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littlegingerperson5 · 2 months

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Peek a boo

Perv!Sub Ellie x Dom!fem!reader

MDNI

Warnings: masturbation r! and Ellie, squirting, fingering, oral E!receiving, blindfold, tribbing, reader smacks Ellie’s face(non sexually), blood(non violent or menstral), dildo e! receiving💙

You knew Ellie like the back of your hand you knew what she liked you knew what she loved you knew her fears and what made her tick and apparently that all was you. Everything she does is you she lives and breathes you. Ellie obviously didn’t know you were aware of all this, to her all you knew is that you two met in collage and lived in the same flat to save money.

You both weren’t exactly close but you were polite to eachother you would say “hi” to her and she’d reply the usual “hello” shyly and scurry back to her room avoiding your gaze.

You’d be worried that she didn’t appreciate your company if it wasn’t for you catching her literally moaning your name in your bed with her nose nuzzled into your pillow, ass up and hands frantically moving in her boxers, the dark grey patch on the centre of the fabric standing out from the rest. You were supposed to be out all night but decided to come home early and head to bed because of a pounding headache, only to be greeted with such a pathetic yet ego boosting scene.

You never brought this up to her, instead you wanted to see how far she would take it and to be honest you loved the idea of this timid little nerd being completely obsessed with you.

Your tests started small, leaving your chapstick out in the morning just to find Ellie with a pink tint to her previously chapped lips and a guilty aura surrounding her when you got home but it grew thrilling to see just how addicted she was to you, you wanted to see her take this thurther leaving your white lace thong on the top of the dirty laundry pile, only to come home to all your clothes folded perfectly and smelling of fresh cotton outside your room door but your underwear was nowhere to be found and you’d have it no other way, to say the least, you found flattering and you loved the attention, so it became routine, you’d leave a pair of your underwear out every Friday morning and they’d be missing for you getting back home, only to show up randomly a week later.

What you loved to do was play with yourself moaning loudly into the night and no matter how late it was you’d hear little creaks on the floorboards outside your bedroom door and if you swallow your moans enough you can hear Ellie’s rapid breaths on the other side of your door and little wet squelches, after you came to the thought of Ellie getting off to just your moans you roll over tierd looking at the digital clock that read 4:32am. you hear her room door click close and a thud as she throws herself on her bed and sighs, you sigh with her. It was fun teasing her but you wanted more, you wanted to see her when she was whimpering and moaning and crying out in pleasure because of you, you wanted to see the tears stream down her freckled face and so you made it your mission..

You chose to give Ellie exactly what she gave you: a fucking show. There you were, in the exact same position you found her in that fateful night, ass up and head in your pillow your thong pulled to the side as you played with your dripping cunt, your room door swinging open and moans of Ellie’s name leaving your lips just loud enough for it to sound like your calling on her. You dipped your finger into your soaked entrance because just the thought of Ellie catching you like this had you fucking dripping, thrusting in and out of yourself and whimpering her name summoned her like magic, you heard that usual squeak of your floorboards knowing she’ll find you like this, you arch your back deeper and release the most sluttiest moan you’ve ever heard and shove a second finger into your weeping entrance “fffuck Ellie ri-right thereee ughh”. You hear a muffled groan, smiling to yourself you peek between your legs and you almost cum at the sight, Ellie leaning against your doorframe with a hand over her mouth, eyes close and her hand moving frantically in her trousers, her head tilted back in pleasure.

“ELLIE!??” you shout in faux shock pretending to try cover yourself, her eyes pop open and the colour drains from her face, she looks like she seen a ghost and tries to back away but trips up on her own two feet, falling on her ass, poor baby. You stand up walking towards her and she can’t even move. You admire the blush on her cheeks, the tears brimming in her eyes under her glasses and the slick glistening on her fingertips “i-i am so sorry” she sobs out and you shush her, extending a hand out to her, she grabs it fearing she could somehow make you more upset by refusing your hand. You pull her to her feet and regardless of height, she’s still practically cowering beneath you.

“aww Ellie were you watching me fuck myself?” You coo.

She doesn’t answer you, instead she stares at the floor silently.

So you slap her across the face, not too hard but enough for her to groan a little in pain as she rubs her cheek, staring at you stupidly, clearly in shock by your actions.

“answer me” you speak.

“yes” she practically barley whispers and she looks like she’s about to pass out, even in this situation she can’t help but scan your body in your underwear sheepishly admiring every curve. Wrapping your hand around Ellie’s wrist you walk her into your bedroom.

