#and im so lonely. im so lonely and i miss how it was to be a kid | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

that-foul-legacy-lover · 22 hours

Text

Extended Parting

Synopsis: After being separated from you for so long, Childe finally finds you again.

Foul Legacy x Reader Pronouns: Gender Neutral (no pronouns mentioned) Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Comfort Warnings: Mentions of blood, physical injuries, fear, pain, crying, allusions to being attacked

Original Request by Anon: requesting requesting! beep bop beep bop ! more foul legacy × reader hurt/comfort, perhaps? :3

hear me out- in the format of a scenario; just pure comfort, reader is perhaps sent of to a dangerous mission/commission while childe is away doing his own thing. when he is going back home however, he stumbles across a group of fatui, taking the reader hostage & hurting them. foul legacy's reaction to his "allies" hurting the love of his life? and how he would take care of the reader after, assuming the reader got pretty severe injuries (even though they're not fetal).

Im a big sucker for this big boi getting all soft when the reader is hurt, and i wanna see more of him just holding the bleeding reader in his arms while trying to comfort them

~ * ~

Two weeks, three days, seven hours, and eight minutes. That’s how long you’ve been apart, how long Childe has gone without being in your presence, and he’s hated every second of it. Important commission, hah! No commission could be so important that it took you away from him for this long- almost half a month! All of your other missions took you a week, tops, and even then he could barely handle it, missing you more and more as each day passed without a single word or letter. Of course, he admits, it’s not like Childe didn’t also have his own duties to attend to during this time, this extended parting. As usual, he was forced to store Ajax and Childe away, slipping on the mask of Tartaglia, the Eleventh Harbinger, and taking delight in violent diplomacy. But even fighting and bloodshed did little to satiate his longing for you; how much he wished to see your wonderful smile and that keen twinkle in your eyes, hear your lovely voice, cradle you in his arms and kiss your cheeks- Childe groans, burying his face in his hands. It makes him irritable, constantly yearning for you, and Foul Legacy is even worse. His Abyssal half is constantly clawing at the back of his mind, worrying his talons and whining as he asks why they haven’t seen you yet? Where are you? When will you be back? He wants cuddles something fierce, desperately seeking out the attention and affection you always give him only to find that you’re nowhere near. They’re both so lonely without you, only each other for company, and Childe has to physically bite his hand to prevent Legacy from simply snatching control of their body away and flying off to find you. With a sigh, the Harbinger wipes the blood from his blades, then his hands, and finally his face, ginger hair all wild and unruly. At the very least, today was when he would finally return home to Liyue. He never thought somewhere other than Morepesok could be considered home, but it turns out that “home” is wherever his heart is, and he gave it to you long ago to keep safe from everything that hurts.

Home… Childe’s mind drifts back to the house you both share, a small smile instinctively tugging at his lips. With a quiet snap of his fingers and a salute, his underlings are dismissed- they’ll be going back to the Fatui Headquarters in Snezhnaya. Childe, however, packs his supplies near the road back to the harbor city, waving the agents away, and the moment they’re out of sight his smile widens into a full-on grin, a delighted gleam in his azure eyes.

Even just thinking about you seems to bring out the best in him, Foul Legacy chirping happily in the back of his head when Childe reassures him that yes, they’ll be seeing you again soon. If you’re done with that horribly long commission of yours, that is, which he’s sure that you are- even the most arduous never take up to three weeks. Despite being exhausted, he finds a spring in his step, dust swirling as his boots land against the dirt path. You, you, you- he’s going to see you again, his beloved and most treasured. Childe almost glows with energetic joy as he jogs, as if he never fell into the Abyss at all. His hand twitches, Foul Legacy begging and pleading to be let out after spending so long locked away, but Childe hushes him gently. You’ve said that you like it when he’s kind to Legacy and Legacy is kind to him- they are part of each other, after all, and you love both of them- so he tries to treat the monster as a friend rather than a weapon, and with a huff Legacy settles back down. Something faint and distant as the moon pierces the night, and Childe pauses, ears pricking. He tilts his head to listen, and for a moment he hears nothing but silence. Until- there, there! A scream! It’s far off, over the next hill, but unmistakably there. Even from a distance Childe can hear the desperation, the terror burning into his bones like a raging fire with a familiarity that makes him stop in his tracks.

No… no, it couldn’t be. It can’t be- Please, please let him be wrong- Childe’s feet carry him towards the sound, dread spiraling and twisting in his gut as another awful shriek rings out and he looks up, eyes widening. He was right. Oh, he was right, and he wishes he wasn’t, because it’s you. It’s you, gripping your weapon like a vice and covered in blood, expression filled with panic and fear and pain. It’s you, still in your adventurer’s gear, bag packed with whatever stupid, insignificant item the commission wanted. It’s you, surrounded by Fatui agents- not his, thank the Archons- the rest of them laughing and sneering. It’s you, hurt and scared and looking as if you’re about to collapse onto the ground and never rise. It’s you, and Childe’s veins freeze over with cold, splintering ice. You’re pressed against a ruined wall, swiping the blade in your hands at the soldiers, who merely snicker at your weakened attempts. The leader- one of those Electro vanguards with a giant hammer- smacks the weapon aside and seizes your arm, and you let out an involuntary yelp of pain as tears prick in your eyes. The yelp is all the motivation he needs, and Childe barely feels his restraint shatter like glass. They never even saw it coming, Foul Legacy throwing his spear and ripping the agents apart as fast as lightning, vibrant purple sparks searing the grass as he roars, driven only by wrath and fury. The vanguard who grabbed you so violently shouts in surprise and horror- then everything goes silent, apart from Legacy’s heavy breathing, claws dripping with blood. He exhales, curling his talons into fist with a tight crackling noise, letting out a low, guttural growl of rage. You bite down fiercely on your tongue, trying to stay quiet, but you can’t help but gasp in pain as the slashes in your body flare, and Foul Legacy’s anger burns away as quickly as a dying candle. He turns and rushes to you, chittering frantically, only to freeze when he sees you stiffen, petrified with fright. His chirps and trills lower to soft croons, gentle and sweet and familiar, crouching slowly to your height and holding out a hand. He tentatively inches forward, hand extended and palm up, claws curling delicately around your wrist when you desperately reach for him. “A-Ajax…?” Legacy’s Abyssal heart cracks, and he swiftly gathers you in his arms, whimpering and nudging his forehead against your cheeks as you cling to him and let out anguished, hitching cries. You suck in a breath when his talons ghost over a wound, and Legacy almost sobs with despair. Some part of him- the rational, trained soldier that is Childe- tells him to get you home, heal you, make sure that you’re well- he carefully gets to his feet, holding you close to his armored chest and adjusting your head so it’s pillowed by his lavender fluff. You shudder with pain again, and Legacy gently licks his tongue over the shallow scrapes on your face, cooing softly; with a flutter of his glimmering wings he takes to the sky, his arms cradling you like you’re made of crystal and gold.

