down there, waiting for something to grow?” you tease, your voice slightly hoarse.

He chuckles a little nervously. “No, of course not,” he says and looks around the room. “Hold it for me for just a moment, okay?”

You watch him walk around the room until he stops in front of your dresser, shamelessly rummaging through your underwear drawer. He retrieves a pair, but then his eyes fall onto the box you store on top of the furniture piece. He drops the garment and grabs something else instead, and as he returns to you, your mouth falls open. “Sebastian... what –”

But you can't stop him as he takes your hand away and shoves one of the many wand handles you collected over the years right into your quivering cunt, plugging it shut. It feels cold and hard as it pushes against your walls. You gasp and shudder deeply, staring from the intricate black object poking out of your entrance up into his flushed face.

“You can't be serious,” you just say and shake your head. “Is that one of the marble handles?”

“It is, fits perfectly, doesn't it? I'll clean it after, don't worry,” he adds cheekily and leans down to kiss you. “Now turn around for me,” he then commands, waiting for you to obey.

You do, obviously, and stand up on shaking legs. You feel his hands guiding you as you turn around, clenching your thighs together to keep the handle inside. Once you climb back onto the bed on your hands and knees, you feel his fingers pushing the object back in as it threatened to slip out. Shivering, you lean down on your chest and elbows, arching your body to only keep your rear in the air. As you settle in the new position, he steps behind you, grabbing your hips to move you a little closer to the edge again.

You turn your head and rest on your cheek, taking a shuddering breath as you watch him out of the corner of your eye. He has his cock in one hand and gives himself a few tight strokes, breathing heavily. Apparently the potion still works, and he has a lot more to give you. His other hand plays around with the wand handle lodged inside you as he pulls it and turns it, teasing you with every slight movement.

“We should use toys more often, don't you think?” you hear him say, and you let out a tired chuckle that's almost a groan.

“Well, next time you bring gifts to the kids, think of me as well, alright?” you whisper into the pillow.

He laughs and pokes at the object again, pushing it deeper. You whimper quietly, your legs shaking at the sensation. “You can't tell me you never thought of sticking these things into your pussy,” he says quietly through laboured breaths.

“Who says I haven't?” you reply with a smirk. That renders him completely speechless. “You're usually gone all week...” you purr and lick your lips. “And a girl has needs...”

He exhales loudly, and suddenly he grabs the wand handle and basically rips it out of you. You shriek and squirm, and with a heavy thud it lands on the floor next to the bed. Before you can complain, you feel his tip pressing against your entrance. “You would choose one of those,” he says through gritted teeth, “over my cock?” He doesn't wait for your answer (and frankly it's not necessary), he simply rolls his hips forwards and rams his entire length into you.

Coated with his seed and prepared from the handle, your walls welcome him back with ease. You moan as he pushes in deep once more, wrapping his arms around your stomach and pulling you flush against him as he folds his body over yours. You can feel him pressing against your cervix and almost further as he stands balls deep over you, holding your shuddering body that would certainly fall into itself at the sensation if it wasn't for his strong arms.

“Doesn't this feel so much better?” he whispers as he leans down more, his lips brushing over your ear.

“Yes...” you whimper. “Of course... it does...” Breathing seems hard in this position with his body weighing on you and his cock prodding your womb.

He kisses your earlobe and starts grinding his hips against you in small circles, each movement coaxing more noises out of you. This time his noises join yours, and the heavy breaths he issues right against your ear make you close your eyes and moan softly as you dig your fingers into the bedsheets.

“Have you thought about names yet?” he then coos, and you can only groan as a shiver runs down your spine.

“No, Sebastian...” you mutter into the pillow. “Kind of... busy here...”

His laugh and the low timbre of his voice almost send you right over the edge. “I was thinking... Beatrice... if it's a girl... or Bartholomew if it's a boy...”

You squirm beneath him, exhaling loudly through your nose. “Bartholomew?”

“Yes...” he grunts as he starts giving you tiny thrusts that send tiny jolts of pain through your body. “Seems... fitting... you know with... Benjamin... and Archie... and Anne...”

“Sebastian!” you squeal and buck your rear against him. “Can we not talk about our children while you are balls deep in my vagina?”

“Oh sweetheart,” he chuckles into your ear. “That's where those children came from, why shouldn't we?”

You groan and bury your flushed face in the pillow. “I like Beatrice,” you then mumble, earning you another low chuckle that makes you shudder deeply. You feel him kissing your cheek.

“Would be nice to have another baby girl,” he whispers and inhales deeply as he halts the movements of his hips for a moment.

You relax slightly, but it only lasts for so long before he leans back suddenly, grabs your waist and starts ramming his cock deep and fast into your quivering cunt. The moans that fall from your lips are loud and quick and make your head spin. You grip the bedsheets tightly, your knuckles turning white, as you brace your body against his rapid thrusts.

Once again you'd be impressed by his stamina if your head wouldn't be so empty. As he grunts and groans, his movements far from deliberate now and more on the rougher side, you can only lie there, your face pressed into the pillow and your knees shaking so badly you wonder how you can still keep them up like this. Perhaps it's his grip on your waist that holds you up, or it's sheer willpower as you try to do your part of this deal in providing him the best angle for him to push his length into you.

You can feel him going deeper and deeper, and the slight shudder in his movements tells you that he's trying to press himself into regions he shouldn't possible enter, yet he tries nevertheless – and the pressure of his attempts is what kicks you right over the edge. The tension in your stomach coils up once again, and when your body starts spasming violently, you know you can't hold it any longer.

As your knees give way under the intense tremors, you feel your walls tightening around him painfully, all of your muscles contract, and this time, it's a long and loud wail that leaves your lips as you fold under the pleasure of your third orgasm of the day. The tight grip of his hands on your bruised waist holds you in that position, and you feel him leaning closer, one of his knees propped up beneath you in support as he keeps slamming his pelvis into yours forcefully.

All you can hear is the blood rushing through your ears, the almost obscene slapping of skin against skin and his deep, animalistic grunts as he exerts himself to crash over the edge as well. When he finally does, he groans loudly, his final thrust into you so powerful it pushes you right into the bed before his body falls on top of yours, his cock ramming deeper as he shoots his load right into your womb.

You cry out in a mixture of pain and pleasure, buried beneath his weight and overwhelmed by the sensation of his cum shooting into you in thick warm spurts as his cock twitches inside you, filling you up more and more as he lies heavily on you, his shallow breaths right in your ear. You can barely breathe yourself, but somehow it doesn't matter.

You're one step closer to bearing his fourth child.

It takes him a moment to collect himself again, and when he does, it's due to an interruption you both haven't anticipated. There's a faint knock on the door that makes you shudder deeply. He shifts on top of you slightly, inhaling sharply as he stretches his hand out to summon his wand from the pile of clothes next to the bed. You hear him muttering something and you know he's lifting the silencing charm on the door to answer whoever is on the other side.

“What is it?” he calls, trying to sound as composed as possible – despite the rather indecent situation you both find yourselves in.

“Daddy? Archie hit his head!” you can hear the faint voice of your daughter through the door.

You immediately start to stir beneath him as your motherly instincts kick in. But he holds you down with a firm hand to your shoulder as he leans back up slightly.

“Is he bleeding?” he asks through the door.

“No,” comes the hesitant answer.

He exhales loudly. “Is he conscious?”

“Is he what?”

“Can he talk? Cry? Are his eyes open?” he explains, in spite of everything calm and patient.

“He's crying,” Anne answers quietly.

“Then he's fine,” Sebastian mutters under his breath, and you are tempted to hit him if any of your limbs would work. He notices your reaction nonetheless and quickly kisses the back of your head. “I'll be there in five minutes!” he then calls to his daughter. “Go and get Mr Adley!”

“Okay, Daddy,” your little girl squeaks, and you can hear quick footsteps hurrying away.

After he puts the silencing charm back up, he drops his wand next to your head and leans down once more, pushing you deeper into the bed again, his lips brushing over your ear. You can still feel him twitching inside you, he's still not done filling you up. While you feel a little ashamed to have been interrupted by your daughter (though she luckily didn't catch you in the act, you really don't want your kids to ever see you like this), his body just kept going, and you admire his willpower once again.

You admire him, period.

For a moment you just lie there, your bodies moulded together, before you stir slightly. “Sebastian,” you whisper quietly, your voice muffled by the pillow beneath you.

“Hmm?” he hums softly against you.

“You realize that Edgar will come here, right?” you say with a soft chuckle.

“Oh blast!” he then hisses, and suddenly he leans back, unfolding his body from yours, leaving your skin tingling and cold without his warm embrace.

You feel him scrambling back, and when he pulls out, you moan softly as your walls clench tightly, threatening to pump his seed out as well. Yet he is one step ahead of you, and without any warning, you feel the cold, hard wand handle plugging your hole again. Squirming against it, you feel him grabbing your hips and turning you around before he pushes your thighs firmly together. “Hold that for me, will you?” he urges and then proceeds to dress in what must be a new record for him.

As you look at him, you can't help but smile. Inhaling deeply, you lean on your elbows and watch him. There he is, back in his shirt and his trousers, his soaked, throbbing cock hidden away behind the stiff fabric, not even hinting at the erection that he forced into hiding. He must be very uncomfortable right now, yet he doesn't show it one bit. When he notices your smile, he walks around the bed and leans down to kiss your sweaty forehead.

“I'll be right back, alright?” he whispers, watching you closely. “I promised you a long night, remember?”

“Oh I remember,” you whisper back and grab his arm gently. “Take care of our children, okay?”

“Of course, love,” he says and kisses you once more. “I bet Edgar would love a sleepover party, don't you think?”

You laugh softly. He winks at you, grabs his wand from beside your head and unlocks the door, before he leaves you alone in your bedroom, filled with his seed and the promise to give you even more. Lying back with a sigh, you close your eyes and shift against the wand handle between your legs.

Ending notes:

I almost feel the need to continue this and build a whole ass story around it. I mean, imagine a 30-something Professor Sallow, teaching Magical Theory, stepping into Fig's footsteps, teaching and inspiring young minds. And then when he's home, he has his cute little children (who'll attend Hogwarts soon-ish) and his loving wife and oh the potential this has! (But we'll see. Maybe I'll just drop a little more snippets of life with Dad!Seb in the future, who knows.) (Psst! Part two just dropped! Look!)

(By the way: The names of his kids are kindly borrowed from @subastian-swallows who made a Dad!Seb-bot whose prompt alone inspired me to write this!)

Oh and that wand handle... is this one, just for reference, if you need it.

Also, maybe a little disclaimer: I am not a mother and never intend to be one, but this mf of a pixel boy makes me indulge in things I never considered before, so I hope my attempt at portraying a family was somewhat realistic.

Thank you for reading!

Btw:

THERE'S A SECOND PART NOW!!!

[ masterlist ]

Other Kinktober submissions:

Pleasant dreams... and tentacles (somnophilia, tentacles)

A scholar and a pervert (overstimulation, sex toys)

The horny ghost (voyeurism, masturbation, spectrophilia)

It belongs to me (deepthroating, semi-public)

A Filthy Fantasy (1/2) (cnc, bondage, sensory deprivation, orgasm denial)

A Filthy Fantasy (2/2) (threesome, oral/vaginal/anal)

#sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow smut #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy smut #kinktober #sebastian sallow x reader #smut #reader insert #sebastian sallow x you

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aspirationalpeony · 4 months

Text

Quit Playin' Games (With My Heart)

Summary: While you're trying to puzzle out the mysterious Ms. Schemmenti, Janine invites you to a dinner party--at Melissa's house. Board games, bonding, and lasagna... What could go wrong? (See author's note at the end for prompt credit.) Content Warnings: A brief paragraph discussing homophobia. AO3 Link

Does Melissa Schemmenti like you?

You've got everyone else figured out. Janine would befriend an electrical pole if it had a smiley face stapled to it; Jacob befriends anyone Janine befriends. Gregory stays a little aloof, but he's been warming up the more you show him your LEGO sets. Barbara--well, she sees you as another one of the kids, you think, but you know she appreciates your self-sufficiency, tolerates you with a smile when you're in the conversation. And Ava is... Ava.