“Sit” you instruct tilting your head towards the bed and she does exactly as she’s told sitting on the edge of your bed. You don’t even glance at her as you walk to your wardrobe, leaning over to look through your drawers, putting your dripping pussy on display for her, your thong still pulled to the side, her breathing and squirming is the only sounds filling the room till you speak still looking through the drawers “strip”

“what?” she whispers

“don’t make me tell you twice Ellie”.

You listen to her shuffle for a bit before you stand straight and turn to face her, the sight of her in just her boxers make your cunt ache as trail towards the bed, a peice of pink fabric in your hands, you crawl on top of it and raise your hand to make a come hither motion at Ellie, the poor girl is practically shaking as she crawls towards you and sits between your legs, your hands trace her shoulders to try calm her down “did I look pretty?” You whisper.

“what?” She trembles between your legs

You huff “did I look pretty…with my fingers buried in my pussy ellie?” You place kisses on her shoulder.

She closes her eyes and squeeze her thighs together “Really pretty” she breaths out

“Did I make you wet baby” your lips graze her neck

“Y-yes” she whines

“You’re such a perv Ellie, I bet you wanna watch me suck on your pussy, do you want that?”

“Pleasee” tears are brimming in her eyes with desperation

“You don’t deserve that tho, do you ellie?”

She stays quiet, knowing the answer

“No you don’t get to see my lips wrapped around your pretty clit, do you?”

“Please, please”

You trail your fingertips to her inner thigh and her hips buck, her glasses sliding a little down her nose and she reaches up to push them back up but you stop her hand and pull the frames off her face placing them on the bedstand and she’s watches you curiously

“you’re not gonna need them” you reassure her.

She knows exactly what you mean, picking up the pink fabric, you hold your hand out and she places it gently in your hand “good girl” you say and peck her on the face, she whines at your actions “I don’t think you deserve to see me Ellie, not after letting me catch you being such a little perv”.

She squeezes her thighs together at the thought off you blindfolding her and fucking her “bet you wanted me to catch you, just want me to put you in your place baby huh?”

“Mmhm” she confirms,looking down, you follow her gaze and see a ridiculously large wet patch on her boxers, her slick literally leaking through them and onto your duvet, the sight makes your cunt throb, getting on your knees behind her, you’re squeezing your thighs together as you say “relax for me baby” she nods, playing with her hands in her lap and you reach round grabbing her chin pulling her into a sloppy kiss and she’s moaning into your mouth instantly, tongues rolling against eachother, wet smacking sounds filling the room, her drool landing on your chin as she grinds into the bed, your hand wraps loosely around her throat to get her attention

“you’re gonna do exactly as I say, and if you don’t I’ll stop do you understand?” She nods frantically “good fucking girl” you praise and her hand reaches down to touch her clit but you slap it and she yelps pulling her hand away “that’s mine now, understand?”

“Y-yes ma’am” you roll your eyes behind her head, of course she has a fucking ma’am kink.

“Your safe word is peach” you say placing the blindfold over her eyes and tying it behind her head “what’s your safe word?”

“Peach” she breaths out

“Good girl” you kiss the top of her head and stand off the bed “lie down for me angel”

“Yes ma’am” she whispers laying down, you look down at her admiraing her chest raising and falling with her heavy breaths, she looks so helpless like this, her hands gripping onto your sheets, all you want to do is make her feel good.

You stand at the bottom of your bed and Ellie gasps as you grip her ankle’s gently and pull her legs apart, crawling in between them, you kiss the tip of her pretty nose and you swear you see her lip twitch, it makes you blush, she truely is the most beautiful woman you have ever seen.

you place a barely there kiss onto her little smile “you’re gonna do exactly what I say and if you don’t I’ll stop, understand?”

“y-yeah” her shyness returning.

You hear her nervous breaths so you reach down and interlace one of your hands with hers, holding it besides her head to let her know that you’re not gonna hurt her..too much. She returns the touch by squeezing your hand tightly, you practically melt for this little geek.

You hold a kiss to her lips for a moment and pull away to kiss her jaw, your other hand trailing up and down the outside of her thigh, making goosebumps appear on her porcelain skin, your lips trail to her ear

“i could do anything I want to you…and you’d let me” you laugh

She’s nodding as you trail you teeth across the sensitive spot on her neck, she moans as you nip the skin there licking over it messily and pressing a wet kiss onto the purple skin, Ellie’s crying out like she’s already being fucked senseless.