He lands near your shared home not ten minutes later, hastily unlocking the door with the key he always sees Childe using. The house is quiet and a little dusty from being empty for so long, but your bed is as soft as ever as Legacy delicately lowers you down onto the mattress. Childe is the one who tells him what to do, again, guiding his claws to gently wrap your wounds with snow white gauze. None of them are fatal, and Legacy thanks his constellation with a grumbling sigh of relief. A quiet croon slips out when he sees you fading in and out of consciousness, sweetly cupping your cheek with a clawed hand- he’s shaking. Why is he shaking? He’s not the one who nearly died- but your hand comes up to weakly grasp his, and Legacy’s heart melts and breaks and patches itself up all over again.

Your lips twitch into a shaky smile, exhausted, your fingers resting on Legacy’s and soothing the minute trembles running through his body. The Abyssal creature- your wonderful, sweet Abyssal creature- blinks slowly at you, crystalline eye filled with tears that drip down his crimson face and pool in the divots of his mask as he fights to contain the sobs that threaten to break out, and when you reach up your other hand, covered in bandages, to caress his cheek, his breath hitches and he collapses into your arms, burying his head against your neck and weeping. In a whispered voice you coo and murmur and hum to him, repeated words of “it’s okay, I’m here, I’m okay”, and he tries so, so hard to do it back to you, his own sounds cracked and stuttering, something along the lines of “don’t leave, I miss you, I’m sorry”, or as close as he can say with a mouth made for biting and gnashing. Your hands lightly tug him closer- or rather, your hands tiredly loosen and he moves to follow them- until he’s close enough for you to press a soft kiss to his forehead. Legacy immediately purrs, tearful and whimpering, and your silent offer of lifting up the blanket is met with an instance moth monster at your side, curling around your body and holding you close. He’s careful not to squeeze you, trying to get as close as possible and mold his form around yours as you rake your hands through his fluffy coppery hair, drawing more deep, comforting rumbles from within his chest, the type he makes when you’re dreadfully ill.

Cats’ purrs are healing, so you’ve heard. Perhaps Abyssal beasts’ purrs are much the same. Slowly, your eyes begin to droop, and you yawn, exhausted and worn. Foul Legacy quietly nudges you, a croon of reassurance falling from his fanged maw, claws dancing over the wraps on your skin now stained brilliant red. It hurts, it hurts like fire- but you’re safe. Safe in your bed, and in Legacy’s arms, and the tension leeches from you and dissipates into nothing. You vaguely hear a soft melody, low and rumbling and familiar from when you’ve sung Foul Legacy to sleep, and the arms around you tighten ever so slightly as the sun finally dips beneath the horizon into the locked box of night. Two weeks, three days, eight hours, and thirty minutes. That’s how long Foul Legacy refused to let you out of his sight, even after your injuries had closed and healed.

95 notes · View notes

chukys-mouthguard · 3 days

Note

8. “What are you wearing right now?” w/ Trevor Zegras

I love your work!!!

Prompt: “What are you wearing right now?”

Note: i actually got so excited to write this because i recently have watched a few videos with Trevor and his personality cracks me up, so i tried channeling it as best i could since im still not super familiar with him 😅🤞🏼thank you so much for the kind words, hopefully you love this as well!

“I am desperate for this road trip to end, ohhh my gosh.”

Trevor playfully groaned as you heard him unlocking the door to his hotel room, laughing as you rolled over in bed to plug your phone in after placing the call on speaker.

“So you can get home to see me right?”

You joked as you bit your lip, Trevor agreeing as he set his wallet on the table before plopping down on the bed. “Well of course! That’s actually the only thing getting me through this road trip. I keep dreaming about your world famous pancakes, oh baby I can’t wait to get some of those when I get home.”

“Trev, you’re the only person who has ever eaten my pancakes, not sure they are world famous.”

He laughed as he protested, “Not true, I travel the world and tell people, so they are most definitely world famous.” “If you wanna count Canada and the United States as the world, then it sounds good to me babe.”

The two of you sighed, almost in unison, as you both lay in bed staring at the ceiling. This road trip had been one of the longest Trevor had been on in awhile, and you were definitely missing him. In more ways than one.

The bed felt colder, bigger, without him sleeping next to you. The dinner table was more lonely. Watching your favorite shared trashy reality tv definitely wasn’t the same. Though you two would check in after episodes to debrief and be sure you both stayed up to date on things.

As you laid in bed thinking of Trevor, one of his tshirts covering your body, engulfing you in the smell of his cologne. You were tempted to see how much fun you could have with him.

“Hey Trev?”

“Hmm?”

He hummed a response as he laid in bed with his eyes closed, enjoying the sound of your voice as he intently listened.

“What are you wearing right now?”

His eyes shot open at your words, not expecting that to come out of your mouth in a million years. “Uhhhhhh, ummm.”

You slightly smirked at how flustered he’d become, though you weren’t entirely surprised. This wasn’t something you’d ever tried with him before.

“See, there’s a really funny story about what I’ve got on. But, I just, I don’t know if I can confess to it right now.”

Rolling onto your side you stared at your phone confused, wondering what the hell your boyfriend had on. “Yeah no you’re definitely gonna have to explain because what?”

The two of you were laughing as Trevor was growing red with embarrassment. “Okay, fine. So..John thought it would be a great idea for us to do one of those t-shirt exchange things for our team dinner tonight. And, god mine is awful! I don’t even know if I can tell you babe.”

The idea of John Gibson coordinating a t-shirt exchange for the team dinner had you practically in tears. It was nothing surprising from this group of guys, but you could only imagine some of the shirts they’d bought for each other.

Trevor continued on, telling you some of the shirts the other guys were stuck wearing, but the ping of a new text distracted you as you opened up a message from the culprit John Gibson himself.

The text was simply a photo of Trevor smiling, with two thumbs up in his t-shirt that read “Appreciate the little things” with an arrow pointing down at his crotch.

“Oh my god, well, John beat you to it and told me himself.”

Trevor couldn’t hold in his laughter as he heard you cackling into your pillow.