Melissa? Who knows? She called you by the wrong name the first month you were at Abbott, knowingly, watching your face with a wry twist to her mouth, waiting for you to take the bait. When you didn't, you earned your name back. She started making dry comments to you, like "You got enough glitter glue there, Martha Stewart?" as you passed her in the hall, arms full of art supplies. She saw you struggling with the copy machine one day and said, "Here," giving it a swift kick that brought it wheezing to life, but followed up with, "Thought your generation was good with tech. What do we keep you around for, huh?"

After those backhands you'd be in a spin, wondering and confused; then later that day or the day after she'd say something else, like, "Hey, not bad, shortstop," when you got something off a high shelf for her (why shortstop when you’re taller than her? Reverse psychology?), or "Good job on lunch duty. They didn't kill ya," and you'd go warm all over and your confusion would deepen and all you would think was: does she like me or not?

You’re just not sure. So you try not to listen the day they’re all in the break room, talking about a party at Melissa’s house. You can’t help but overhear snatches—Janine insisting she’ll bring lasagna, Jacob saying he’ll do dessert, Melissa saying “oh, brother” and Barbara assuring her gently, a smile in her voice, “And I’ll bring the wine”—but you keep your head down over your lunch and turn the page of your lesson plan and ignore them until Janine realizes, suddenly, that the room isn’t empty, that you’re at the table just next to them, and burbles, “Hey, you should come, too!”

Your eyes go to Melissa right away. She glances up over her cat-eye glasses and her look is inscrutable.

“Oh,” you say, “um, I don’t know. I have, like, a thing—“

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!” Janine says. “We’ll eat some amazing food—“ she flicks a curl over her shoulder, playing at an Ava-like preen—“we’ll play board games, we’ll bond…”

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding!” Janine looks imploringly at her friends. “Right?”

“Yeah,” Melissa says at last, still looking at you. Your heart thumps. “You should come.”

And that’s how you end up here: Melissa’s house. You crossed the welcome mat reading GO AWAY, a cheesecake in your hands, and tried not to make it obvious how badly you wanted to stare around yourself, scrutinize every photo and every piece of furniture, trying to get a window onto this woman you can’t figure out. Everyone’s piled onto the couch or onto chairs, plastic creaking under them as they lean forward to the table to swipe a snack or their glass of wine, and there’s an open box, a few stacks of cards.

“I found this amazing get-to-know-you game,” Janine declares, sliding down to sit on Mel’s carpeted floor. “So, you spin the spinner, right, and whatever it lands on, you take a card with the same color, and then you ask the question that’s on it, and everybody answers, and—“

“How do you win?” Melissa says. She’s holding a glass of wine, its rim printed with her pink lipstick. She’s got her hair in a ponytail that leaves lots of little curls hanging everywhere. She’s wearing a tank top. These details feel incredibly important; you try not to think about them.

“Oh, uh…” Janine frowns at the instruction booklet. “I don’t think you win.”

“What’s the point of a game if nobody wins?” Melissa leans over to the coffee table, grabs a grape off a serving plate, pops it into her mouth. She glances over at Barbara, who’s perched very straight-backed in a plastic-covered armchair, nursing a little bit of wine.

“I, for one,” Jacob says, “think competition is over-valued in our society. American individualism—"

“Just spin it, Janine,” Barbara says.

Beaming at the approval of her mentor, Janine spins. She plucks a blue card: “What’s your favorite sexual—“ her eyes widen. “Uh.”

“Oh, this just got interestin’,” Melissa says, and sits up straighter.

“Let me take another one.” Janine puts that card aside. “Have you ever had a threes—okay, no. Are they all like this?”

Gregory, a silent presence sitting stiffly alongside Janine, turns over a card from the green and red piles. He reads one: “How do you like your partner to style their pubic hair?” Then, the red: “Confess to a sexual fantasy you’ve had about… A member of the group.” The questions sound even more bizarre in his level voice, although his lifted eyebrows and widened eyes telegraph his discomfort. His gaze darts to Janine, then away.

“Janine, what’s the name of this game, please,” Barbara says, looking as though she’s one syllable from combustion.

Janine lifts the lid of the box. “Adult Dinner Party. But I thought, you know, adult dinner party, a classy kind of—oh.”

Jacob picks up a blue card gingerly and turns it over. “Have you ever had sex in a public place?”

“I have,” you say. Every face in the room turns toward you. Your cheeks heat. Your eyes flicker between each incredulous look. “What? We’re supposed to answer them, aren’t we?”

“This just got interestin’,” Melissa repeats. There’s a strange look on her face, not quite amusement; you wonder if it’s respect. “Me, too.”

“Melissa!” Barbara gasps.

“What? You never got fingered in a dark ride at an amusement park?”

Barbara stands up with her wine and walks out of the room, muttering to herself. Glances pass between the rest of you. The corner of Melissa’s mouth curves up. “Spin again,” she says.

The next few questions are mercifully tamer: do you think French kissing is overrated, what’s one thing you’ll never do for a partner? More wine is poured, Melissa going around and topping off each glass, saying to Gregory and Janine, “Lighten up a little, will you?” Eventually she comes to sit on the floor with everyone else, four people around the coffee table. She’s picked a spot right at your side, your knees bumping, thighs aligned.

“Is Barbara okay?” you ask. You can smell her perfume; it’s spicy and floral and it makes you feel tipsier than you are.

“Oh, she’ll be fine,” Melissa says. “You don’t wanna know how many of my parties she’s walked out of. Hey, Barb!” She bellows it close to your ear, making you wince; it’s followed by a twinge of peculiar affection that so much volume can come from one little woman. “Check the lasagna, will ya!”

There’s an indistinct answer from the other room, full of barely-contained irritation. Melissa slugs back another swallow of wine as Jacob flicks the spinner.

He draws a card and reads, “Have you ever kissed a member of the same sex? Oh, well—obviously.”

Gregory and Janine shake their heads.

Melissa says, “Listen, what happens in cheer squad stays in cheer squad, alright,” to scandalized gasps from her audience. She looks at you. “How about you? No girls, huh?”

You’re arrested by her green gaze so close, the wine on her breath, the question itself. You start to tell her, yes, plenty of girls, but you’re blushing again, embarrassed, all your bravado from earlier draining away into the floorboards.

“Here,” she says, and leans in. You register the thought Holy shit in the moment before her lips touch yours. Her nose brushes your cheek. Her mouth is very soft and a hot breath puffs over you in the instant before she delicately parts her lips and you feel the sweet flick of her tongue. She leans back again. “Now you’ve kissed a girl.”

“Melissa!” Janine says, outraged, bewildered.

“I bet Ava would have come, if she’d known it was this kind of party,” Jacob mumbles to the bowl of pretzels in front of him.

“I’m going to go check on Barbara,” Gregory says, his shellshocked eyes firmly on the ground as he gets up.

“Hey, I’ll come with you,” Janine says, all nerves, “maybe the lasagna needs more parm,” and scrambles up after him.

Melissa’s pouring herself the last of the wine. She’s smiling to herself. You don’t get it: what was that for? Was it bait, like your name, like the ribbing comments, trying to get a rise out of you? Or maybe just out of the people around you—trying to be the most shocking in the room? You stare, trying to read the look of satisfaction on her face.

"I'll--the bathroom," you say, and get to your feet. "'Scuse me."

You've got kind of an idea where it is. The problem, you realize, is that you have to cut through the kitchen to get there. It's savory-smelling, rich with tomato scent, and full of furious whispering that dies instantly as you cross the threshold; Janine, intently grating parmigiano into a bowl, gives you a guilty look as Gregory quickly parts from her side. Barbara is at the island counter, maybe only half-participating, but she looks at you, too, and you know they've told her.

You feel it all over again: these are people who've had years to get to know each other. Who are you to them? Not really a friend, just a colleague, half-acquaintance. You're the new invitee, the odd one out, and even though it was Melissa that kissed you, you'll be the one who gets the blame for the ruined party, the awkwardness now swamping Mel's rowhouse. Your gut clenches. "Excuse me," you repeat and dart past them to the bathroom.

You run cold water from the tap and stick your wrists underneath the faucet, like you've got heatstroke. You wet your hands and press them to your cheeks, your neck, your nape, trying to quiet your thumping heart. You look in the mirror: there's a glazed look in your eye; you're conscious your lips are tingling. Why'd she do that?

You've been played with by straight women before. Not always out of conscious cruelty: some women, you've realized, are hungry for a kind of attraction that doesn't have fear and imbalance, and they can't always have that with men. They want to be wanted by someone they think won't hurt them, and they pick you--never thinking about what it does to your heart; never imagining that desire for a woman can be real, that it can mean anything to anyone.

Is that Melissa? She said that thing about the cheer squad. If she likes women, too, why would she mess with you? If she thinks you're straight, is she just trying to shock, the way she did Barb with that dirty answer about fingering, needling at what she thinks are your reservations and limitations? Because that's what she does, what she's been doing. Poking and poking, trying to get a rise. Should you have shouted? Should you have cried? What would satisfy her?

"Melissa Ann Schemmenti," you hear Barb say from the kitchen, muffled on the other side of the door. You freeze a moment, heart pounding all over again, then turn the water down to a trickle and inch toward the door, leaning closer. All you can hear are bits and pieces of what must be a thunderous lecture: "That girl... Well, I won't... You know that... Sweet, but... Learn to behave."

There's a sulky rumble in Mel's voice in answer.

You're going to have to go out there eventually. You listen a few more seconds, but if there's footsteps of people dispersing, or more conversation as they linger, you can't hear it. You resign yourself, turn off the water, dry off your hands. You give your cheeks a last press with your cold fingers, trying to ground yourself. You'll go out there and pretend it didn't happen. You'll make it through the night and see what happens tomorrow. That's all you can do.

Of course, you go out into the kitchen, and everyone else is gone, and Melissa's there.

She's frowning deeply and scrupulously wrapping the parmigiano in plastic. She says something under her breath; you catch a Sicilian curse and a "kids don't know..." When she hears the bathroom door click, her head goes up, and there's a moment, her eyes meeting yours, where she looks as nervous as you feel. She looks back down at the cheese, tightly sealing and wrapping its edges, then crosses to the big stainless fridge to put it away.

"Guess I scared you back there," she says. There's a challenge in her voice. Suddenly, your fear and loneliness uncoil; they spool out into anger. It's one thing to mess with you in words. You could call that friendliness, call it teasing. It's not fair to mess with you like this.

"You didn't scare me," you say. Your voice is stronger than you expected. Not loud, but sure. "I've kissed more girls than a cheer squad."

"Huh, look at you," Melissa says, "big player."

"What is your problem with me?"

The question catches her in the act of moving to the oven. She looks sharply at you--then away. There's something strangely un-Melissa about the act. She fiddles with the oven dial, then leans her hip against the counter and folds her arms over her chest. "Hon, if I had a problem with you, you'd know."

"Then what the hell was that?" You catch yourself starting to cross your arms, to mirror her, and lower them to your sides, where your hands clench tightly.

"I kissed ya." She lifts her chin and looks at you. "What, you didn't like it?"

Your anger wobbles; the question stumps you. "It--that doesn't--look, you've been doing this all year. Pushing me around. I don't get it. I didn't do anything to you. Maybe you think I'm annoying, or stupid, or--"

"Pushing you around?" Mel moves closer. Her voice gets a little tighter, a little louder. Her eyes glitter with challenge. "I invited you to my house."

"Yeah, you invited Jacob and Janine to your house, too."

"I don't like them the way I like you," she says, and freezes. You have a sense she's blurted something she didn't mean to say. It's stopped her right in the tracks of what she might have made an argument, draining the confidence out of her posture.

Your heart is thundering in your ears again. You replay that delicate, barely-there kiss: her face leaning toward yours, spicy scent of her perfume, wine on her breath, her green eyes, her soft, hot mouth. Her tongue. "What?" you say.

Her mouth twists. There's something faintly absurd about it, how it turns a grown woman toddleresque, and you get another pang of that strange affection from before, when she yelled right in your ear. It's strong enough to filter through your anger.

She shifts from foot to foot. With her shoes off in her own home, she suddenly looks half her usual height. Fondness washes against you. "Look," she says, "I'm forget-about-it years older'n you and I don't have time to play games, so--"

"This isn't playing games?"

She ducks her chin toward her chest. It's another gesture that's strangely unlike her. You hear Barbara's voice in your head: Melissa Ann Schemmenti... Learn to behave.

You move closer again. Her eyes flick up to yours and there's a sulky defiance in them, even when they drop briefly to your lips.