You kiss the valley of her chest and peck your way to her pink nipple and flick it, she gasps as her hips buck into yours and you shush her “shh, I got you baby” you trace her waist as you suck on her sensitive nub, your hand catches her by surprise as it reaches up and tweaks the opposite nipple before your mouth laches onto it sucking and flicking, your spit practically coating her little breasts, it’s to much and not enough for her at the same time “p-please, please” she begs, defeated already, and you know what she wants, your lips barely touch her as you lightly trail them down her chest valley all the way to her auburn happy trail, you kiss the waistband of her boxers and press your lips onto her mound through them “can I take these off angel?” You whisper against her skin

“Please” she pleads, nodding.

You hook your fingertips into her waistband and pull, relishing in the sound of the fabric separating from her wet, sticky folds and the soft gasp that leaves her lips when your warm breath hits her throbbing clit. you trail both your hands lightly up her inner thighs and push them apart dipping your head and licking her outer lips that were already soaked in her precious slick, “ughh” her hips buck towards your face, one of your hands push onto her belly to shove her deep into the matteress, you experimentally lick across her clit and moan at the taste of her, suddenly becoming insatiable you begin licking and sucking on her precious clit messily, her slick coating your nose down, she’s squirming as you begin licking up and down her sensitive folds, tasting all her essence, you suck on her labia as you make your way down to her entrance and circle it, shes pulsing, desperately trying to suck you in.

“plea-ahh!” she squeals as you push your tongue into her warmth, your nose brushing her wet clit, she instantly laces her fingers into your scalp and starts to ride your face, her thighs pressing against your jaw and hips bucking up, you pull your pink muscle out and shove it in again, she’s practically crying out above you as you feel her belly contracting under your palm, you shove your face deeper into her suffocating yourself with her womanhood as you hook your arms around her thighs, her walls are squeezing on you, “d-don’t, don’t stop, umgonnacum uhhh pleaseee” she cries out.

You turn your face to the side cutting off contact with her and she practically starts to cry above you as she desperately humps your cheek trying to seek any friction, you lift your head “you cum when I tell you to cum” you instruct.

“Please please, I’m sorry” she sobs out, just desperate to cum.

“oh you will be” you breathlessly laugh out…

“Eleven, fffuck t-twelve-” she sobs out as you push your finger in and out of her leaking entrance, she wants to squeal your name but she knows if you she stops counting you’ll also stop, shes already fucked up once making you restart when you where in the thirties.

You ram into her harshly

“ahh please” her thighs are twitching

“Number?” You ignore her pleads

“Th-thirteen, can I cum”

“N-” you’re cut off when she interrupts you with her begging

“Pleasee” as she squeals as she clamps onto your finger

You slap the outside of her thigh harshly and shove a second finger inside her, thrusting to punctuate every word “no.ellie.you.can’t.”

You thrust into her a few more times and you feel her walks clamp tightly onto you, her thighs squeeze your forearm and she’s pleading “sorry” repeatedly, knowing that she can’t stop herself from what she’s about to do any longer, and you let her, knowing you can use this as a reason to punish her. she squeezes your fingers so tightly you can’t even move them anymore and she’s writhing above you, her hands dug into the sheet beneath her as she screams your name, pearlescent cum leaks from her, all down your fingers and palm, dripping onto your duvet, you kiss her navel as her breathing steadies she holds onto your hair gently, you slowly begin thrusting into her again and she can’t take it as she feels you speeding up “s’to much” she squeals clamping onto your fingers again, you pull your finger out her and she whines in disappointment, only to scream when you push in a third finger and slam into her repeatedly hitting her sweet spot, her nails are digging into your forearm, light specs of blood treakling down your arm “stop stop pleasee” she sobs

You lean down and suck her clit a few times

“doesn’t sound like the safe word”

“Please” she sounds so weak

“Thought you wanted to cum, fucking slut” you end the sentence with another hard thrust and flick your tongue across her clit and she can’t even speak as she wraps her legs around your head and squirts all across your face, you still inside her and flick her clit a couple more times, feeling her almost crush your fingers, you hear her sob and almost feel a little bad, pulling out of her and crawl up her to kiss her passionately “th-thank you” she says into the kiss.

You were supposed to be punishing her, but apparently she liked getting treated like a fucking whore.