“It’s so bad! Like I had one of the worst shirts tonight, imagine how embarrassing that was to wear out!”

He groaned as you were finally reeling in your amusement.

“Maybe they are just jealous, or they didn’t want people to know what you’ve really got going on down there, so it was like a fake out.”

“Who freaking knows, but I think I need to burn this shirt. And the pictures, gotta burn the pictures.”

“Well, it looks like Caufield got his hands on it, so I’m not sure your efforts will be worth anything.”

Trevor cursed to himself at the thought of his best friend having the photo. Knowing instantly that it would be sent out in every group chat and plastered everywhere for anyone to see.

“Well, it was nice knowing you. Because if Caufield has that photo I am officially retiring and entering the witness protection program.”

“Trevor, don't be so dramatic! I’m sure it’s all gonna be fine.”

Another groan escaped his lips as you assumed he’d gotten a text or someone had posted a picture of him, not bothering to ask as to not make him feel any worse than he already did. Just letting him continue being a little dramatic, promising him world famous pancakes when he got home to try and lift his spirits.

#trevor zegras #trevor zegras fluff #trevor zegras imagine #trevor zegras blurb #nhl imagine #nhl fics #nhl fanfiction #hockey fic #hockey imagine #nhl blurb

71 notes · View notes

gil-notskajla · 1 day

Text

im thinking over and over again abt micah and cayde and damn,, that entry where she found her human memory brain scan is fucking me up. she knew cayde for so long, even before he was vanguard, even before andal was vanguard probably! and he knew her, he knew all his hunters very well, as he said "you must know your hunters!" "watch everyone's back". with her ghost caring gig she was known and he was a leader so everyone knew him.. and…. they were just living like that, having no idea who they are to eachother. cayde was literally building significant chunk of his entire identity around a vague memory of her. and then when he died, one of last things he hoped for right before was to see her again. and only couple of years later when crypt got discovered she realised who he, the guy who was there all along for all these decades, if not centuries, was. and that he was the person who "saved her". from boredom, from isolation, from how much exoprogram broke her family and from crisis of identity. he was her home and she was his. they were family and they didnt realise that in time and she was left alone with that knowledge. she could perhaps share this information with mihaylova but does it make it any better? it was only relevant for her and cayde, who died tragically never knowing what he did for her and she was stuck unable to ever thank him. and he could never learn that his ace wasnt just a coping mechanism made up by breaking, desperate mind of suffering, lonely exo, but that she was real. ace is real, alive, well, smart, compassionate, helpful, and loves him. and misses him. and she maybe wouldnt be any of it all, maybe she wouldnt even be here if not for him. crow's accidental wish gave cayde back to us and gave him a chance to apologize but the longer i think about it the more i feel like it was even a bigger blessing for micah than it could ever be for us. she finally had a chance to get it off her chest, and, if we assume she told cayde all of it, it was a blessing for him too. how validating it must have felt to learn that presumed falsehood (as is the case with maya) you chose to believe, used to build a better you, treasured and called upon in your last moments is real after all? not only that but feelings are mutual. since ghost quests happen about 3 days before alliance attack and micah together with cayde left the comms several times to have private conversations i chose to believe they had this talk. i could not imagine a more complete ending for cayde than learning that ace was and is real and better resolution to this situation for micah than taking this weight off her shoulders. excuse me i need to cry..

#destiny 2 #cayde-6 #micah-10 #final shape #lore

50 notes · View notes

vincess-princess · 2 days

Text

we, the psychos

ch. 10

Word count: 2488 Warnings: nsfw A/N: sorry for taking so long, im in the hole again

Vince was almost there when the door of the closet opened. He turned around, thinking Nikki decided to help him – and instead saw Hudson looming in the doorframe.

“Wharton, again?!” He grimaced, pointedly staring at the wall. “Was the doctor not clear enough last time about your passion for fleshy pleasures?”

The orgasm, seconds ago so close, now was unbelievably far. Vince groaned in disappointment, sent Hudson a grim gaze.

“Could you come just a few seconds later?”

“And let you fall back into your corrupted behavior? Yeah, I don’t think so. Pull up your pants. We’re going to the doctor.”

Vince remembered the punishment he got last time he got caught masturbating and shuddered. The traces on his hands didn’t go away for good two weeks afterwards. And he was already pretty battered. Some more, and no one would bear looking at his ravaged flesh.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Slash gestured at the door impatiently. His other hand was lying on the doorknob, and light from the corridor lay in a stripe across his face and hair. Yeah, he was pretty handsome.

Vince made a resigned face, tucked his half-hard dick back into his pants, pulled them up and stepped towards the door. And then grabbed Hudson’s hand on top of the doorknob and forcefully pulled on it. The door closed with a loud bang, and it was dark again.

“What the f-“ Hudson pulled his hand out of Vince’s grip and jumped back, almost colliding with a wall. Vince didn’t try to stop him. He did keep his hand on the doorknob. “-uck?”

“Hey, man, calm down,” Vince began. “Let’s talk.”

“I have nothing to talk to you about.” Hudson stepped to the door, now standing mere inches away from Vince. And not that he was scared… but no one dared to tackle the infamous patient alone. “The doctor will hear about this. And if you don’t let me out right now…”

“Please, omit the threats. I have a suggestion.”

Hudson narrowed his eyes. “I don’t wanna know what it is.”

“Just listen.” Vince made a small step forward. The smallest of steps. Hudson didn’t back off, which was hopeful. “I bet it gets lonely in the nurses’ building.”

He could pull off a better starting line, but he had little time and just one attempt. One wrong word – and it’s over.

“You don’t get to go to town often, I bet,” Vince continued. “And I fucking bet Dr. Duren doesn’t let you invite ladies over.”

He smiled and put his hand on Hudson’s chest. Hudson looked at it like it was an exotic bug – disgusting and dangerous, but somewhat captivating - and didn’t shake it off.

The fish was on the hook.

“I don’t go that way,” he said stiffly.

“Oh, please,” Vince rolled his eyes. “Everyone says this until they spend a couple months in an all-male facility.”

“I’ve been here way more than a couple months,” Hudson reminded him.

“Yeah, and look how high-strung you are. Gotta relieve all that tension once in a while, you know?”

“And you’re offering to help.” Hudson concluded dryly.

“Exactly.” Vince poked him in the chest. “And you won’t tell Dr. Duren what I was doing here.”

Hudson’s face was grim, but Vince could feel his hastened breath, his tense muscles under the nurse coat. He was almost there. Just one little push.