"Is this..." You don't know how to ask it. How do you ask Melissa Schemmenti do you want me in her own kitchen? "Melissa, what do you want?"

"C'mere," she says. She takes your chin in her grasp and brings you closer and kisses you again.

Wine, perfume, her skin. This time, it's not some playful schoolgirl thing. You can feel intention behind the slow press of her lips against yours. She lets it linger for a second, two, then leans back, looking into your eyes.

Whatever she sees has her turning you, your back against the counter, a hard line of granite. This time, you lean forward into her kiss. Her body presses into yours, all hips, soft belly, breasts. Her hands bracket your body against the edge of the countertop. Her way of deepening the kiss is to nip your lower lip and make you gasp, so that her tongue can flick into your mouth, brushing against yours and sending tingling ripples through your whole body.

You cup her jaw. She’s so, so warm. You slide a hand back and brush some of those loose, careless locks of red hair behind her ear. You kiss her and kiss her; when your tongue teases against hers, deliberately now, she makes a sound like a whimper that you feel head to toe, like a current of lightning passing through you, dispersing into the ground.

“So,” she says, with you securely pinned, flushed, breathing hard, “what do you think?”

What do you think? You go back in for another kiss. She chuckles against your mouth and can barely kiss you back for her smug smile. This time, it’s your kiss, not hers, and you explore exactly how you want to: sucking and nibbling her lower lip, licking into her mouth, your hands dropping to her waist, pulling her against you. She melts into you, and there’s a thunderous sense of power and desire in you, tied to how her arms come up to loop around your neck, how her spine softens and her body sways into yours.

When you’ve got your breath back, you ask her, “Should we go back out there?” You know you have to, but you don’t know how you’ll manage it. You’re sure you have this moment written all over your face, glassy-eyed and out of breath. Melissa does, too: her lipstick is smeared. “Maybe in a few minutes?”

“I think,” she says, “I should kick all of ‘em outta here, and you’n’me keep the game and the lasagna, and we have some fun.” Her hand drops, intervening between your body and the counter so she can firmly grab your ass. You squeak. “Huh?”

“I—I think that would be pretty rude.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” she says, though she doesn’t let go of your ass. “And they planned this whole thing for us, so…”

“Wait—” you lean back a little to get a clear picture of her face. “What?”

“Janine’s idea,” she says. “I found out after they invited you. They knew I thought you were cute—“

“You told them that?”

“Course I didn’t,” Melissa says, “I look like somebody who goes splashin’ their business everywhere? ‘Specially where Janine can hear it? I’ll tell you about what she did to me’n my sister some time. They figured it out on their own. I mighta been lookin’ at your ass at work.” She gives it a pinch.

“So the board game…” You frown.

“I think that was an accident for real.” Her face pinches in a frown. “‘Magine Janine tryin’ to get us to talk dirty to each other out there?” The frown vanishes and the leer she gives you makes you feel very, very naked. “We could talk dirty in here, if you wanna.”

“Okay,” you say, “I think we have to go serve dinner.” If you let her keep going, you don’t know if you’ll have the will to stop her. You hear the next thought in her voice: What? You never got fingered in a kitchen with all your coworkers right outside? “Wait—“ your brow creases. “Did Barbara seriously go along with this?”

Melissa clears her throat. “She didn’t know at first—and then, I wanted her here, y’know, in case, uh…”

“Things went badly?” you supply. Melissa pinks. You smile at the sweet strangeness of it. “Were you guys going to drink a bottle of wine so you could… Mope about me?”

“I wasn’t gonna mope about ya,” Mel says, “because I knew you weren’t gonna turn me down, and you’d be an idiot if you did, so.”

“I would,” you agree, and have to go back in for another kiss, two, three. “I would be an idiot,” you murmur against her.

“Okay,” she says when you can finally stop kissing her, “okay.” She gives your ass a slap that makes you gasp. Her eyes narrow, cataloguing that response, and her smirk, of course, resurfaces. “You take the lasagna out of the oven. I gotta fix my lipstick.” She steps away, and pauses. “You might wanna…” She gestures to her mouth.

You rub your tingling lips and your fingers come away with the pink of her lipstick. Your face heats.

“Or keep it,” Melissa says, “looks good on you,” and she gives a preening toss of her high ponytail as she turns away to the bathroom.

You watch her go, her hips swaying as she moves. You have a sense of the world tilted on its axis: all that teasing and game-playing—because she likes you? More than likes you—wants you? Janine inviting you, Jacob and Gregory playing along—because they really do care? Barbara scolding Melissa in this kitchen—because she wants her best friend to treat you right?

You find a napkin and scrub the lipstick off your mouth. Each step you take across the kitchen feels like levitation, an inch or two above the floor. You check the lasagna. There’s two: one big lasagna, and another small, plain one for Gregory. You lift each casserole dish out of the oven, and they smell better than ever in a house full of friends.

You cross to the doorway and peek out into the living room. “Lasagna’s ready,” you say to the four faces that turn to yours, and you know you’re smiling like an idiot, but you can’t help it.

Janine bounces up. “I can’t wait for you to tryyyy itttttt,” she sing-songs. “I learned from the best!”

Barbara passes you to find plates and ready the table. She gives your arm a little pat as she goes—the first time she’s ever touched you. You feel a Janine-like burst of effervescence at the thought that Melissa’s best friend approves.

Melissa reappears. She picks up a cutter for each lasagna, an armful of cloth napkins, another bottle of wine. Jacob and Gregory gather the glasses from the coffee table. You stick your hands back into the oven mitts to carry each dish in.

As everybody gets settled in, pulling out chairs, Janine proudly adding her bowl of grated parmigiano to the table (“just in case!” she burbles), you catch Melissa’s eye. She’s looking at you, a soft fondness in the gaze; the tender creases at the corners of her eyes make your chest squeeze around your heart, which feels three, four times as large as it was before.

“What do you think?” you ask the table. “Should we bring over the cards?”

Your friends laugh. Barbara shakes her head and rolls her eyes. Melissa Schemmenti, looking at you, smiles.

-- -- -- -- -- -- --

Author's Note:

My next fic was intended to be a sadder hurt/comfort fic, but I received the following prompt from @morgana-larkin:

I love your first fic and I wanted to know if you could do one more on the fun side. Where the whole group goes to either Melissa or reader’s place for game night and they all end up playing truth or dare while drunk and someone dares one of them to kiss the other. Then after everyone leaves the two of them end up admitting their feelings. Thank you!

I did make some tweaks to the premise to suit my storytelling style, which I hope is okay. I did my best to honor this fun and lovely prompt. Thank you so much!

#melissa schemmenti #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti x reader

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moonshine-nightlight · 7 months

Text

Nothing's Wrong with Dale: Part Thirty-One

It’s been a week, but you’re fairly certain your fiancé accidentally got himself replaced by an eldritch being from the Depths. Deciding that he’s certainly not worse than your original fiancé, you endeavor to keep the engagement and his new non-human state to yourself.

However, this might prove harder than you originally thought.

Fantasy, arranged marriage, malemonsterxfemalereader, M/F

AO3: Nothing’s Wrong with Dale Chapter 31

[Part One][Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six] [Part Seven] [Part Seven.5][Part Eight] [Part Nine] [Part Ten] [Part Eleven] [Part Twelve] [Part Thirteen] [Part Fourteen] [Part Fifteen] [Part Sixteen] [Part Seventeen] [Part Eighteen] [Part Nineteen] [Part Twenty] [Part Twenty-One] [Part Twenty-Two][Part Twenty-Three] [Part Twenty-Four][Part Twenty-Five] [Part Twenty-Six] [Part Twenty-Seven] [Part Twenty-Eight] [Part Twenty-Nine] [Part Thirty] Part Thirty-One [Part Thirty-Two] [Part Thirty-Three] [Part Thirty-Four]

You walk back to your ready chambers as quickly as you can without drawing notice, ducking to hide the smile on your face when you pass a couple of servants. You open the doors to your dressing room and almost jump when you recall the number of those waiting anxiously for your return. Steward Bilmont is still there too, collapsed in a chair looking quietly morose while the maids hover in an anxious group near the fireplace. All turn to stare at you when you return.

You try to pull your expression back to something resembling neutrality as you stride over to your seat in front of your vanity. “All is well,” you say. “There will be no further confusion regarding the wedding.”

“Truly?” Bilmont asks, hope and disbelief in his voice. The maids seem similarly skeptical, but get back to work without a word. Luckily, it looks as though they had been making progress while you were gone—two additional trunks were packed.

“Yes,” you reply, “there was a misunderstanding.” Which was certainly an understatement, but the most honest explanation you could provide with others present. “It has been straightened out. The wedding is going forward as planned.”

Bilmont threw his hands up. “Thank the light! I didn’t know what—” He cut himself off before he said anything further, merely shaking his head in unarticulated dismay.

You allow him the moment to gather himself, occupying yourself with the lace Miss Adir is laying out for you. However, he continues to linger and so after a look from Mrs Dearden, you turn back to the steward. “I’m sure you have other duties to return to, Steward Bilmont.”

Bilmont meets your eyes, blinking as if suddenly realizing where he is. Hastily he gets to his feet. “Yes, my lady, of course.”

You shake your head in amusement as he hurries out the door before turning back to the mirror and letting your maids finish dressing you. It’s mostly flourishes now, lace cuffs and collar mantle, the jewelry your mother provided. The veil re-purposed from Dale’s mother’s is still carefully arranged on a form, you’ll put that on last.

You still feel somewhat in shock, happy shock, but shock nevertheless. Dale didn’t know you knew what he was, but he does now. He wants to marry you. He’d said you were one of the reasons he stayed here, as Dale. He called you ‘exemplary’. And to think only an hour ago you’d been convinced everything had fallen to pieces. Instead you’re finally, finally, on the same page.

With that reassurance, more of your nerves have melted away, leaving you feeling eager anticipation for the beginning this wedding truly is.

“Are you alright, my lady?” Miss Adir asks tentatively as she helps to make sure the lace insert is sitting correctly over your collarbones. No doubt she must have questions about what happened and what sort of confrontation there might have been, even if she is too professional to ask.

“Hm?” You blink yourself back to the present moment. “Oh yes.” You feel a smile grow on your face, unable to be contained. You can find little reason to try to contain it. “I’m very well indeed.”

-/-

Some of those nerves return as you wait in the small ready room to make your entrance into the main hall of the monsacrin, where the spiritual ceremony will take place prior to the legal one. You’re dreading this one more as it involves the most pageantry and the most people. Certainly all guests will be at the wedding luncheon, but you will not be on display in the same manner.

Even the buoyancy of your conversation with Dale had lent you is diminishing as you imagine all the ways in which you might make a fool of yourself. Your fears for Dale too are not insubstantial. You had been pushing those concerns to the side because there wasn’t much you could do to help—the wedding had to take place here, but how would the sacred affect him? He’d been fine during the rehearsal and the few common ceremonies you’d attended over the last few weeks, but…

You’d seen a sanctif nearly reveal him, not to mention Grandfather’s holy water attempt. He is certainly capable of being hurt by it. But to what degree? Both Sanctif Ellon and Dr. Louisa proved detection methods could be used successfully upon him, although not perfectly. Especially if he was forewarned and able to prepare as you’d seen with the sanctif. Hopefully, with the ceremony so straightforwardly laid out over the past few days, Dale will have prepared himself. Right?

Of course, he’d called off the wedding. He’d spent at least part of today thinking it wasn’t happening. How long had he been planning that? He’d been acting a bit strangely over the past few days, but ultimately the decision had seemed impulsive to you. He’d seemed as if leaving Northridge was his next move and yet, he’d clearly not been packed beyond for your wedding trip. The box he’d been filling with books and other items in his study had obviously been items he wanted with him, but would have been sent ahead to your next destination and so we’re prepared.

The swell of music, woodwinds and strings, interrupted your thoughts to let you know Dale had likely entered the monsacrin. He’d come from the right to walk to the middle. You’ve heard some merchant and peasant families had those who were to be wed enter at the same time given family status didn’t have the hold it had on the nobility. However, since you were joining the Northridge family, you’d enter second to stand with him instead of the reverse.

Miss Adir hands you your bouquet as the melody changes. The door in front of you opens, letting in the brilliant morning sunlight. Your practice of the ceremony was all that prevented you from squinting in the face of all that light. Light was the most important aspect of Solennity and monsacrins had as much glass as they could and stay standing. It was traditional for weddings to take place in morning light, to signify new beginnings, and were held in the eastern hall accordingly. Sunlight streamed in, half blinding you as you walked down the left aisle, which cut at a diagonal through the seated guests to the dias against that eastern wall of glass.