“I hope you don’t think I’m done with you” you say.

“I know” Ellie confirms..

You’re thrusting the faux dick softly in and out of her, hand on the base as you roll your tongue across her bud, the taste of her had you literally salivating, you close your eye’s, listening to her whines and pleads and you fucking can’t take it anymore.

“Take it off” you beg but she can’t hear you past herself, moaning loudly. You squeeze her hip to get her attention and her head whips in your direction.

“Ellie, take it off, please”

Her hand reaches up and she shakily pulls the blindfold off, her teary green eyes locking onto yours, you look up at her, taking her whole clit into your mouth sucking and flicking at it, she grabs your hand that’s pressing on her lower belly, interlacing her fingers with yours and she starts to tremble a little “p-please ahh oh my god” her hips are twitching “don’t stohp” she whines as a white ring starts to form at the bottom of your dick as you quickly speed up your pace pushing in and out of her, her orgasm takes over her, legs spasming and belly contracting, you slow down your thrusts and lay your head on her inner thigh admiring as her bud twitches. You pull out hearing her whine at the feeling of being empty, you peck her pink fluttering clit and she hums at the sensation, you kiss her lower belly and look up to her face watching the tears roll down her freckled cheeks as her eyes are close in bliss, you crawl up her body and kiss her on the lips, both hands on her chest. She opens her eyes slowly and stares into yours her arm hooked around your waist, you pause admiring the sight you’ve made out of her.

Her hand reaches up cautiously and pulls your bra cup down a little and starts to play with your nipple, you moan at the touch “wha-ughh what are you doing?”

“you never got off” she says, concerned about your pleasure

“It’s okay baby”

“No, no it’s not” she huffs and kisses you again

You pull away “you’re right angel, you got one more in you?” you smile

she closes her eyes preparing herself for what’s about to come and takes a deep breath “yes”…

Your pussy is above hers, your slick landing on her clit, you press your warmth onto hers fully you both are breathing heavily as you drag yourself across her, moving your pelvis forward and backwards, her hips matching your rhythm, your holding each others hands, your face on the side of her neck breathing down her skin as you rut against eachother, tears welling in your eyes and squeezing around nothing, your clit is beating against hers as warm tears roll down your face your voice raising in pitch, the only thing you can think and feel is ellie, her name leaving your mouth like a prayer on loop

“D-don’t stop” she begs as your flesh becomes one, heat burning off each others skin as ellie desperately presses her lips to yours breathing life into you as she cums onto you, her body shakes, her clit banging against yours repeatedly and your head dips agains her chest as you tremble above her and your orgasm crashes over you, you cum, squirting onto her, your limbs growing weak, some of your release dripping into her as you collapse against her, chest to chest, both of you close your eyes and the only sound filling the room is the sound of each others gasps for air

You feel like your heart is swelling out of your chest as tears well in your eyes, you feel genuinely happy for the first time in years, “I love you Ellie” you speak into the silence.

“I love you too” she whispers, you press your lips to hers and she sobs into your mouth, you feel her hot tears against your skin “it’s okay baby, I got you” and now your the one crying, hands wrapping around eachovers bodies “I love you” she says again against your lips.

“I love you too Ellie” you reassure her.

You both lay there limbs and hands intertwined, head in the side of her neck as you fall asleep as one, the warm sunrise shining through your window and landing on your shared flesh…

#ellie x masc reader #ellie x black!reader #ellie williams x reader #ellie x you #ellie x y/n #ellie x fem reader #ellie x reader #ellie smut #ellie the last of us #sub ellie williams #ellie williams #ellie tlou #abby x black reader #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson #abby x fem!reader #abby anderson x female reader #abby the last of us

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darkniters · 8 months

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jschlatt who whispers to you

twitch dot tv slash jschlatt is online, and you’re well aware due to the loud personality voice schlatt has put on in the other room.