Vince slowly drew his hand down Hudson’s torso and stopped it in the area of his abdomen. Then he shot a quick glance at him through his lashes and smiled as charmingly as he could, hoping that the darkness would obscure the missing left molar.

“Fuck,” Hudson exhaled, turning his head away- in shame, probably. “You better be good at it.”

Vince didn’t need a clearer invitation. He dropped on his knees, unbuttoned Hudson’s pants and pulled them down in one swift, experienced move. He heard interesting things about black men’s lengths. Hudson might be mixed, but maybe that heritage persevered?..

Yeah, no, the white side won. But that was even good. Won’t have to choke.

Hudson quietly gasped when Vince swallowed his whole cock at once. It was only half-hard, so it was not difficult. Vince licked the head, tasting salty precum, and smiled.

“Yeah, I can tell it’s been a while.”

“Shut up,” Hudson exhaled and thrusted his hips forward. Vince didn’t protest. They did have little time. His skills weren’t really required – it was just speed and depth that counted.

And quick and deep it was. Vince moved his head back and forth so quickly his lips went numb and his neck hurt. Hudson got braver and braver throughout the whole process: first he didn’t even dare touch Vince, then put a hand on his head and carefully guided it, and soon finally lost control, grabbed Vince by the hair and began violently thrusting forward, leaving Vince to just close his eyes, suppress his gag reflex (which still existed, no matter what haters said) and finally take care of himself.

Hudson was so occupied he didn’t even notice Vince pulled out his own cock and began stroking it. Hudson at the same time was nearing the end, and Vince helped him with his tongue a bit until he finally groaned, bent forward and came. Hot liquid went down Vince’s throat, but some still leaked in the corners of his mouth. While Hudson stood still, gathering his breath, Vince finished himself, and it was good he was already on his knees because the relief surely would have made them buckle.

Vince tapped on Hudson’s thigh for attention, showed him his sperm-covered hand and slowly licked it.

“You are so fucking sick,” Hudson murmured, ashamedly pulling up his pants and tucking his dick in.

“And you like it,” Vince grinned. Hudson could act all disgusted and untouchable as he wanted – Vince heard him whimper like a bitch just a couple minutes ago, and they both would never forget it.

“Get up,” Hudson tried to speak harshly, but the tremble of a recent orgasm was still hiding in the undertone of his voice. “We’ve wasted too much time already. Ew, not on the robe!”

Vince continued wiping his sperm off his fingers on the hospital robe even more thoroughly, ignoring numerous rags in various stages of decay kept in the closet. Hudson winced and turned away.

When Vince tried to get up, his legs didn’t like the sudden change of position, and he almost fell onto a cabinet full of cracked dishes (why were they even keeping it?) were it not for Hudson who caught him by the sleeve.

“You want the whole asylum to hear?” he hissed, pulling Vince upright.

“Hey, I’d look at you go after kneeling for so long!” Vince protested. His legs felt like they were pierced by a thousand needles, making him grimace. But Hudson didn’t notice – or didn’t care – and dragged him out of the closet and into the hall. Then he made Vince hobble in front of him the whole way to the canteen, occasionally prodding him in the back to speed him up.

Right at the door Vince, ignoring a yet another prod, stopped and turned to Hudson.

“You remember our deal? No one says anything.”

“I do,” Hudson said through his teeth. “Go in already!”

Nikki was there alone, lazily wiping a table. His expression turned from boredom to a poorly concealed gloating, and Vince realised why Hudson came to the closet so untimely.

Oh, Nikki is gonna pay for this.

***

Mick watched Simmons escort Tommy away with a mixed feeling. He knew, of course, that Tommy wasn’t gonna see the doctor. He felt sorry for the guy, so young and clueless and naïve, torn out of his environment and thrown into a completely different one where everyone wanted to eat him and crack open his bones. But also Tommy was rather obnoxious with his “I’m too noble for this” attitude and unwillingness to work. Simmons sure was gonna show him that once you were here, it didn’t matter anymore. Especially considering they had cut Tommy some slack already, his fancy room and all.

While waiting for Nikki Mick crouched behind the bush and began picking up brown leaves off the ground and stringing them on the twigs of the bush, creating a nice little curtain behind which he couldn’t be seen. And there were no leaves on the ground anymore at the end, so he was cleaning, wasn’t he?

Voices of other patients blended in together at the distance, creating a nice little background hum that was as familiar to Mick as the sun rising every day. He always took the position a little bit away from the crowd, observing from the distance. For a while already there were no signs of anything, which was comforting, even if just for a little bit. Routine and stability were a good thing. Change – not so much.

Then he heard a voice he knew too well, and his chest released the tension it was holding. It was Nikki’s voice, which meant he finished his canteen shift without issues. Mick peered from behind the bush and saw Michael point in his direction and Nikki head towards his bush with a springy step, waving the shovel in his hand back and forth. He looked… energized, which Mick hadn’t seen since Wharton dumped him. And it could only mean one thing.

“Don’t tell me you got back with him,” Mick said sharply when Nikki crouched next to him. “Don’t fucking tell me.”

Nikki’s face fell a bit.

“How could you tell?”

“You’re excited for the first time in weeks.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Nikki tried to make an innocent face. It was not very convincing.

“It wouldn’t be if I didn’t know the last time you were that excited was when you were hooking up with Wharton.”

Nikki sighed, looked away. “Why do you even notice these things? Don’t you have other things to do?”

“That’s what I do. Observe,” Mick said. “So. Who initiated it?”

“He did.”

“I fucking knew it.” Mick rubbed his eyes. “You see? He comes back to you when his balls get a little too full. Once they are empty he’ll dump you again.”

“Well,” Nikki suddenly grinned slyly, “I hope I did teach him a lesson that dumping me is a bad idea.”

Mick blinked in confusion, then in horror. “A lesson? God, what did you do?”

“Let’s just say… I showed him how it feels to be used.”

No amount of further questioning could get anything except mysterious smiles out of Nikki. Mick had a very bad feeling about this. Whatever revenge Nikki enacted, Wharton would never let it go unpunished.

Wharton, by the way. Where was he?

Mick had to change his position and hide behind another bush (this one, unfortunately, without a leaf curtain) to see Wharton. He was in the middle of the patient crowd, respectfully given space of about ten feet in a circle around him, scooping leaves from the ground one by one with his shovel and slowly, distractedly pile them up in a heap next to himself. Hudson watched him with an understandably sour face.