Once your eyes adjust, you keep them focused on the center altar, with its backing of colorful stained glass since its easier to look at, and where Dale waits for you. Gone is the more casual red waistcoat he had on in the study. Instead, the luxurious dark blue velvet that he’d selected nearly a month ago has been turned into a lovely suit. His overcoat is rich and plush, embroidered with detailed gold designs that are similar to those on his waistcoat. His trousers are the same color and disappear into polished black boots. The white of his shirt contrasts well and helps lighten the outfit. Even his hair ribbon is white, holding back his dark hair, except those styled in the front. He looks beautiful.

You try not to think about all the guests staring at you and focus only on Dale, only on being careful not to step on the hem of your dress or drop your flowers. The music swells appropriately until you’re stepping up the single step to where you’ll start the ceremony, next to Dale.

Now that you’re closer and not so dazzled by the light, you can make out more of his expression. He looks down at you with a sort of proud awe that you admire given he’s already seen your dress and even your hair more than half done only an hour or so ago. Perhaps you haven’t been giving him enough credit for his ability to act. He is right in that no one else, beyond a few servants, knows over his nature. You smile up at him, more in relief and out of nerves than much else, but there’s also some awe, that you’re really here, that he’s really here—that it's all happening.

As the final notes play out, you carefully lean forward to place your bouquet in the vase to your side, the flowers a gift to the monsacrin and so your hands can be free for the rest of the ceremony.

The sanctif walks up, giving the opening prayer for a wedding. He stands between you on the next step up and his apprentice joins him, her movements as smooth as in rehearsal earlier in the week. She hands the sanctif the ribbon chosen—blue and gold braided together—and he starts the prayer of unity.

“Today we join together these two humble petitioners who seek to unify their lives in marriage,” he proclaims. That is your cue, and Dale’s, and you both remove a glove—your right and his left. The apprentice sanctif takes your gloves while the sanctif continues, “As such endeavors are not to be taken lightly given their grave importance and profound influence on the times ahead, we so bind them.”

You both reach out and carefully entwine your fingers together in a tight handclasp. The sanctif continues to speak as he winds the braided ribbon around your hands, but you barely hear his words. Instead your focus is on the steadiness of Dale’s hand, the moderate temperature of his skin, the way your arms overlap in order to keep your hands securely together. Your sleeves are short, but his are not. The sensation of the luscious velvet brushing against your skin is lovely. You can’t help but look up to see his eyes—only two at the moment, thank the stars—to find them already fixed upon you.

His gaze seems cautious until yours meets it, at which point his eyes crinkle in their corners to reflect the smile that blooms so naturally. Without thought, you mirror the gesture.

The music swells as the sanctif proclaims and you focus yourself back onto the ceremony itself, so you do not embarrass yourself by being caught unawares. You accept the candle holder from the attendant easily, the gold quickly warming in your hands. It’s simple white taper is unlit. Dale accepts an identical one as the sanctif recalls the story of humanity’s ascent from unintelligent darkness to enlightenment.

He paces the half-circle step, speaking to you and the audience, before he climbs to his place behind the elevated altar. He holds his hands up, supplicating, and begins to recite the marital prompts. “Do you approach this altar of light deliberately and of sound mind, willing and able, to join in sacred commitment to one another?”

“I do,” you chorus with Dale. He’d said with you for balance, he’d not need his cane, and yet the first step up makes you nervous that you’ll both fall, as if you’ve never climbed a set of stairs before.

“You may approach,” the sanctif replies.

You and Dale advance, you careful given your skirts and Dale careful given his balance. You reach the step with little difficulty, feeling almost foolish over how nervous you are, but the reminder of the low level of actual challenge doesn’t help.

“Do you approach this altar of light with honesty, loyalty, and fidelity in your hearts?”

“I do.” Perhaps that vow was what had started Dale on his doubts. The first rehearsal had been the day you returned to Northridge and you’d each gotten pamphlets explaining the ceremony, for all your responses were minimal and repetitive.

“Do you approach this altar of light for the purpose of commitment, of unity, of harmony?”

“I do.” this is the vow you’re unsure if you would have meant with the original Dale. It would have been hard to reach any sort of harmony with him. You don’t have any such fears with Dale.

“Do you approach this altar of light with full faith in the enduring union you seek to forge, with no intention of end or fragility, with confidence and perseverance?”

“I do.” With your conversation this morning, you have no reservations or worries with your reply here either. Still, the sound of Dale’s deep voice in concert with you helps reassure you of his words, as does the feeling of his now-warm hand in yours, his body next to you. He’s not going anywhere.

You’ve both reached the altar and the sanctif smiles at you reassuringly, before he looks past you to those gathered behind you. His voice goes out to them, imploring, “Do any here know what might prevent this union? Do any here have any reason to disbelieve the proclamations made by those who seek to join together?”

There is a pause after his voice fades out in which you find it immensely hard to breathe, before the collective response comes, “We do not.”

“As your humble delegate, I implore the light to bless these two with the union they seek.” The sanctif turns from the altar to the fire behind him, which every monsacrin has lit at all times. Carefully, he lit the oak rod in his hand from its flames and with that, lit the large candle on the altar.

The sanctif speaks on the virtues of marriage while he prepares the sacred cup, announcing the virtue of each herb he adds to the holy water held in its vessel above the candle. Truly, the fire was not enough to heat the drink by much, but it was symbolic of using light and heat to purify. You hope that Dale can drink it with ease. You’d taken note of the herbs at the last rehearsal and found most to be either without cause for worry or with little information to rely on. What flexibility there was with the recipe you took advantage of, except for juniper, which had to be included—and the book had specifically recommended that for purification.

“Drink from this holy vessel,” the sanctif says, carefully lifting the overlarge cup, truly more of a bowl, for you. “As is internal, so may be external. Light within, light without.”

You’d practiced this too. Dale drinks first, as the higher partner so to speak. As he leans down, he’s careful not to drop his candle nor your hand.

Your eyes are intent on his face in what you hope is common attention for your fiance, but he seems no worse for wear. His mild grimace easily attributed to what you know to be the bitter flavor of the drink. Once he straightens, you mirror him, leaning down to take a drink yourself. At least the ceremonial cup closer to you height—the sanctif can only lean so far over the altar with it. Bitter, tart, and herbal, the flavors coat your mouth and the water flows quickly down your throat. You’re grateful to have tasted it before so you don’t cough.

Gentle windwood instruments play at odds with the powerful taste in your mouth. They swell around you as everyone sings a verse of gratitude. The sanctif uses his sprinklers, dunking them in the ceremonial cup now that you had each taken a drink. He hands the bigger one to his apprentice for the group below. With another prayer, he sprinkles holy water over yourself and Dale. Your eyes dart to Dale and notice the way his head is bowed in imitation of piety keeps his face at an angle that lessens the chance of holy water hitting it. He already drank it, but on impulse you turn over your hands, arms only slightly more awkwardly placed, so that your clasped hand is up and his is below.

Dale gives your hand a grateful squeeze as you see a few drops land on the back of your hand. Luckily, the sanctif’s blessing over you does not last long and he carefully puts the vessel away while his apprentice continues with the crowd.

“Blessed and enlightened in our souls, I bid you now to light the symbol of your devotion,” he intones. Dutifully you and Dale light your candles from the larger one simultaneously.

Now comes the more difficult part: carrying the lit candles back down and turning with your hands still bound. You don’t care if you’re not as elegant as some you’ve seen in the past at the very few weddings you’ve attended. You keep your gaze firmly on your feet and Dale as the sanctif at last bids you to turn to away from the altar. “Do you depart this altar of light with determination to face life's hardships together?”

Your hold on Dale’s hand tightens as you turn your head, nerves and fear lancing through you unbidden by the crowd and the height. Dale takes the extra strain easily, skillfully stepping down and to the side with enough deliberate slowness you are able to follow him and remember your official response. “We do.”

Your voice is shaky, but Dale’s is clear and the sanctif does not ask you to repeat yourself. You’ve heard tell of sanctifs who demanded repetitions or even those who required a sentence response, re-framing the question. You are so very thankful you’re able to follow the simpler pattern.

“Do you depart this altar of light with persistence in the face of afflictions of the body?”

“We do.” You take another step down, allowing the floor of the step above to keep your hemline free of your shoes. At the very first wedding you attended, this was the vow you were convinced no one would be able to pledge to you.

“Do you depart this altar of light with compassion for the tumultuous emotions of the heart?”

Another oath that you would not have believed coming from the original Dale. His compassion was lacking and his tolerance for others emotions was minimal to say the least. This Dale surprises you still with his attention to your comfort and happiness. “We do.”

“Do you depart this altar of light with steadfastness against the complications of the mind?”

You chance a glance straight ahead this time, as you are meant to be doing the entire descent, and regret it. So many people staring at you as you walk down steep steps while holding fire. Whoever designed this wedding ceremony had best ascended far far away. You hastily look back down. “We do.”

“Do you depart this altar of light to serve your community and your kin with the attention duty and obligation require?”

“We do.” You are now back on the proper floor of the hall, lower than where you started on the first step. You’ve never been so grateful to the ground before. Why had it been so much worse than rehearsals?

“Do you, the gathered community, accept these vows made here in the light?”

Perhaps it was the audience, who again need an additional second to respond that makes your knuckles lighten as your grip tightens with anticipation. “We do.”

The stringed instruments join the lighter and quieter wood-winds, a masterful solo that allows you to regain your breath, for all you’d not been exerting yourself physically. You catch Callalily’s eyes in the second row and she smiles encouragingly.

When the music dies down again, the sanctif speaks, “Reward this faith in you with the gift of your abundance and illumination.”

You cross the stone floor to the first line of benches with perfect synchronicity, Dale shortening his long strides to match your own.

You light Grandmother and Grandfather’s candles with Dale. Grandmother’s eyes are misty as she smiles at you with joy. Grandfather’s smile is more tinged with relief when he looks at you both. Soon they turn to light the candles of the ones around them, who will turn to do the same. Once all the candles in the first row of benches are light, you and Dale blow out each other’s candles.

The music speeds up as the light spreads to everyone’s far smaller candles and soon reaches the cue for everyone who’s candle is lit to kneel. The wave of people kneeling continues until all are knelt, anyone too young to hold a candle pulled down by attentive parents.

You turn back to the sanctif, who’s descended to be only a step above the main floor. Dale guides your turn and approach until it is your turn to kneel as well, your concentration on how you do so in your more elaborate than usual skirt given your lack of free hands.

The sanctif’s speech on marriage is well-enough, he’d given you an overview earlier in the week, but you can’t focus much on his words. You can’t even ruminate on the marriage you are about to begin, the future that is starting now. You can only focus on Dale. You’d think with him pressed so close you’d grow used to the feeling of his arm, his body, against yours, but you don’t. You only crave to have his arms wrapped firmly around you like they had those two precious times before. To feel his lips against yours for a more satisfying kiss. You hope the light and heat can be blamed for any heat in your cheeks as you try to keep your mind on the present and the ceremony.

Soon enough, the sanctif prompts you to present your candles, the holders careful designed to catch and flow the cooling wax. The sanctif dips his finger into the cooling wax of your candle and Dale’s simultaneously. Then he presses a dot of wax to the back of each of your hands, still bound together. “I now pronounce you wed. You may seal the union with a kiss.”

You turn back to Dale, his eyes lit by more than the many candles and the sunlight streaming through the windows. Luckily, you don’t think anyone else will even notice as he leans down to press a gentle kiss to your lips.

Don’t go, you can’t help but lament in your mind as you try with your will to keep him close to you. Dale remembers your audience at least. As he straightens, pulling away from you, he lifts your joined hands in to signify the sealed union. It feels more like a victory salute to you. Victory to have gotten here, to have this ceremony complete, to have Dale joined to you. To be together.

After a final blessing with holy water sprinkled over your heads, you carefully get back to your feet. While the rest of the attendees join the instruments in song, they keep their candles lit so that the center aisle you depart down is lit from all sides.

It’s considered back luck to undo the ribbon until out of the hall. You and Dale depart down the center aisle, hands still bound together.