“WHAT THE FUCK!” he yells, the sound echoing throughout the house. you usually check into his streams, but right now your busy figuring out your hours for work and are in no need for distractions.

you look around the living room quickly for a red pen, needing to circle something on the page, but your efforts deem useless. you suddenly remembered schlatt took one into his office with him to do a bit.

you didnt want to find a different red pen because you knew where that one was, so you quietly make your way down the hall before schlatts office.

his fans figured out about you through a lot of bits schlatt would make where he would tag you on twitter or tag any girl he posts on instagram with your username, so you weren’t a private couple, but you still weren’t twitch or youtube public.

you open the door timidly, trying to bring as little attention to yourself as possible. unfortunately for you, the shitty tiktok schlatt was watching just ended, and his spiel afterwards was done.

his head whipped to your direction, and he gave you a grin. you gave him a smile back, and he reached his hand out for you to grab.

you grab ahold of it and make your way behind his chair, head resting on the back of it as your hands snake their ways around his neck.

he speaks briefly to his audience, as he rocks the chair gently from left to right, moving your head along with it. before he looks up at you, eyes full of stars like he’s seen the greatest thing of the entire universe.

“whats wrong?” he whispers, gently. its not a breathy whisper, its just making his voice quieter so the mic can’t pick it up as well (it does still pick it up)

“i know you have a red pen in here and i really need it” you whisper quieter, the mic unable to hear you at all due to you being farther away and also a lot less loud than schlatt.

“oh right yeah,” he reaches to the left of his desk, and grabs the pen. “just be careful its a bit finicky.” he mumbles. his hands reach up to where yours rest around his shoulders, and he gently brings it to his lips, kissing the back of your palm gently.

you smile, take the pen from his grasp, and then peck your head down to kiss the crown of his head, his hair ticking your face. you then break away from him, and thats when you remember he was still live. your face briefly flushes.

schlatt also seemed to have forgotten, as he stares at you grinning as you leave, before he brings his full attention back to the screen. the chat is running like crazy, simply saying your name in all caps and many awws. schlatts cheeks are painted red.

“alright alright chat moment of weakness, lets get a move on.” he continues to stream, but it seems after that encounter; he seemed much happier for the remainder duration of the time live.

#jschlatt x reader #jschlatt x you #jschlatt hcs #jschlatt headcanons #schlatt x reader #schlatt x you #schlatt hcs #schlatt headcanons

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hellishjoel · 6 months

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scream queen

6.6k / pairing: ghostface!joel miller x f!reader

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summary: A stalker outside your window at night forces you to beg for your life in more ways than one. You do what it takes because you're a survivor. And you kind of like the mask on. A/N: please heed these warnings, as they can be triggering for some individuals. No one is forcing you to read this, and if it sounds unappealing, please keep scrolling. This is far different from what I usually post, but I’m feeling spooky and have rewatched the entire Scream franchise in 72 hours. Indented chat means ghostface’s voice changer is on. Thank you to Emmie @hyzer34 for the FREAKING AMAZING ghostface!joel edits!

warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), horror, dark ghostface!joel, dubious consent (dubcon via manipulation/guilt/survival), reader has a boyfriend (what a drag) so I guess cheating/infidelity, swearing, taunting/stalker behavior, masked anonymous individual, strip show to save a life, male masturbation, threat of violence/death, begging for life, manhandling, spanking, rough oral (face fucking)(m!receiving), pet names, praise kink, degradation kink, clit smacking (?), life-threatening knifeplay, unprotected sex (p in v), the mask stays on ladies, plot twist ending? very barely edited heads-up

You gasp shakily as his hand carefully caresses your tit, thumb featherlight over your nipple, before he cups and lightly squeezes your juicy flesh. You swallow down a lump and cower before him. You’re afraid for when he goes lower what he might find, how your slick is dampening your thighs, and your clit is pulsating for him. You need him. It’s sick, gross, disgusting, but you need him. “Please, Mr.,” you trail off, unsure of what to call him. “Ghostface.” He aids, and you quickly nod as your lips part. Your worst fear is coming true as his calloused hand and rough fingertips guide themselves further down the soft skin of your stomach and to your panties. “Please, Mr. Ghostface, I’ll do whatever you want me to do.” You can’t help but feel tears welling in your eyes once more. The masked man sighs and slowly shakes his head in shame. “I don’t think it’s about what I want to do to you. But what you want me to do to you.”

It was a quiet fall evening. You sat on your boyfriend’s couch, ankles crossed along the extent of the cushions as you leafed through what was available on different streaming services. You wanted something spooky for Halloween but not something that would over-excite your imagination while alone. You’re wearing the same thing he left you in, red panties and an oversized black tee you had snagged from his closet.

You figure your boyfriend should be home soon, so you start a bag of popcorn in the microwave. You sit up on the counter and kick your feet gently against the cabinets as you watch the time tick down, listening to each pop as it slowly rattles up its pace.