The sheer fact that Wharton worked at all was already strange. He would usually leave the peasants to it and set to rest somewhere under a tree, harass a good-looking patient, or, as of late, hide in the bushes with Nikki. The nurses knew better than to force him to work. Yet today he obliged. Was that the effect of Nikki’s revenge?

Oh god, this was gonna be bad. Very bad.

“Whatcha looking at?” Nikki followed him to the bush. “Ogling Vince, huh? I mean, he’s not in his best shape but there’s still a lot to look at-“

“He doesn’t look happy at your reunion,” Mick interrupted him.

“Oh, he’s just pissed at learning my lesson. He’ll get over it when, as you said, his balls fill up.”

Mick rolled his eyes. When Nikki was in this mood, it was impossible to make him treat something seriously, just as during his depressive episodes it was impossible to convince him to take things more lightly. His manic depression completely erased his middle ground; he was only capable of extremes.

Eventually they were shooed away from the bush closer to the patient crowd because McKagan couldn’t keep an eye on them and other patients at the same time. Wharton didn’t try to confront Nikki; he scarcely spared him a look. Before the canteen duty today Mick would rejoice. Now he only grew warier.

And so time passed until lunch, when they were gathered into pairs and ushered to the canteen. Wharton walked in the very back alone, at a sizeable distance from the rest. Mick saw him pull Hudson by the arm and say something to him with a sleazy smile, to which Hudson responded with a shove in the side that didn’t seem to discourage Wharton in any way whatsoever. Hudson must have lost a draw among nurses on who would herd Wharton today, now that he was finally out of the padded cell. Mick felt sorry for him. For Hudson, of course.

Tommy didn’t show up at lunch, which was slightly concerning – Simmons certainly hadn’t arranged a meeting with the doctor for him, but Mick hoped his special status would have helped him get away with it relatively unscathed. But that was not what worried him the most.

And he turned out to be right in his worry. Because just as lunch began, Wharton got up from the table, came up to Nikki and dumped a whole plate of soup over his head. Thankfully, the soup had already gone cold, but Nikki was still unpleasantly surprised. He shook his head, sending carrot and potato pieces flying, and dumped his own plate on Wharton.

Then the two, wet and greasy, began rolling on the floor trying to choke each other. Mick couldn’t break up the fight even if he wanted to because of his back, and while nurses were gathering their wits to intervene Nikki caught one in the eye and Wharton lost some of his hair. Then the nurses dragged them away from each other, and the only thing they had left was sending each other angry gazes.

The nurses took them right to Dr. Duren, and everyone continued eating as if nothing had happened. Under Duren, who harshly punished violence of any kind, fights were rarer but not unheard of. But Nikki and Wharton never fought before, even though their relationship was rather turbulent. Did it mean the end of it? Mick sure hoped so. If a cold plate of soup dumped on him couldn’t bring Nikki back to his senses and make him cut all ties with the bastard, nothing could.

Mick sighed, shook off a carrot that had landed on his sleeve and got down to his soup.

#motley crue #nikki sixx #motley crue fanfiction #tommy lee #vince neil #my writing #mick mars #guns n roses #slash #motley crue fanfic #asylum au #we the psychos #wrote this in between all those damn assignments i have to do #still have a couple to finish but i dedicated today to finishing the chapter because i've really been too slow with it #mick is just tired of everyone's bullshit

24 notes · View notes

plush-rabbit · 3 months

Text

part two to the unnamed chapter from like a few days ago!! honestly, im suprised people liked it. like i didnt think it would get good stuff. like i dindt think it was bad, but im like the hype has died down anyways!! we meet the man, the myth, the devil himself!!

Word Count: 4.8K

You can hardly keep your eyes open. Even with the soft yellow glow of the light, it's far too bright for you. Shutting your eyes only brings you a bit of solace. You're somewhere soft, something light and feathery pulled over you, and you shift your shoulder blades to pull your wings closer to your body, and instead you sob, the pain sharp and unforgiving to your frail body.

Did you fall? No, maybe you slept on them wrong. You don’t have to think about stretching your wings, it was always second nature, as easy as blinking and as easy as moving your arm. You’d stretch your wings, and you’d ask Adam to help you preen your wings. You shift, and something feels empty, it feels light, lighter than air. You can’t remember your wings feeling so light, not unless you were flying. You’d hate to have messed up your wings over something as frivolous as falling.

Memories rush in, fragmented, only the beginning pieces clear enough for you to remember. Your eyes snap, and you’re met with harsh lighting. You see nothing but wood and stone, and a home that is not yours, and you groan into something soft under you. Moving your arm is painful, it feels bent and sore, and you reach for feathers, and find nothing. Your cries bury themselves into something plush, something that soaks your tears and drool and leaves only a patch behind. A hand pats softly against your arm, and you flinch.

A voice shushes out to calm you. “It's okay. You're safe. I'm not here to hurt you,” they whisper. “Just relax, and try not to move. You still haven't recovered.”

Even if they speak softly to you, it's far too loud. The words echo in your head, and attempting to think about where you are and who you're with is making you nauseous. Or perhaps it's the sickly honeyed scent that is thick in the air.

“‘S too sweet,” you slur, clawing at fabric beneath you. You regret speaking, the movement making your already sore jaw ache further, the joints pushing into your splitting skull. Your head pulses and your mouth is cotton filled, thick and impossible to speak. “Where?” You hope that someone will give you an answer to where you are. Or at least what you're on.

“Oh, thank you,” a voice chirps.

“Don't think it was a compliment Bee,” a thick accent says in a hushed voice.

“Well I'm taking it as one,” the voice huffs.

“You're at my home,” the gentle voice is back. “You're in a spare bed. Just try to relax.” You can’t relax with all the sound, and when you try to tell him that, you only murmur, slurring letters together. “I know, I know.” He doesn’t, but you can’t correct him. “Just try not to move so much.” It's quiet again, a silence that stretches and fills the void with nothingness. The smell and the shuffling of bodies is the only indication that you aren’t alone, that you haven’t been left yet.

“Luci, mate, you sure it's a good idea to have an angel laying around?” You hear the chime of bells, and you want everything to stop.

“They aren't an angel,” a voice retorts. A hand places itself over your bicep, and squeezes you softly.

“Yeah, but like, it’s still a bit dangerous, isn’t it?” The voice is much more feminine, and you can hear a buzz when they speak, a low hum that doesn’t stop. “Having one of them just on your bed.”

“A spare bed,” the voice corrects. The bed dips beside you, your fingers tap against the mattress. “It was dangerous when we were first here,” snapping at the other, before sighing. “It’s been a long time since another angel has fallen.”