[Part Thirty-Two]

#my writing #story: nothing's wrong with dale #dale #story part #monster romance #nothing's wrong with dale #terato #exphilia #monster bf #male monster #reader #slow burn #osha compliant #i'm never inventing my own wedding ceremony again #hope you enjoyed it!#dont think about how much of a fire hazard this would b lmao #wedding time #anyone else getting thirsty?#;)

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hbyrde36 · 3 months

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I saw an old broken down Winnebago on my way home from work today, and then this happened. Enjoy!

Pieces of Memory

Rating: G | WC: 934 | Open Ending | AO3 link

After the “earthquake" Steve made arrangements to have the RV brought back to his house for safekeeping.

They probably should have returned it to its owners, but the trailer park had been cut down the middle by one of the fissures, and no one knew what had happened to the couple they’d stolen it from. What he didn’t say to anyone was that even if they had been able to locate the owners, Steve never planned on giving up the Winnebago.

As silly as it sounded it was the only thing he had left of Eddie now—that, and a vest he’d never gotten the opportunity to give back. The only evidence that Eddie had existed in the same place as him for a while. That it had all been real. A tangible piece of memory.

In the months after Vecna, while they attempted to regroup and waited with bated breath to see if Max would ever wake up, Steve spent long hours painstakingly restoring the RV to its original condition. For no other reason than as an excuse to spend more time in the vehicle than was probably healthy.

No one but Robin understood why Steve was having so much trouble moving on. Even he himself felt a little stupid about how broken up he was about the loss, when he and Eddie had shared so little. A lingering glance here, a few casual touches there, and exactly one heated kiss in that very same RV, during a rare moment alone when the crackling something between them had, for a moment, reached a critical level.

They should have had more.

More time, more touch, more kisses, more everything.

But it had all been taken—stolen by Vecna and that fucking place.

When it was all done, when there wasn’t a single screw left to tighten or a surface to polish, Steve fired up the engine, having long since taught himself the fine art of hotwiring. He probably could have acquired a spare key without raising any eyebrows, even this far from the unexplained events of Spring, Hawkins was in turmoil and chaos, no dealership would have batted an eye about a replacement key, but this way felt more appropriate.

He’d left a note on the kitchen counter for Robin, with another enclosed for her to give to Dustin in the event that he didn't make it back, knowing she would come looking for him eventually when he was no longer home to answer her calls. He didn’t dare tell her his plan ahead of time. She’d have either stopped him, or insisted on going with him and he wasn’t willing to risk anyone else.

It was something that had been weighing on him ever since they’d been forced to leave Eddie’s body behind. In the moment it had seemed like the right thing to do, the only thing to do, but he couldn’t stop thinking about how they had left him there alone to rot.

Until now he’d had something else to focus on, a project to keep his mind occupied and distracted, and yes there may have been some alcohol involved in his decision making but he just had this feeling that if he could bring Eddie back–or at the very least give him a proper burial in the Upside Down if he was too deteriorated to be moved–then maybe Steve could finally let him go.

He drove the RV to Forest Hills and parked as close as he dared to the big crack in the ground that extended out from Eddie’s trailer. When El brought Max back to life the fissures had halted their progress and become nothing more than holes in the ground, but the gates had remained open, as far as they knew.

He entered the house carefully and sure enough the ceiling was adorned with a pulsing red membrane. The opening was smaller than he remembered, but not so much that he couldn’t get through.

He took a page out of Dustin's book and poked through it with the end of a broom handle, conveniently left behind from the last time they had all been there. When he could see through to the other side he dragged the coffee table over, giving him enough of a step up that he could grab the edges of the opening and hoist himself through.

He’d almost forgotten the way gravity flipped when passing from this dimension to the next, and he was thankful not to have an audience for his less than graceful landing. He was also grateful that the old mattress was still laid out on the other side, cushioning his fall.

Steve ran right to the spot where he had found Dustin sitting, crying as he held on to Eddie, already gone still and cold, and found it—empty.

Apart from the dried remnants of blood that had pooled underneath Eddie as he bled out, there was no trace of a body. Even if he had been taken, defiled by some creature there would have been evidence, right? Some flesh or bones to mark the spot where his beautiful boy’s life had ended.

Maybe he had the wrong spot.

He was sure, he was almost sure he didn’t, but he could not go back empty handed without knowing he had searched thoroughly.

He trudged around the area for what felt like hours, making wider and wider sweeps as he went.

He had just about given up hope, preparing himself to return home a failure when he heard a familiar voice speak up from behind him.

“Oh, sweetheart. You really shouldn’t be here.”

#steddie fanfic #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington/eddie munson #steddie fic #fanfic #open ending

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yaut-jaknowit · 2 months

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I love ur writing so much like 😻 ur stories are like the best I’ve seen.

Anywaysss simple request I think ?

Human female hunter , is a part of a clan on yautja prime, known for their skill with staffs/spears, is respected amongst many other hunters, while also owning a rather big snake that hangs out on readers neck/body a lot, good use for poisoning the prey, Gawtin caught word of the said reader is rather curious of her. Later on Gawtin runs into reader hunting on a planet that reader kills a queen xeno. (Reader wears xenomorph skin as armor to protect themselves from their acidic blood) and Gawtin has catched feeling for said reader

Venom

Pairing: Gawtin (female Yautja) x F!Reader

Word Count: 3755 (not ten but seven, close enough)

Summary: Born to human parents yet found by a female Yautja who raised you as her own wasn't destiny. Life finds away. Raised to be a hunter from the moment you could crawl, you sought out the life as a warrior. You grew to the top and live amongst other hunters. Gawtin hears your name in rumors and couldn't help her curious nature to hunt you down.

Author Note: Even if it was a simple request, I never make it easy on myself. I'll write ten pages for a two sentence ask.

P.s. Heads up, I'm on the other side of the US right now for a vacation. I'll try to get another post out this week but I can't promise anything. I'll be sipping soda and relaxing in either a pool or a beach. Thanks for your patience!

Masterlist

Ao3

Different clans will specialize in different fighting styles. They have to. They have to adapt to the path craved for them in this universe. Spears are known mostly along the fishing and jungle clans. Bows are also used within the jungle clans and the forest. Machetes for the forest. As for those who live on the freezing poles, traps are their chosen weapon.

In the one of the clans that resides in along the coasts, a ooman lives within a species that hunts them. To hear of such news was jolting. Yet intrigued the moss green Yautja. Let alone, rumor has it the ooman has a pet of their own.

Though, not from Yautja Prime, the creature was rather deadly with one single bite. Enough venom could take down a fully grown Yautja. No wonder the ooman has such a pet under its care. Yautja Prime was a dangerous place, even to its native inhabitants. Everyone is born with the instinct to sleep with one eye open. The ooman had to use what it had to survive on such a planet.

This ooman, from word of mouth, is respected amongst her clan. A ooman with respect from a Yautja, let alone a clan size. However did she accomplish this? Gawtin prayed to Paya for the chance their paths to cross.

Paya is merciful to answer a prayer once in a while.

The atmosphere that struck you in the face was similar to the lands you called home. Warm, hot, high humidity barreled down on your form the moment the ramp lowered. You breathed in through your mask for the semi fresh air that filtered in.

This was a hunt you’ve trained long and hard for. Years upon years of harsh, tiring workouts that had you collapsing onto furs at the end of it. Only to wake up hours later to rinse and repeat.

In the clan you call home, you are a respected, blooded warrior that has earned their title like any other Yautja who hunts. But this, this here will change things back home. The head of a Queen Xenomorph will forever have your name in their scrolls. With the addition of the skull, you will be have a better status, further upholding your mother’s name.

From the bits and pieces you remember so long ago, she had to fight tooth and nail to keep you. You knew you weren’t like them. It was a quick realization that stung as a child. You were treated different, nothing more a worm that didn’t offer much besides being bait.

Those that once looked down on you will now have to look up at you. The skull of a Queen will be strapped to your back and carried off your ship. Your head held-you stopped yourself from getting ahead. Don’t count the skulls before they are obtained. Or else it’ll be your downfall. Cocky Yautjas usually either lose their personality trait in two different ways: death or they learn.

Your name won’t join the ever-growing pile. It’ll be a name Yautjas will learn about in history scrolls.

From the weeks you’ve done your fair share of research about this hive alone, there’s a reason no one has taken it. Tucked away in tight tunnels that a Yautja wouldn’t dare attempt to squeeze themselves into, hid away a smaller species of Xenomorph. They’ve evolved this way in a short span of a year by what you’ve read.

Yet, the queen hasn’t been seen ever. No one knows if she’s also changed in size due to this evolutionary trait or if she’s the original queen who dug her way into this tunnel system.

Many have tried with solo teams and hunting parties of twenty to bring down this hive. No one has succeeded. Yautjas are just too stocky and large to fit in these narrow holes.

But you? Are the perfect size to get past the first entrance and fight your way to the queen. This was a fight you had to plan every step, every breath, every thought carefully or else you could die. No one wanted this hive, but you did. You will succeed and return home. You will.

With your gear strapped secure to different parts of your body, you strode out of the ship and stepped along the dark, volcanic rocks. It crunched at every step you made, alerting enemies to your position.

The sharp rocks clawed at the bottom of your durable shoes but couldn’t pierce the finely woven material. You’ve done your research and for every needed supply to have a fighting chance of surviving.

From the ship and up to the closest recorded entrance, it was only a short ten-minute hike up. You wanted your ship close in case of a retreat and reform of a new plan. Said entrance was small. A manageable size for you to crawl into on your hands and knees. Just enough space for you to sit back on your haunches and use the collapsible spear attached to your hip when you’re attacked.

In the quite warm, morning, you stood still, tilted your head back. The sounds of an empty location echoed back at you. A gentle breeze ruffled your hair but didn’t bring any concerning scents with it. That didn’t mean you could relax. Anytime you were on a hunt, you had to be ready for anything to come your way. The only time you’ve been able to receive some peace and quiet is traveling in your craft. The hum of the engines always lured you to sleep.

A few buttons were activated on your wrist gauntlet. The hunt begins.

The trek from base of your ship to a hole further up the mountain would’ve proven difficult for a novice. You planned every step of the way up, mapping what ways were easier to get to what was thought to be the main chamber. The least you knew about the inside was that it opened back up. The mountain hollow from once being an ancient volcano that once blew.

Your ears strained for every little sound, every pebble that shifts in what looked to be a wasteland. The coast was clear. You knelt down and inspected the hole thoroughly before starting the crawl inside.

Every muscle in your body is prepared to launch if the need arises. Your hand ready to spring three moderate sized blades out from your gauntlet. All of it coated in a mixture that protected it from the acid spray of a Xenomorph.

About fifty feet into this tunnel, you had to flick up a HUD from your mask to cover your eyes. The area that once was blanketed in darkness turned all different shades of green.

No movement ahead of you. A good sign in your eyes.

Before you left the tunnel, you paused and timidly peeked out to scan the larger tunnel. It reeked of recent activity. You didn’t like that but knew it was part of the situation and adapted to it.

Slick, sticky substance coated the walls. You peered at it and knew instantly what was. A helper in the situation. You used a hand to scoop some of it off and began to cover every inch of your body. It was disgusting to feel this latch onto your skin but it was a necessary evil to keep yourself alive. You gave a quiet huff and followed the mental map of areas known to the archives. These tunnels larger and allowed you the chance to stand fully.

No one knew where the Queen’s chamber was. You were here not only to find it but destroy it in the process. Everything was planned up till then. From there, as you’ve learned, your species is well known for: adapting. You were to adapt the plan at the end and claim the skull as your own.

Skittering of claws had you pausing and lowered yourself, ears picking up every little sound. Something was coming up behind you. You fought the urge to instantly go into fighting mode and pressed yourself against the sticky walls.

Hard meats aren’t technically blind but they don’t have eyes to see the way you see. Smell and hearing is a large factor to finding prey. Also, a use of echolocation helps them perceive the area in a different light. You’ve learned that the imagine they create in their mind is a general picture. Still blurry and unclear but enough information to move about. That’s why you took to smooshing yourself against a wall.

On your HUD, a bright, hard meat shape patrolled past you, tail posed. You stayed calm and watched the creature move on and down the tunnel you traversed through. With a breath of relief, you continued onward in the same direction. The gunk stuck to your skin was a horrible feeling that was hard to ignore. For the sake of your life, you are able to push the thought down and focus on your predicament: finding the Queen’s chamber. If only you had more information…

The longer you trekked through the tunnels, the more uneasy you grew. At any point, one of the Xenomorphs could catch you slacking. Then, you would lose all the hard work you’ve put into this life and join Cetanu. That’s something you refused to let happen.