Your phone’s ring catches your attention back in the living room. You assume it’s your boyfriend as you hop off the counter and swipe it from the arm of the chair.

Unknown Caller

With a roll of your eyes, your tongue rutting out against your cheek, you deny the call. Probably a wrong number or an asshole troll since Halloween was nearing. You’re about to turn back to the kitchen, hearing the popcorn bag rattling with intensity when your phone goes off again.

Stopped in your tracks, you watch your phone buzz with uncertainty as the screen flashes with the Unknown Caller tag once more.

All of a sudden, the air is tight in your lungs, and your body is riddled with goosebumps. Now you were annoyed. You slid across the call button and pushed the phone to your ear.

“You have the wrong number. Stop fucking calling me.” You jam the blaring red end call button before huffing and returning to your popcorn.

The timer slowly counts down, but each pop from the bag makes you jump. 5… 4… 3… 2… 1…

Your body jolts as you hear something pound against the windows, throwing yourself back against the counter with wide eyes.

“What the fuck!” You gasp as you rotate your head, searching from open window to open window where the banging was coming from. But there was nothing. No one. Your heart rate is slowly increasing, you can feel it jumping in your wrist and your neck.

Your feet quickly skid across the room, locking the house’s back door before running back towards the front entrance, flicking the lock in place. Even if it was nothing, at least you were safe.

Standing still in the entryway, you observed the home to be dead quiet. Your fears were still nesting on your shoulders, that you weren’t alone.

Your phone rings again, causing you to jump from the silence you had grown used to. With a distasteful grimace, you glance around as you walk towards your phone. You accept the call with hesitancy.

“Who is this?” You ask, already maneuvering around the house and shutting all the curtains and blinds in your wake. “Whoever the hell you are, just stop fucking calling me.” You try not to let the panic that’s sitting in your throat be exposed over the phone. Whoever has called you hasn’t spoken yet.

“Hello?” You ask, pausing in the kitchen as you finish your rounds around the first floor.

“Now that is how you answer a phone call.” The voice isn’t familiar, it’s almost… animatronic? It didn’t sound like a person, but the languidness of their voice was all too human. It was low, primal.

Now, you’ve seen these movies before, you weren’t an idiot, and you weren’t going to be one tonight.

“What are you going to ask me? What’s my favorite scary movie?” You taunt, yanking the microwave door open and retrieving the piping hot bag of popcorn from inside, sucking in a harsh breath as your fingertips branded red from the heat.

The voice on the line laughs. It’s almost sinister, not at all comforting. You’re not even sure why you’re entertaining this jackass who’s calling you when all they’ve done so far is giggle at your expense.

“How did you even get this number, you fucking troll?” You probe, frowning as you squeeze your phone between your cheek and shoulder as you pry open the popcorn bag. Of course, it bursts, sending a few pieces scattered around the kitchen. You simply roll your eyes and sigh at the inconvenience.

“Why don’t you be a good girl and clean up the mess you made?”

You squat down to pick up the kernels you dropped, only realizing the extent of what the voice said a moment later. Your eyes widen, and your chest surges with panic. You look around, but all the windows are closed and covered. Was that just a lucky guess, or is someone watching you?

Out of instinct, you reach for the knife block on the kitchen counter and yank out the biggest one. The blade gleams silver in the light, and you realize how exposed you are.

You set down the knife on the counter and quickly move around the house, shutting off the lights and concealing you in a dim darkness.

“What happened to the show? Why did the curtain close?” The low, sinister voice asks, and you whimper quietly in your hand to conceal your fear. “I liked watching you walk around,” he pauses, and all you can hear is your heart pounding, “in those red little panties.”

You hate to admit that this flicks a nasty switch in you, chased and taunted, talked down to by an unknown figure. As much as you’re scared, a small churning begins low in your tummy, and you clench your thighs tighter together.

With a shaky breath, you nibble on your lower lip and slowly move towards the front windows. You slowly peek them open, seeing nothing but your reflection and darkness.

“Can you see me?” You ask nervously, licking at your lower lip.

“Ahhh, there she is.” The voice praises, forcing you to swallow a lump down your throat. “Push those curtains open all the way. Want to see all of you.” You shiver, and the pooling in your panties only becomes more urgent. Someone’s watching you, and they like what they see.

Following the anonymous caller’s instructions, you slowly push open the curtains, your body backlist by a dim light still on in the kitchen. The voice hums in appreciation.