“Lucifer, honey,” this voice is smoother than the others, and you wish they would all stop talking. “What’s the plan here?” Someone makes a noise of confusion. “They aren’t an angel anymore, if anything, they’re a walking target. We don’t even know if they’re an Exorcist.”

“Heaven hasn’t cast out an Angel in so long,” the voice says softly, a finger tracing shapes onto your arm. “And I highly doubt they’re an Exorcist. I can almost- I’m positive that they aren’t.”

An Exorcist. That’s what they think. Lute flashes in your mind, and Adam follows, weapons ready, and thinking hurts far too much. You groan, nuzzling into the pillow, trying to tune out the sounds. You need them to stop talking.

A hand pats at your arm, and soon you feel fingers tangle themselves into your hair. Fingertips ghost alongside the tender part of your scalp. The voice hushes you, lulling you back into a state of unconsciousness. “I’m sorry,” they whisper, “we must be too loud for you.”

“Lucifer, I know you’re still-” the person pauses- “upset-” they sound unsure of the word they’re using- “about the last few years, but you can’t take on a pity project.”

Lucifer. They keep saying- oh shit. You let out a whimper. You don’t know if you’re thankful for being found by him, or if it’s a curse to be found by him. He shushes you once more, massaging gently at your scalp.

��Yeah-” the buzzing is louder this time- “you know, if you were lonely, you could have just said something. I got some cute little hounds that need loving homes, ya know? And uh, they’re cute-” they hiss that word and you furrow your brows- “and practically housebroken.”

“Luci, it’s not like they’re worth much. I mean look at ‘em. I don’t even think I remember seein’ them back up when we were there, so they gotta be new or somethin’.”

The hands still, fingertips pressing into the tenderness of your head. You let out a low sound, and give a soft nudge of your head for the person- Lucifer you presume, to let go. He apologizes, soothing over the spot where he’s touched. “It’s not- They aren’t a pity project. This isn’t that. Don’t you remember how bad it was. How painful it was to fall. At least we had each other. We were stronger than most angels.” You wish they would all stop talking. Especially when they refer to falling, you can't stand to hear it. “They have no one. This is- I just want them to feel safe.” His words come to a slow stand, and if it didn’t hurt to cry, you’d sob at the reminder of your punishment. “Their wings were ripped from them, they weren’t even allowed to heal.”

“Well it ain’t like Heaven is known for their leniency.”

“Listen, Lucifer, we’re just saying that you’ve been having a lot of big emotions recently, and maybe nursing someone back to health isn’t what you need right now.” Lucifer- at least you’re assuming- makes a noise in protest at what the other voice is stating. “What’s the long-term plan, hm? You fix them and then what? Do they live here? Do you kick them out? Take them over to Charlie?”

The room is still, the buzzing has quieted down to a hum, and you feel sleep grasp onto you once more. “You should all go.” The group protests immediately, voices overlapping one another, the buzzing higher, and scent of sweets and leather grows and irritates you further. Your head pounds, banging against your skull. You shift, pulling at the wounds, and a cry muffles itself into your pillow. “It’s okay, you’re okay” the voice says in a hushed voice, palms pressed flat against you, cooling your feverish body. “I’ll give you something right now to help the pain.” He clears his throat away from you. “I have to think about things. I’ll make sure to give you updates as they come along, but for now, I’ve taken up enough of your time.” He pauses. “You should return back to your rings.”

The buzzing quiets down, and footsteps shuffle out. It's a mess of steps, puttering and pattering along the floor, and the sound is [welcomed] by silence. A door clicks shut, and you hear no lock.

Thinking if you're a prisoner or not is too much of a task right now. The strength of the saccharine scent has left with its owner, and instead now gently wafts in the air. Somewhere on the other side of the room, you hear a sigh.

“I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have been having that conversation with you in the room.” You let out a short huff in response. “It won’t happen again, okay? We must have been loud for you, huh?” With all the strength that you can muster, you give a short nod. “Let me go get you something for the pain, okay?” You feel a soft hand over your bicep, giving you a soft squeeze. The hand lingers with fingertips that kiss over your skin in feather light touches as they pull away.

You drift between consciousness and unconsciousness, unable to fully sleep, but you don’t register anything that happens. All that you’re aware of is that someone is back in the room with you. He’s beside you, something plastic touching against your lips and the thick taste of medicine is bitter on your tongue.

“I’m going to light some incense, okay?” You’d rather he give you water or anything else to wash the taste off. “You just let me know if it’s too much.” The scent is much calmer compared to the sickly sweet one from earlier. “I had Belphegor send me some sleeping aids. I believe it’s the only reason you’re able to get some actual rest.” Your lips mouth the words “thank you”. Something soft and warm covers you, and you feel yourself sink further into the mattress. “I don’t know how much of your power was stripped, or how much you even had to begin with. Mammon was right about that, you are a newer angel, you might not even be able to do much other than heal.” His voice is growing harder to understand, it’s fading into the back, and sleep pulls you further in. “However, I wouldn’t ask you to even attempt to heal yourself- not in this state,” he whispers.

“Taste bad,” is all that you can mutter. Your head pounds, and it feels like it’s swelling. Each word that you speak is laid thick and slurred together. Every syllable only brings you sickness and an ache in your skull.

“I know,” he sighs. “The medicine here doesn’t taste good, but there’s not much that I can do about it.” A cloth dabs at your mouth. “Hell is supposed to be a punishment after all,” he says with a humorless laugh. “I’m- I’m sure that Heaven’s medicine is still divine as ever,” they mumble with a heavy weight on the words.

“Like nectar,” you speak softly, the memory of it faint on your tongue.

Something brushes along your face, and you feel the pull of sleep. “Yeah,” he breathes out, “like nectar.”

Knocking on the door disrupts your sleep. Something gargles sounds on the other side of the door. In your mind, it’s too faint to make anything out. You hear the squeak of the door open, and through bleary eyes, you make out two tall figures. Again, they speak to you, and you nod back to sleep.

You feel the latex of gloves touch your body, knuckles the brush against the nape of your neck and hands that grab your arms, ready to still you as you tense. “We’re just changing your bandages.” You shake your head. “It’ll be quick, just stay still.” You’d rather deal with an infection than with how the doctors treat you. You recall a voice making an argument that you’re not welcomed here, that you're an angel in a land of sin.