This didn’t seem like a large hive with numbers but the amount of tunnels that led to the outside world or to different chambers was astonishing. In its prime, this place would’ve been amazing to see and study.

Today, it would fall.

Some time later, you stumbled across the largest of the chambers. Instantly, you knew this was the Queen’s chamber. Not only the size of the place itself but due to all the drones gathered here. Then, a massive form appeared on your HUD, slow in movement.

The Queen herself.

Your eyes widened behind the screen covering them. You could confidently answer the fact this Queen was the original queen from when the hive was established around a year ago. Her large body easily dwarfed her smaller than average drones that cared for her.

For a moment, you heart thundered in your ears. Not from fear. No, from the adrenaline beginning to filling your veins. You may not have been born a Yautja but the love for the hunt still exists in your blood. A grin grew on your features, hidden behind the mask that covers the lower portion of your face.

Careful, calculated, controlled movements allowed you to grasp the collapsible spear at your side. Any closer to the would draw the attention of a drone to you. You held the shrunken weapon in your hand and watched the group.

From what you could speculate in a language you didn’t understand, they were none the wiser to your presence. The goop used to hide your scent worked wonders to keep the hive calm.

You prepared for when the hive would be alerted to your presence the moment you stepped closer. A drone paused and turned its head towards you. It tilted its elongated skull and made a short screeching noise. Not alerting, just curious. You paused once more and could only wait.

When it opened its mouth again, you instinctively opened your spear and threw it at the hard meat. Before it could release a horrifying call, the sound died with it. The weapon now out of your hand and pierced into the skull of your prey. You unleashed the three blades attached to your gauntlet and rushed forward to gather the lost spear. You wrenched it free and began the berate of relentless attacks on the newly alerted hive.

A screech sounded from the largest of the beasts that lived within the quarters. You sliced the throat of a Xenomorph. A spray of acidic blood arching out and landing straight on the armor that protected you. A mixture between past battled against the very species you aimed to kill today and metal shielded the weaker parts of your body. The blood hit in varies areas, landing mostly on the armor. The pain that flared to blazing life only fueled your instinct for the hunt.

Claws raked across the air you stood a second before. You were moving and swung out the three blades to slice the thickly scaled beast the towered over you. More blood threatened to sear off your skin and dripped off the armor that kept you free. The Queen roared out and wiped its deadly tail around. Her long legs stepping back to get you withing biting range.

Drones came to her aid. In swift, deadly waves, you used your trusted weapons to keep the drones at safe distance away that didn’t have you ending up dead.

One of the tinier ones was able to push past your defenses and latched onto the break of your armor. A joint in your elbow and slightly above it was free from either the hard scales or metal that shielded you. Teeth bit harshly into the free chunk and flesh. You yowled in pain and immediately ran your three blades through its skull. The little vermin died with its fangs still buried deep into your arm.

Anger fueled you.

The distraction brought the group closer than you possibly could deal with. Claws raked at armor and exposed skin. Red blood crying from the spilt skin. You gritted your teeth. The spear in your hand was used in a terrifying arch.

Those that pushed past your defenses were battered and sliced by the deadly end of your weapon. They retreated and were already testing what they could do to get through again.

You tore the small creature off of your arm and threw it at one of the larger ones. Blood poured freely from the newly created wound. The worst one of them all.

Above you, the Queen snarled swiped at you with one of her spindly hands. You narrowly dodged a killing blow and rolled. Out of the roll, you reared your spear up into the exposed belly of the Queen. She choked out a roar and moved faster than you could perceive.

Once on your feet, the very next second, you found your back to a wall. All of the air rushed out of your lungs. You sputtered to gain new oxygen through your mask. It left you vulnerable for a second too long.

A massive hand pressed your firmly to the ground. You snarled once you gained enough air and glared at the hide crown of the Queen’s head came into view. She opened her mouth. The inner mouth slithered out. She hissed a deadly tone into the space that could be your last.

The raging drones behind her slowed down in their vicious actions since the threat had been contained. But, you weren’t going down.

It some strength but you were able to shimmy your forearms underneath your chest. With your legs, you started to push against her bony hand. It worked. Just enough to rest on your elbow and jab your three blades into her wrist. The Queen howled and reared back, opening you back to the battle.

Your discarded spear was snatched from the ground and wielded once more. You pinned a glare on all the drones that surrounded you. They all sounded their cried of offence at you attacking their queen. You brushed off the calls and returned to battle.

In a mess of acid blood and red blood yourself, you returned your attention back to the Queen. Behind her, her tail snapped wildly. You twirled your spear and pointed it at the largest of them all. She swiped at the air before her, challenging your dominance in hand. You cared less about the challenge before sprinting forward, thrusting the spear forward.

It left your hand and soared through the air. It pierced the thick hide that protected her upper shoulder and rendered the limb useless now. You stayed moving in full force and leaped up. Your other weapon rammed into spot lower than the spear. You kept the same momentum upwards and used the spear as leverage.

Now on top of the Queen, you shoved the same three blades drenched in acid blood into her back. She gave another cry. You turned the blades a certain direction and pulled them through her scales more. Then, her body fell to the ground.

A special spot along her spine had been severed, rendering her paralyzed to the spot. You grinned once more behind the mask and leaped off of her back. A new wave of hard meats came to intercept you.

The battle ended. You stood victorious, surrounded by a sea of dead Xenomoprhs and a Queen who would not move. You knelt before the large beast and placed a hand on her expanse crest. “I thank you for your skull and what new titles it will bring me,” I praised the creature before moving around and driving the spear into her throat.

The life in her body fading until her heart beat one last time.

A new silence entered the chambers and left you feeling… watched. The hairs on the back of your neck rose as you scanned the area, changing the different vision modes on your HUD.

Up top in one of the larger tunnels, a blazing yellow figure appeared. From the overwhelming scent of the dead Xenomorphs and their smell alone, you couldn’t tell what this thing was. You growled and positioned yourself into a fighting stance, ready to take it on. Anything to defend the trophy you had earned fair and square.

The figure stood up, forced to hunch over. It dropped down into the chamber with barely a sound and stood a safe distance away. The form itself you recognized as a Yautja but not the being itself. Still on end, you kept your weapons up.

She, you got a whiff of her scent, stopped and held her head a respectful distance up. Not in a challenging way nor submissive. She had to be observing you the same way you did to her.

This new Yautja was average sized for a female. Tresses hung from her head freely. Your eyes darted without moving any other muscle to the recent kill at your side. Was she here for this? Was she mad that you had gotten the kill before her? And the fact she was in here. No other Yautja has ventured this far without meeting a terrible end.

Yet, here she stood.

Due to the fact all you could see was her body heat, you couldn’t tell what clan she represents. You didn’t trust her, already knowledgeable about how many Yautjas feel about oomans. The weapons in your hold never turning away from the possible threat.

She took a step forward. Only one. “Paya has answered my prayer to allow me to meet such a creature as yourself,” her voice velvety but with a harsh undertone. Your skin pebbled with bumps. “I have heard of your existence on Yautja Prime.”

It was an infamous situation of your existence. Some clans allow oomans such as yourself to live amongst them. Some offer better treatments than others. Yours, clearly, allows you life but only if you live as one of them. Since you could remember, that’s all you’ve known. But it’s a lifestyle you would never give up. You felt born with the need to hunt like many of your clan.

To ensure she didn’t see you either as a threat or submissive, you kept your chin level and eyes neutral pinned on her. “Who are you?” You wanted an introduction. Some sort of clue on who she was and why she was here. From her first words to you, it seems like this was planned in her eyes.

“My name is Gawtin, ooman,” she answered freely. You felt a smidge better at her willingness to answer your questions. But you refused to let your guard fall.

“And why are you here?” You also wanted to ask how she got in here. You’re the only survivor to get in here. You could only reason with the fact you had distracted the group for her to make her through one of the larger tunnels towards the top of the mountain.

Her mandibles clicked together. “You are infamous on Yautja Prime. Your name is whispered among clans both in good and bad tones. A Yautja grows curious to meet such a creature to capture a rumor.” You already knew yourself to be known on Yautja Prime. Oomans aren’t a rarity but to live on their planet was. Either as a pet or a warrior.

“What is it to you?” you snapped, unsure of her intentions still. Even around those in your clan, you knew you had to keep your guard up. Any of them would be more than willing to claim your skull for their own collection.

This time, Gawtin stepped closer into your space. You hunkered down, muscles taut as you readied your weapon. She didn’t react and stayed that step closer to you. “I would like to offer a chance to hunt with you.”

Now, that took you off guard. “You want to hunt with me?” you reiterate for her. Puzzlement filled your voice. You stood up taller and tilted your head at her.

“Yes. That is what I said.” You kept your gaze on her, studying all the details possible with what the HUD allowed you to see. She showed no challenge, no sign of a threat towards you. She was polite and calm. Plus, the opportunity to hunt with someone outside of your clan was a chance you didn’t dare give up.

You dipped your head. “I’m willing to let you join in on one of my hunts.” You didn’t want to sound excited and kept it cool and level. Don’t act like an unblooded.

“Good. I shall meet you outside once you’ve collected your trophies to discuss our hunt.” With the ended, she turned on her heel and strutted to a nearby tunnel. You watched her get down and crawl her way in before disappearing. You released a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

With her gone, you returned your gaze on the dead Queen at your feet. Not only was this a turning point in your life, but the fact a Yautja from a different clan asked for you to go on a hunt with her. Your life was becoming ten times more interesting now.

#yautja #predator #yautja x reader #yautja x you #alien vs predator #predator x reader #yautja x human #predator x you #predator x human #x reader #love gawtin #Gawtin

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olderthannetfic · 2 months

Note

I read horror pretty much exclusively. Dark, twisted, monstrous, mysterious, the more fucked up the better.

So imagine my consternation when I crack open the latest horror book I checked out (published in 2023) and find, on the very first page, a note reading thus:

A quick heads-up about the content of this book. You're going to find marriage troubles, parental trauma, child endangerment, talk/images of infanticide, postpartum depression, suicidal ideation, bodily harm, ableism (internalized and externalized), anti-Semitism (internalized and externalized), claustrophobia, some gaslighting, and a whole lotta bug stuff. There's also a character who's a real racist, sexist piece of shit.

A horror book. For adults. With a warning that there might be horrific content ahead. *facepalm* The way it's worded feels like something straight from an AO3 author's note. "Bug stuff"? Could the author be a little more vague? They were all too happy to get very specific about everything else (i.e., internalization and externalization, just in case the reader might be okay with one or the other). Why does this author sound like they're working their way down a DNI checklist? I half expected the final line to read something like: I don't condone any of this in real life btw and anyone who agrees with this stuff (that means YOU proshitters) please kys thx lol.

As if the content warning wasn't already a turnoff, the next page included artsy and I'm sure very personally meaningful quotes from two songs by The Mountain Goats. (I know nothing about the band, but they sound like some flavor of pretentious white boy hipster folk music.)

I mean, a warning for claustrophobia? (Discomfort? In my horror?) What next, author's notes warning for fetishization/glorification of death? In a genre where I anticipate, nay, expect characters to die in gory, gruesome ways?

Christ alive. I feel like I'm losing my mind.

The Mountain Goats? Jesus.

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juanarc-thethird · 8 months

Note

I’m pretty sure Pyrrha should be promoting the a03 in fact she should’ve been the first one

Nora: Nah, she's busy with her champion stuff.

*BOOM!*

In a second the wall behind her explodes into pieces, revealing a very angry Pyrrha.

Pyrrha: NORA!

Nora: *Scared* Please don't hurt me!

Pyrrha: *Grabs her by the collar and picks her up* Can you explain to me why there are commercials of women promoting your AO3 page in exchange for sleeping with my Jauney?!

Nora: F-First of all, he's not yours.

Pyrrha: *Growls*

Nora: B-But maybe I'm wrong, hehehe…

Pyrrha: *Serious*

Nora: *Ahem* I-If you want I can leave you alone with him, but if you promote my page?

Pyrrha: All day? No interruptions?

Nora: Y-Yes?

Pyrrha: What do I have to say?

Nora: J-Just what it says on the teleprompter.