You blame it on your state of panic for not thinking clearly or logically for that manner. This creep wanted you, you could hear the slight desperation clinging to their voice.

“Promise me you won’t fuckin’ harm me, and I-I’ll put on a show for you. Isn’t that what you want? You said you liked my panties.” You breathily point out, opting to put the phone on speakerphone and setting it down on the bench in front of the now curtain-drawn windows.

The voice on the other line hums, pondering your offer. A shiver rolls over your spine as you subconsciously cross your arms in front of your body, scared and nerve-wracked.

“You have a gorgeous body. Let me see it. All of it.” The voice echoes within the quiet home, and you blink back the fear that is resting heavily on your chest. You take in a shaky breath and do as you are told.

Your hands go to the hem of your top, about to lazily toss it off when you are tsk tsk-ed at. You frown and quickly pull the t-shirt back down.

“Not like that!” The voice barks, angry and condescending, making you whimper. The voice pauses and takes a breath. “Slower.”

“Slower..” you whisper back, hearing the voice hum. You still couldn’t see outside, merely darkness and your reflection. You were fucking terrified, but if this was what they wanted, just maybe they’d let you be.

You try again. Your hands slowly start at the sides of your neck, pretty and dainty fingers cascading down to your clavicle. You push one hand into the hair at the back of your neck, lightly ruffling the strands while the other skims lower to more dangerous territory.

The heel of your palm skirts down the front of your shirt until your fingers flitter over the hem of your panties.

It feels stupid what you’re doing, but it makes you feel alive. Your heart has never beat faster. You’ve never turned on a complete stranger, stalker, even. You were in control of the show here.

You’re not exactly sure what to look at in the window, so you admire the reflection. You hum sweetly as you hook your thumbs into the tops of your panties. You loop them around, from front to back, stopping at the sides and lightly pushing down to show glimpses of your hips.

The breathing on the other end shuffles. It almost makes you stop.

“This turn you on?” You ask. “Does this make you have your hand around your cock?” You ask into the phone, smiling lightly as you turn around, lifting up the shirt from covering your ass, giving them a peek-a-boo of you from the back.

The evil voice echoes a laugh. “How did you know?”

Being correct makes you all the more turned on. “How could you not?”

I mean, look at you. You looked gorgeous and confident, silhouetted by the light, awed by a strange man. You can hear them jerking it on the line, murmuring little grunts to try and not get ahead of themselves. The show had just begun.

With your back turned to the window still, you cross your arms over your threshold, retrieve your shirt, and lift it up and off of you. Your hair cascades and dances around your back and shoulders. You felt bare, cold. Part of you wished they would come inside and warm you up.

You peer over your shoulder, hearing the approving grunt on speakerphone. You bit on your thumbnail, looking through the glass with big doe eyes.

“You’re not so innocent, pretty girl. Let me see you.”

Now, with your body to show, you felt a bit more nervous. Your fingertips twitched, and you felt shaky on your legs. You did as the voice asked, turning to face the window. Your arms are crossed, covering your bare breasts meekly.

That’s when you see him. A masked man standing a fair distance away out your window. It quickens your pulse and surges you with adrenaline.

Yet you don’t run. You don’t hide.

Your eyes flitter down to their hand shuffling up and down the extent of their cock. The sight alone, even in the dark, being able to see his impressive length was enough to make you let out a needy whimper.

“I-I don’t know about this,” you whimper, your head falling a bit shamefully. It’s like your head caught up with your foolish actions.

“I’m warning you. Put down your fucking arms.”

You let out a shaky breath and wince at the voice, tears simmering on your waterline. You put yourself in this position, you can’t believe you thought this would work.

You slowly drop your hands to your sides, exposing your breasts. And how embarrassing they were, taut and at peaks. They were flush with color, begging for attention. You interlocked your fingers behind your back and chewed on your bottom lip, shyly looking down at the floor as you clamped your thighs tightly together.

“You’re a real beautiful girl,” the voice grunted, flattering you with attention. “Why don’t you let me in.”

The demand didn’t frighten you like maybe it should have. Frankly, you were turned on to the point where it nearly hurt. You didn’t know who this mystery person was or what their intentions were, but they were getting off to seeing you exposed, scared, and alone.

“Come on,” the voice continues. You hear shuffling, and when you look up, the masked man outside your window is gone. You move closer and peer outside, but it’s quiet. Empty.