“No, no,” you mutter, tears staining your face and wetting the pillow. You feel the cold breeze on your back, whispering over your wounds. The stickiness of the gauze peels away from you, and you can smell the stench of it- metallic, rich and earthy. Something so sweet, and it disgusts you and the doctors.

Their hands grip tighter onto you, holding you down and you yelp. “Stay still.” You recall many moons ago how Lute told you something similar. How her words were laced with sorrow and false bravado. These doctors, these demons, spit the words at you, and hold you down.

Your hands claw at the mattress, your screams echoing against the wall, bouncing and ringing in your ears. Light blinds you immediately as your eyes flash open, and your head is head, pushed down onto the mattress, as curses are spit onto you. You’re in Hell. Your teeth find themselves tearing into the pillow, drool pooling into a puddle and tears slipping down.

“Just,” they grunt, and press firmly down on your back, “stay still.” You gasp for breath, kicking and digging your knees into the bed. “Please,” they beg, and you fall, your body limp and heavy on the bed.

As quick as it started, it ends just as quick. You’re left sobbing, gasping for breath, and despite the pain, and tearing open the wound, you hug yourself, your nails scratching against the cloth. They’ve placed it far too tight for you.

Only a few weeks pass when you’re finally cognitive. When your head isn’t splitting at every noise, and you can move somewhat without risking any pain or even your fear of opening the wounds back open. You stay as still as possible, and try not to do any sudden movement that would stretch your back. Lucifer has attempted to reassure you that you’re fine now, that combined with Hell’s magic and his own blessing, you should be fit to move around. Of course, you will be sore, that can only go away with time.

“You’ll be left with scars. That can’t be helped,” he told you, his eyes focused on how your hands fist the blanket, “but you’ll be okay.” He gives you a tender smile, and you cling to it in the night.

Once you were in a proper headspace, you knew you shouldn’t have been surprised to know that it was him taking care of you. From what you can faintly recall in one of the many conversations that he’s had in the room as you recovered, he knows what it’s like to be cast out.

However, you are surprised at how caring and patient he is. That despite you being able to do most things on your own without stumbling, he is still beside you, keeping you company and comforting you when he has to change the bandages. He hardly lets anyone else do it after you complained about doctors accidentally wrapping the bandages too tight. His gentleness is a mask for his pity, and he can never meet your eyes without looking away.

You’re laid on your stomach, and your only entertainment is wondering what could be inside the bedside drawers. While moving does not cause as much discomfort as it once did, you don’t risk stretching. You sit straight, and you look at the wall, and dare not to stretch your arms. Pillows have been fluffed and placed to create a soft barrier between you and the headboard of the bed. Knuckles rap against the door in a rhythm, and you stare at the wall in front of you. You wait for a second, and with a breath, you allow for the person to enter.

“Hello,” Lucifer calls. “I’ve brought you some fruit. I’m sure that you must have been feeling peckish.” You give no reply. “I uh- I also brought some books.” The bowl of fruit is balanced above the small stack of books. “I was thinking that I’ll get you a television or something soon. But maybe some literature would be good for you.” He rests the tower on the dresser, and grabs the bowl between his hands.

You should reply to him. You should tell him thank you- not just for the books and the bowl of fruit, but for housing you, for caring for you. But you cannot. Not when he’s a constant reminder of where you are.

“I was wondering if there was any type of genre that you might like.” He sounds hopeful, wanting to continue a conversation with the husk in front of him. “It would be no trouble to get them to you.”

His smile is stretched thin, and it looks painful. All of this is painful. Your eyes flitter over to the fruit bowl, and you wonder how you’d feed yourself when stretching your arms still pulls at the scars.

“Would you like some?” He leans towards you, and you have the mental image of being some hurt bird being nursed back to health. “I had some demons go over to Earth and get some for you. I thought you’d prefer this over the food that we have here. Since you aren’t accustomed to Hell’s food, yet.” You stay silent, and after a moment he sighs. His heels click against the floor, and the bowl is placed on your lap. “You know,” he starts, “it would help if you talked. I know what you’re going through, and you can’t- you shouldn’t isolate yourself.” When you refuse to answer, he sighs. “Well, if you need something, just let me know.”

Despite not wanting to be here, of not having any need to want to continue your existence, you have grown a strong dislike of being alone in this room. You have no idea if he’s isolating for your own safety, or for some other nefarious reason. He clasps the door knob around his hand, and twists it. You wet your lips, and you need someone to talk to.

“Lucifer?” You croak out, and you surprise yourself with your voice. You hadn’t heard it in so long, past the screaming and the tears. He turns to you, taking a step closer, and his hand returns the door knob to its closed position. “Can you stay?” You feel sick looking at the fruit. “Please?”

With a gentle smile, he nods his head. “Of course.” He grabs a chain from the corner of the room and carries it to sit beside you. It’s a deep wooden color, intricate designs carved into the legs of the chair, and a deep red cushion that is stitched into the seat and the back.

The silence between the two of you is broken by the crunch of the fruit. You pierce a grape with the silver tines of the fork, and your body aches with the movement to bring it up to your mouth. The sweet juice does nothing to aide in your brooding and the awkward silence.

He’s right, and you know that. You have to try. He’s the only contact that you have. Adam always hated how you’d hide your emotions, how you rather shut the world off, and at least that hasn’t changed since your falling. You need to talk to him. You can see the attempt that Lucifer has been making in order to keep you happy, to make your time here just a bit more bearable. You suck in your lower lip, and let your tongue brush over where your teeth have grazed.

“I was promised a trial,” you start. His eyes are on you, and you see him fiddle with his tie. “They promised it would have been fair.” You frown, and shake your head, an ache heavy in your chest. “I was so hopeful that it would have been.” The fruit is bitter on your tongue and you force yourself to swallow it.

After a moment’s silence, he speaks. “Who would have been the judge?”

The apple is pierced between your teeth, the skin ripping from the flesh of the apple. It was cute with care, no hint of the core tarnishing the fruit, ripe and perfect, only to be mauled by your teeth. “Father.” You swallow the fruit. “Or perhaps one of the Virtues.” Oranges are peeled, torn apart from the other slices, the piths of white removed. “I was worried that I would have fallen, even before I was given my verdict. My-” you look at Lucifer, and you remember who he has stolen- “I feared that I would have fallen, because I didn't matter. No one questions Heaven’s beliefs, not since-” you glance at him, and he turns his head- “I was sure I would have met the same fate.” The sweetness of the strawberries make your jaw tingle and ache. “And I did.”

“I’m sorry.” You hold the fork tightly, the silver pressing into the flesh of your palms. “The fear you had must have been,” he pauses, “intense.”