Pyrrha: *Thinks for a momento*

Pyrrha: Fine *Lets go of her*

Nora: *On de ground* Oug!

Pyrrha takes a breath, looks at the camera, and her expression changes to a relaxed and happy one.

Pyrrha: Hi, I'm Pyrrha Nikos and I'm excited to announce that we have new stories added to our AO3 page. Come and check them out!

Nora: Wow, so that's how a professional works.

Pyrrha: *serious* It's done. Where is Jaune?

Nora: Down the hall.

Pyrrha: Great.

Wasting no time, Pyrrha runs into the room. She opens the door and start to kick people out.

Weiss: Hey!

Vernal: What your problem bitch?!

Neo: "I haven't finished eating my "Banana" split!🤬"

Without explanation Pyrrha shuts the door in their face.

Inside the room

Jaune: P-Pyrrha? Are you okay?

Pyrrha: *Yandere mode active* Don't worry Jaune. I feel wonderful.

Jaune: *Scaroused* I want my mommy.

Pyrrha: Oh Jaune, when I'm done with you. I'll be your mommy~💕

Thank you for checking our AO3 account

#rwby jaune arc #rwby jaune #jaune #jaune arc #rwby pyrrha #pyrrha nikos #pyrrha #rwby pyrrha nikos #nora valkyrie #rwby nora #rwby nora valkyrie #nora #jaune arc x weiss schnee #rwby vernal #rwby weiss schnee #rwby neo #rwby #rwby shitpost

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c-e-d-dreamer · 6 months

Text

Wreck My Plans, That's My Man

A/N: listen. Look at me. Does this make sense? Is it technically logical? No. It's horny vibes only here, and I need you to roll with it. Anyways! This was all inspired by this beautiful piece of art, and then I was enabled and encouraged and basically wrote this whole thing in like 48 hours... Enjoy? NSFW warning!

Read on AO3

“Hey, Nes, have you seen—”

Cassian's voice trails off, and Nesta hears the distinct sound of keys jangling. She rolls her eyes fondly as she goes back to her book, burrowing deeper against the stack of pillows at her back. She doesn't look up, even as she listens to his boots against the hardwood coming closer, even as that familiar scent of smoke and pine washes over her, even as a sweet kiss is pressed to her hair.

Only when she's finished the page does she slide her bookmark into place and tilt her head back, meeting a pair of bright hazel eyes and a wide, soft smile meant only for her. Cassian is dressed in his usual all black show attire, ripped jeans clinging to his thighs and the low cut of his tank showing off the thick muscles of his arms, the wide breadth of his shoulders and chest, the lines of black ink winding across his golden skin.

“I left your pass on the hook by the door,” Cassian explains, scraping his hair back and out of his face before securing it with a hair-tie. “Are you thinking you'll drive? I can make sure they open the lot for you.”

“No, I'll just get an Uber, and then drive home with you after.”

“Perfect.”

Cassian leans down, slotting their lips together, and Nesta practically melts against him, sighing into the kiss. Too soon, he's pulling away, stealing one last peck to her lips before murmuring his goodbyes and heading for the door. Nesta slumps back against the pillows, closing her eyes and giving herself just one more moment. With a soft sigh, she tosses the blanket off her legs and heaves herself up, padding down the hall to their bedroom to shower and start getting ready.

Nesta’s phone dings where it’s sitting on her vanity, letting her know that her Uber driver is approaching. She takes a moment to straighten out her skirt, to tug up the strap of her lacy, red top. She grabs her phone and her purse, rushing toward the front door. Thankfully, her pass really is right where Cassian left it, and it’s easy enough to toss it on, easy enough to tug on her shoes and her leather jacket, zipping it up to fight off the late October chill.

There’s more traffic than Nesta anticipates, and by the time her Uber driver is dropping her off in front of the venue, they’ve already opened the doors, the queue shuffling forward and people moving about the sidewalk with excitement. It still blows Nesta’s mind seeing the way the queue stretches all the way down the block and around the corner, seeing all these people in tour shirts and with wide grins, all to see the Bat Boys.

“Excuse me,” Nesta says to one of the venue workers directing people. “Which way is the stage door?”

The worker turns his attention to her fully, not even hiding the way he sweeps his eyes over her. When his gaze raises to her eyes again, his face is unimpressed, and he lets out a near derisive snort. “Nice try. Keep dreaming those Wattpad dreams.”

Nesta doesn’t bother biting back her scowl or her eyeroll, practically glaring daggers at the worker as he turns away.

“Guess I’ll find it myself,” she mutters to herself, weaving her way toward the side of the venue building.

“Oh my gosh! Imagine if Cassian points right at you tonight!”

The words give Nesta pause, and she turns to find a couple of girls in the queue. They have their hair and makeup done up, one clad jeans and the other in a short, leather skirt. And both of them have handmade, matching tees declaring ‘Cassian’s Future Wife.’

It had started as a bit. Cassian had informed Nesta that he would be dedicating a song to her on their last tour, a sweet more acoustic number he had penned himself, but when he introduced it to the crowd, he’d instead declared it was for his future wife. Nesta had been pink the entire rest of the night, cheeks and ears burning, but the reaction only seemed to spur Cassian on until he was making the same announcement every night, every show where she was in the audience.

“Imagine if he pulls me out of the crowd and invites me back to his place after the show,” the girl in the skirt offers to her friend.

“Once he sees you, he totally would.”

“I bet he’s amazing in bed too. He’d rock my world, and then I’d be like no need to look any further. You found your future wife.”

The girls laugh and practically squeal in agreement, but Nesta has to swallow down a scoff. She doesn’t know why the conversation scrapes across her skin, why it grates against her nerves. She knows that Cassian and his brothers have a large female following for their band. She knows that she’s the one who asked to keep their relationship more private. She knows that it’s their bed he comes home to each night, that she’s the one he wakes with soft kisses and quiet good mornings, that she gets the ‘I love you’s and the smiles just for her.

But there’s no denying the anger that starts to lick through Nesta’s veins, fire crackling and flaring beneath her skin. There’s no denying the annoyance that twists through her stomach, tightening like vines in her chest. It takes everything within her to bite her tongue around the words she wants to sneer, instead shouldering past the girls and through the crowds to continue her trek toward the side of the building.

When she reaches the back of the building, she spots Cassian's truck in the lot. The pair of stagehands smoking and the big, burly security guard standing near an otherwise nondescript metal door let her know she's found what she's looking for. She unzips her jacket enough that she can pull free her pass, flashing it, but rather than letting her in, the security guard holds out his arm to stop her. His eyes narrow suspiciously, sweeping over her and squinting at her pass.

It has Nesta's anger burning into full-blown rage, into a living, writhing thing that digs its claws into her chest and begs to be released. Her boyfriend is in there. Her boyfriend. And she won't have these people looking at her like she's just some groupie. Won't have these girls thinking they're going home with Cassian.

She's about to give in to the fire, to give in to the cool words poised and ready on the tip of her tongue, when the stage door swings open. Nesta just barely steps back in time before Balthazar goes barreling into her, and she watches as the photographer all but runs to where his SUV is parked, rooting around in his back seat. He jogs back toward the door, pausing when he realizes who's standing there.

“Hey, Nesta,” Balthazar greets with an easy grin, holding up the small case now in his hands. “Need a new SD card already.”

“You know her?” the security guard asks.

Balthazar lets out a quiet laugh. “Seriously?”

He doesn't say anything more, merely shakes his head and vanishes back inside, but at least it's enough to have the security guard look sheepish. At least, he holds the door open and finally allows Nesta to step inside. The steady thrum of bass and drums pulses beneath Nesta's feet, a raspy, feminine voice floating on the air to her, and she knows that the supporting act has already gone on and started the show.

With determined steps, Nesta weaves her way around stagehands and equipment, making her way toward the back of the stage. She slips behind the black curtain splitting the stage in two and hiding the Bat Boys' setup until it's their time, finding Cassian right where she expects him: sitting at his drum kit, casually twirling a drumstick between his fingers while he nods along to the band playing in front of the curtain. Nesta doesn't know if he hears or if he's just always able to sense where she is in a room, but his eyes snap to hers in an instant, that slow, soft grin tugging its way across his face.

“I was beginning to think you were going to stand me up,” Cassian teases lightly when she's close enough.

“I just had to deal with a bunch of shit,” Nesta grumbles, dropping her purse to the ground.

Because she can, she tosses her leg over Cassian's own, straddling his hips. The seat is small but she makes it work, pressing close to him and looping her arms across his shoulders. Cassian's own hands find her hips with ease, holding her steady.

“What kind of shit?”

“Just stupid people.”

Cassian hums, dropping his head so his forehead rests against her collarbones, his thumbs tracing soothing circles against her hip bones. “At least you're here now.”

Nesta hums her own agreement, trying to let the feel of him pressed against her soothe her still sparking nerves. She reaches a hand up, tugging free the hair-tie from Cassian's hair and slipping it onto her wrist for safe keeping. She runs her fingers through the dark, curly strands, scraping her nails against his scalp in the way she knows he loves.

“I had to deal with getting past your little fan club,” Nesta continues, pressing a bit harder with her nails until she feels Cassian sigh against her.

“What can I say? I'm an expert at stealing hearts,” Cassian offers, his voice muffled against her skin, as his hands slide down to the backs of her thighs, teasing just beneath the hem of her skirt.

“There's even a group of girls in the audience with shirts that say 'Cassian's future wife.'”

Cassian pulls his head back, his eyes practically glinting even in the low light of this part of the stage. “Are there?”

Nesta yanks hard on his hair, tugging his head back enough that his entire throat is on display for her. It gives her the perfect view for the way he swallows hard, the way his eyelashes flutter around his darkening hazel eyes.

“But they don't stand a chance, do they?” Nesta snaps, her tone cold and demanding.

Cassian's already shaking his head despite her grip, his expression dazed, before she even finishes speaking. “Not a chance in hell, sweetheart. No one compares to you.”

“Because you're all mine, aren't you?”

“All yours,” Cassian groans, his hips bucking up against her own, pressing his growing hardness against her ass. “Fuck, you're so hot, baby.”

“And you're going to prove it.” It's a statement, not a question, nor a request, and Nesta grinds and circles her hips down against him, chasing the friction, the heat already building between her thighs.

Cassian's hands tighten, sliding further up until he's grasping her ass fully beneath her skirt. “I'll do whatever you want me to.”

“That's what I like to hear,” Nesta tells him, dragging her nail down his temple and cheek and relishing in the full body shudder that takes over Cassian's body. “You're going to touch me, make me come, and then I'm going to fuck you until I'm the only thing you'll think about for the rest of the night, until no other woman will be able to get close to you without smelling sex and my perfume all over you.”

“We only have forty minutes until the show.”

“Better hurry then.”

Rather than let Cassian say anything more, Nesta crashes her mouth against his, nipping and biting at his lips and pressing her tongue into his mouth. Cassian groans as he kisses her back just as hungrily, using his grip on her to move and rock their hips together. One of his hands reaches between them, sliding two fingers over her still clothed center, and Nesta has to pull back to gasp, her hips stuttering at the pressure.

“Fuck, I love how you're always so wet for me,” Cassian whispers against her lips, tracing a teasing circle across her clit. “Absolutely soaked, sweetheart.”

“Less talking, more following directions,” Nesta chastises, canting her hips more firmly against his hand. “We're on a time limit, remember?”

Cassian hums his agreement, slotting their lips back together. At the same moment, he tugs her panties to the side, wasting no time and sinking two fingers inside her. Nesta practically whimpers into his mouth at the stretch, a sound Cassian greedily swallows. He holds his fingers still, and Nesta clenches down around them, hoping to encourage him to move.

“Cassian,” Nesta whines high in the back of her throat, trying to shift her hips against him.

But Cassian uses his free hand to hold her firmly in place, to hold her still against him. He slowly pulls his fingers out, dragging against her walls, before pressing them deep again, just as slow.

“You're just as much mine, you know,” Cassian breathes hotly, repeating the same motion. “You think I don't see every guy and girl staring at you every time we go out?”

“I don't even notice them,” Nesta promises, sliding her hands down to Cassian's shoulders and digging her nails into the skin there. “Besides, at least none of them think they're going to be my future spouse.”

“I bet they want to be.”

“I bet they want to see what I look like when I come too. Maybe, I should ask them to help me instead, since you'd clearly rather take your sweet time.”