There is no one better who understands, other than Lucifer himself. You nod, and let the fork ding against the glass of the bowl. “I was good. I did what was needed of me, I didn’t dare speak out of turn.” You think of how Adam would run his mouth, how every other word would be a curse, would be of anything lewd. “Perhaps I wasn’t as good as I thought I was. Not if a question were enough to have me expelled from Heaven.”

A gloved hand reaches, and falls just before your thigh. A gold band hugs at his finger, and you’re surprised to have yet seen his wife. Feeling your stare, he turns his hand, and lets the other fingers hide the symbol of matrimony.

“Sometimes, that’s all it takes,” he says quietly, his tone soft, and wistful. “But, if it makes you feel any better, Hell has some redeeming qualities. It’s not all pain and suffering.” You look at him, and he gives you a smile. “We have an amusement park. There’s a uh-” he scratches the back of his neck, his gaze pointed elsewhere and checks flushing- “ride modeled after me.”

The corners of your lips turn, and you narrow your eyes at him. “After you?” You ask, an elfish tinge laced into your words.

“Shaped like my head.” A finger makes a circle in front of his face.

You scoff out a laugh, and the sound surprises you. You attempt to hide the smile, but when the corners still turn upwards, you look at your lap. “You are the Avatar of Pride after all,” you tell him, the lilt faint on your words.

“It’s actually very impressive,” he points out. “A whole ride dedicated to my likeness.”

“The line for it must be awful.” The juice of the fruit is thin on your tongue. “Heaven has zoos. There’s an area where you get to feed the birds out of the palm of your hand.” You push the fork upwards with the knuckle of your index. “They hardly ever peck your palm, but when they do, we call them kisses from one of Father’s creations.”

He snorts, and shakes his head. His smile is soft, and there's a lingering sadness to it before it falls. “Down in the Wrath ring, there are livestock shows where you’ll find horse bucking and catching the flamed greased pig.” You give him a look, and he smiles. “It’s not as nice as the zoo, I’m sure, but it’s just as entertaining.” He leans back on his chair. “Sometimes I would take my daughter.”

“Your daughter?” You knew of his wife, but you hadn’t realized that they had a child. “I didn’t know you had a daughter.”

He winces, and nods sheepishly. “Charlie,” he tells you her name. “I think you’d like her- she’s peppy.” He gives you a tense smile, and looks away. “We don’t talk as much as we used to.”

You frown. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

He shakes his head, and lets out a sigh. He sits straighter, and pulls his shoulders back. “How are the bandages?” You roll your ankles, unsure what to make of the sudden shift in conversation. “They’re not too tight are they?” It’s not your place to pry, and you don’t want to make him uncomfortable when he’s the one caring for you.

“No, Lucifer,” you answer. “They’re fine. Thank you.”

He nods, and you can tell he’s grown uncomfortable now. You don’t blame him. “Of course. I wanted to make sure that you were comfortable. As much as possible.”

A silence befalls between the two of you. You bite into the fruit, and force yourself to swallow it. The nectar is sweet and makes your jaw ache. Beside you, Lucifer clears his throat, and you turn to him.He looks away, his eyes trained on the walls.

“If I may ask, I- Well you see, you know my name-” he looks at you again, and you tap your nails against the glass- “and I don’t know yours.” Your eyes widen, and you try to think back on when you might have whispered your name to him, but you can’t recall it. “I just- I was thinking since you’re here, and I’ve changed your bandages, I thought, that I should be calling you by your name.”

“My name?” You whisper, and you feel silly for keeping it close to you. For just a fraction of a second, for some far away thought to be held, that you didn’t want to share the last thing that ties you to Heaven.

“If only that’s okay. If not, we can come up with a nickname or something.”

You shake your head. You’ve kept your name to yourself, and you wonder if your pain-induced haze, if he’s ever asked you for it. You stretch your lips, and wet your tongue. “Did you ever ask for it,” you hold the words on your tongue, and they are heavy like wine, “when I was in and out?”

“Yes,” he confesses. “You wouldn’t answer.”

A name given by Heaven; whispered to you gently in the arms of Father, as sunlight shined down upon you and warmth surrounded you in your creation. It’s silly, and childish to cling to it, to hold onto it like a child holds onto their blanket, but it’s all that you have left. Everything else was stripped from you, taken and tossed aside, and you wonder if your name even holds any significance back home.

You turn to Lucifer, and your name is heavy on your tongue, bitter like wine, and it’s your name, fitting you like a glove that will fit no other.

Lucifer repeats your name, whispering it under his breath, tasting it between his canines and tongue, and you watch him. Chills run down your spine, and the feeling is not unpleasant. He catches your eyes, and his cheeks flush, the red spots darkening, under your gaze. He calls your name once more, louder and clearer, want held between the vowels, as if to savor your name, to savor what you’ve given to him.

You nod, your chest aflame, as if you’ve done something scandalous. You can’t trust your voice, not when he's looking at you. Your knuckles feel as if it’s on pins, tingling and having you scratch against the bowl.

He glances at your lap. “Are you done?”

“Yes,” you breathe out rather quickly.

He reaches for the bowl, grabbing it by the rim and stands from his chair. You watch in silence as he pushes the chair back, letting it block one of the drawers from the nightstand. The bowl clinks against the mahogany of the dresser, and he grabs the books, flush against his chest.

“I hadn’t meant to leave the books so far from you,” he says, placing them on the nightstand. “They’ll be closer within your reach.” You nod, and peek over, reading the title of the first book. “I’ll be back in a few hours, if you need anything, feel free to call out. I’ll make sure to hear it.”

He walks away, his heels clicking against the floor, and you don’t want to be alone anymore. “Lucifer,” you call out, fisting the blankets in your hand. He turns around, pressing the bowl against his body, his hand wrapped tight around the doorknob, already opening it and stepping into the rest of his domain. You swallow nothing, and try not to think of anything other than gratitude. “Thank you for everything,” you tell him, sending him a thinned smile.

“Of course,” he calls your name in a sweet tone. “Whatever you need, just let me know.”

The door closes shut, and you let out a breath. Your hands fist at your shirt, grasping and you bite the inner corners of your lips, feeling the soft flesh of it be pierced by your teeth. It’s been far too long since you’ve had a gentle hand, since you’ve had someone be gentle with you. A hand reaches out and scratches along your bicep, pulling the skin and leaving soft arches across.

You hadn’t realized how much you would miss Adam.

129 notes · View notes