Cassian growls, curling his fingers, and Nesta knows that she's won. He starts to work his fingers in earnest, pressing in deep and hard the way he knows she loves. When his thumb joins in, pressing at her clit in tandem, Nesta slumps forward against him. She drops her forehead to his shoulder and bites hard at her bottom lip to quiet the moans and whimpers threatening to spill from her throat. Already, her blood sings, pleasure firing from her every nerve ending, and it's all focused where Cassian's fingers sink into her over and over again.

“Is this what you want, Nes?” He whispers right against her ear. “Is this how I prove it to you?”

“Yes. Fuck, don't stop,” Nesta gasps, turning her head enough that she can dig her teeth into his pulse point, sucking the skin between her lips until she's sure she left a mark.

Cassian's fingers stutter for a moment, and Nesta feels more than she hears the groan trapped in his throat. But since the moment she met him, Cassian has never backed down from a challenge, never allowed himself to be out done. And Nesta has never been more thankful. He squeezes in a third finger, curling all three and pressing against her clit, Nesta's whole body lighting up at the sensation.

He plays her body the way nobody else can, the way that only comes from learning each other's bodies over the years. Every slide, every curl, every press of his fingers sends Nesta cresting higher and higher. Heat pools low in her gut, her whole body tightening and pulling taut as her cunt flutters around Cassian's fingers.

“Come for me, baby. I can feel you're close. Be my good girl and come all over my fingers.”

The praise is all Nesta needs to go crashing head first through her orgasm. She bites at Cassian's shoulder to keep quiet, clenching hard and practically shaking against him. Cassian continues to work her through it, his fingers unrelenting and dragging her orgasm out.

Only when Nesta reaches down and squeezes his wrist, the overstimulation too much, does Cassian slip his fingers free. He brings his hand up to his face, sticking his tongue out and lapping at the pads of his fingers with a soft groan. Nesta is quick to grab his wrist, guiding his hand closer and sucking his fingers into her own mouth. She keeps her eyes on his, not breaking eye contact as she slowly glides and swirls her tongue over each digit.

“Fuck,” Cassian mutters, his hips bucking up as if of their own accord.

The movement reminds Nesta of what's still to come, of the hard length practically waiting for her. It has her blood heating again already, has her feeling empty and clenching around nothing. She pulls her mouth away with a quiet pop, reaching her hands eagerly toward his belt.

“I need you,” Nesta whines, all but yanking the button open and tugging Cassian's jeans and boxers down enough that she can free his cock.

She fists it tightly in her grip, squeezing at the base before sliding her hand up and down, spreading the precum already weeping from the tip. It takes some awkward maneuvering on the too small seat, but Nesta is able to raise herself up enough that she can line him up with her entrance, that she can sink down. No matter how many times they do this, Nesta doesn't think she'll ever get used to the feel of him, the stretch. There's no biting back her moan once he's finally seated to the hilt.

“Mother, save me,” Cassian groans, clearly just as affected. “You take me so well, baby. Nothing feels like you.”

“That's right,” Nesta tells him, clenching around him. “No other cunt will ever squeeze you like this.”

“Good.” Cassian buries a hand in her hair and kisses her hard, tugging her bottom lip between his teeth. “Because no other cock can fill you like mine can.”

Despite Nesta's words earlier, her promise to fuck him until she's all he thinks about, it's Cassian that takes control. His hands grip her hips, guiding her up and down his cock, while he uses his planted feet to thrust up into her hard and fast. Nesta loves it. She loves the way he presses deep with every slap of their hips together. She loves the way she knows she'll have bruises for days across her hip bones.

She buries her hands in Cassian's hair and slams their mouths back together, breathing every moan and whimper past his lips and swallowing his every answering groan. Every snap of his hips, every drag of his cock has Nesta's toes curling in her shoes. Her cunt flutters and clenches around him, desperate to pull him in deeper, to keep him here right where he belongs, keeping her full and stretched.

She knows Cassian is close from the way his hips start to stutter, so she drops a hand between their bodies, finding her clit with ease and working it in time with their movements. It's almost too much. The sensation and feel of their bodies coming together. The sight of Cassian with a flush clinging to his cheeks, with his hazel eyes nearly swallowed whole by his blown out pupils, with his hair a mess from her fingers. He's beautiful and he's hers, and she can feel herself teetering closer and closer to that ledge.

“Come on, Nes,” Cassian pants, pressing their forehead together. “Ladies first. Want to feel you squeezing me. Want to be drenched with you. Come all over my cock.”

Like a marionette on his strings, Nesta's body gives in to his request. She comes hard enough that spots dance in her vision, and she just barely has the foresight to press her free hand to her mouth, biting into her palm to quiet her shout.

Cassian's hips are unrelenting as he chases his own high, as is his still rambling mouth. “That's my good girl. That's it, baby. Fuck, you're so fucking beautiful.”

A few more thrusts, and Cassian buries his face against Nesta's shoulder and groans her name. He practically shakes as he finds his own release, hips still moving shallowly as he spills inside her.

Nesta slumps forward against his chest with a blissful sigh, her body wrung out in the best way. Cassian's arms curl tight around her, holding her close to him, and he turns his head enough that he can press a kiss into her hair.

“Fuck, I love you so much,” Cassian murmurs against her hair. “You should get jealous over crazy fangirls more often.”

Nesta rolls her eyes at the comment, nipping at his skin in retaliation. She sits up enough that she can reach over and grab her discarded purse on the floor, rooting around until she finds the tube of lipstick buried there. She makes quick work swiping the bright red color across her lips, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Cassian's chest, right above the neckline of his tank, right above his heart.

She tilts her head and hums appreciatively, admiring her work, but then Cassian's hands are sliding along her jaw, cradling her face and pulling her into a deep, languid kiss. When they break apart, his mouth is smeared with red. Nesta drags her thumb across his lips to try and help, but it only seems to make it worse, only seems to further emphasize the swollen and kiss-bitten state of them.

“Sorry,” Nesta offers with a wince. “We seem to have made a mess.”

“Good,” Cassian tells her, not even bothering to bite back his smirk.

“You are insufferable.”

“Says the woman still sitting on my cock.”

Nesta scoffs, but she shifts off his lap and to her feet, keeping her thighs pressed tightly together until they can get to the bathroom and clean up properly. It's a slow and awkward walk, especially with Cassian all but plastered along her back, unable to let her go just yet.

When they step out of the bathroom, his brothers are already there and waiting. Between the disheveled state of Cassian's hair and clothes, the lipstick stains and nail marks on his skin, and his wide, shit eating grin, there's no mistaking what happened. Nesta awkwardly clears her throat, tucking a strand of hair that came loose back behind her ear.

“I don't even want to know,” Rhysand mutters. “But we're on, so let's go.”

Cassian leans down, pressing one last kiss to Nesta's cheek. “Stay backstage tonight.”

Nesta frowns at the strange request. She and Feyre always claim one of the balcony boxes for their shows. “Why?”

“Just stay backstage,” is all Cassian offers as he backs away toward the stage lights, toward the screaming fans beyond.

A wink in her direction and he spins around, jogging the rest of the way onto the stage. Nesta can do nothing but continue to frown in confusion, nothing but watch as Cassian and his brothers play the opening song of their set. Only when there's a quiet, surprised laugh from her left does Nesta finally pull her attention away, finding Feyre now standing beside her. At Nesta's questioning look, Feyre holds out her phone, showing off the tweet she has pulled up. It's a photo, clearly taken from the audience, zoomed in and cropped so it shows Cassian behind his drum kit.

To whoever fucked this man's brains out before the concert, I want to say thank you for this look, but also I wish that was ME!!!

The replies to the tweet aren't much better, and already Nesta can feel heat creeping up her neck and threatening to spill across her cheeks.

Hate to see someone else living MY dream

Someone get the FBI on the phone to analyze and find the owner of that lipstick mark! Whose lips are those?

Wordlessly, Nesta hands Feyre's phone back to her, keeping her focus on the stage, on the Bat Boys as they continue their set. It's not long before Nesta knows what song is coming next, her eyes automatically snapping to Cassian's in anticipation, but for once, he pulls his microphone free from its stand and stands up, stepping out from behind his drum kit.

“Velaris, how are we doing tonight?” Cassian greets, earning an echo of screams in response. “Now, you may not know this, but this venue holds a very special place in my heart. You see, a few years back we played here, opening for a little band you might know called The Band of Exiles.”

More screams from the audience at that mention. It has Nesta shaking her head fondly. She still remembers that night, remembers Feyre dragging her and Elain along to see her old school friend's Lucien's band. One night and now all three of them are with musicians. Nesta is sure if their mother was still alive, she'd hate it.

“Great show,” Rhysand comments idly into his own microphone.

“Great tour,” Cassian agrees with a nod. “But you see, what really made that night special was that there was someone in the audience. Someone I wrote this next song about. Someone who for once isn't in the audience but backstage.”

Cassian gestures with his arm to where Nesta's standing, and she can do nothing but stare in shock. She feels like a deer in headlights, her eyes wide and jaw slackened, as Cassian gestures for her with his head. A hard shove in the back from Feyre has Nesta stumbling forward out onto the stage and bright lights.

“What are you doing?” Nesta seethes quietly, walking over to Cassian awkwardly.

“Just remember, Nes,” Cassian tells her, holding a hand over his microphone so it won't pick up their voices. “If you kill me, you'd miss me too much.”

“Cassian.”

“Nesta, I love you so much, it clearly makes me stupid,” Cassian begins, speaking into his microphone again. “It makes me want to shout it from the rooftops, but I suppose this is the next best thing. Since the day that I met you, I knew that you were it for me, that you were going to be my future wife, but what do you say we make it official?” There's no stopping Nesta's gasp as Cassian drops to one knee. “Nesta Archeron, will you marry me?”

In that moment, everything else fades away, the stage, the band, the lights, the crowd. All there is Cassian. Cassian with his bright hazel eyes and his warm, easy laugh. Cassian with his teasing remarks and a fire to twine and match with her own. Cassian with his quiet comfort and the strength and safety in his embrace. Cassian who looked at her nicked and bruised heart and told her it was perfect. Cassian who carved out a place in his chest for her just as surely as she did for him.

“Yes,” Nesta somehow pushes out around the emotions clogging her throat, around the tears prickling in her eyes.

Cassian's answering grin is radiant. He slides the ring onto Nesta's finger, jumping to his feet and pulling her into a kiss. The crowd erupting into loud cheers around them pulls Nesta firmly back to the present. She tries to slip away backstage again, but Cassian catches her hand in his, tugging her to his drum kit and onto his lap, her back pressed firmly to his chest.

“This next song,” Cassian announces into his microphone, picking up his drumsticks again. “Is dedicated to my wife!”

Thankfully, Nesta is able to scurry away after the song. She's pulled into a bone crushing hug by Feyre as soon as she steps backstage, a squealing Elain on FaceTime from whatever city she and Lucien are in today. Various members of the crew offer their own congratulations, Balthazar promising he got some great photos of the whole thing, and Nesta thanks them all quietly. Her heart still pounds between her ribs, the anxiety of being on the stage still swirling in her gut, but as she looks at the ring now glinting on her finger, there’s no fighting the smile that tugs up her lips. No denying the happiness bubbling within her at the future now before her. No denying the warmth that blooms in her chest, tying as securely around her heart as a golden thread.

Nesta lets out a squeal of surprise when strong arms wrapped around her waist suddenly, spinning her around and walking her back until her back is pressed against the wall. Cassian’s eyes are especially bright, sweat still clinging to his face and his skin from their set, further smearing the lipstick stains she left on him.

“Hello, wife,” Cassian greets with a wide grin, caging her in and leaning down and brushing his nose against hers.

“You know just because you proposed, that doesn't actually mean we're married yet.”

“Semantics.”

Nesta rolls her eyes fondly, even as she slips her own arms around Cassian’s waist, keeping him pressed close. “And how long have you been planning this?”

“Like a month? Maybe two?” Cassian offers, shrugging easily.

“And yet you didn't want to stop me when I was being mean earlier?”

“I love it when you're mean,” Cassian tells her, his hands reaching up between them to cradle her jaw. He tilts her face up to him, kissing her sweetly. “I can’t wait for you to be mean to me for the rest of our lives.”

—

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#nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #acotar #acosf #nessian fanfiction #nessian fic #nesta x cassian #my fic

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