“Let me take care of you, sweet girl.”

Breaths fans out hastily from your nostrils, panicked as you looked around slowly from the front entrance to the back.

The doorbell rings, and it makes you jump nonetheless.

You bite down on your bottom lip as you retrieve your phone and slowly cross to the door in just your socks and underwear. Your forearm covers your breasts. Your hand rests on the handle, but you have a hard time willing yourself to open it.

The doorbell rings again, another jump through your bones, but this time, it implores you to swing the door open. And there he was.

He was tall, you had to crane your neck to look up. Your lips part, doe eyes taking in how close he is, stepping back in shock at his appearance. Broad shoulders cloaked by a black hooded robe. It was tattered, lined with rips and tears at the seams that draped from his arms. He also wore large, black, combat boots. The scariest thing of all was the mask. It was white with black eyes and a sloped open black mouth.

Whoever was behind the mask was fit. Their toned body could be discovered even behind the robust black robe. He wore black gloves, too. You don’t realize that as you’re taking him in, the protective arm you had concealing your breasts has since lowered.

“Scary night to be alone, isn’t it?” The voice is still animatronic as the masked man’s head tilts and observes you through the black cloth eye holes.

You nod your head, its pace quick.

“Invite me in. Don’t want you to catch a chill.”

It was disturbing to admit how stupid you felt letting this freakshow stalker into your boyfriend’s home, but in a really weird and taboo way, you found the anonymity of the man attractive. You saw his cock while he stood outside, his large hand stroking over himself at the sight of your body. You figure he must have put the gloves back on once he wanted to come inside.

As if he could read your mind, the masked man stepped inside with his tall stature looming over yours. He slowly plucked off one of his gloves, and you see his flesh.

You watch him carefully as he brings his hand to cup your cheek. You flinch at first, but there is truly nothing to be frightened of. He strokes away a dry, panicked tear from earlier. You can’t help but let out a shaky, wavering whimper. He touches you with such delicacy but hides behind a mask that scares you to your core.

“Just as I thought,” His animatronic voice echoed, his hand dropping to your hair that fell around your face and sweeping it behind your shoulder. “You’re beautiful.”

Your hair was no longer concealing your breasts. You gasp shakily as his hand carefully caresses your tit, thumb featherlight over your nipple, before he cups and lightly squeezes your juicy flesh.

You swallow down a lump and cower before him. You’re afraid for when he goes lower what he might find, how your slick is dampening your thighs, and your clit is pulsating for him. You need him. It’s sick, gross, disgusting, but you need him.

“Please, Mr.,” you trail off, unsure of what to call him.

“Ghostface.” He aids, and you quickly nod as your lips part. Your worst fear is coming true as his calloused hand and rough fingertips guide themselves further down the soft skin of your stomach and to your panties.

“Please, Mr. Ghostface, I’ll do whatever you want me to do.” You can’t help but feel tears welling in your eyes once more.

The masked man sighs and slowly shakes his head in shame.

“I don’t think it’s about what I want to do to you. But what you want me to do to you.” He aggressively cups your sex, feeling his fingers squish with the soaked material of your red panties. You whimper and clutch his arm, biting back whimpery moans that you’re so desperate to let out. You were secretly begging to be touched. Your thighs clamp around the man’s hand.

He deviously chuckles. “This is all for me, sweet girl?”

The man walks you backward until your back is flushed to the wall. You’re still holding his arm in place between your thighs. His fingers add pressure to your bundle of nerves. You lightly grind your hips down into his fingers and let out an embarrassed little moan.

“Y-Yes.” Admitting in defeat made your stomach churn. “But I want to hear your voice.” You whisper, unsure if you can even make demands in your position right now.

Ghostface sighs weakly but plucks something out from under his mask. It looks sort of like a smaller walkie-talkie. It was a voice changer. Your eyes flitter to the eyes of his mask. It was black, empty. Finally, you would hear his true voice, and you prayed it was as sexy as he looked.

“Is this what you wanted to hear, darlin’?”

You lightly gasp at the southern drawl, deep and guttural, musk-filled and leaving you in a tailspin. His voice was hot, causing a pool of your white-hot heat to leak once more into your panties. You finally nod to his question and let your hands skim across the man’s front. He was toned, like you imagined, with hardened plains and a toughened, thick torso under his black cloak.

“You’re comin’ with me.” The voice growls. He leans down and scoops you up, throwing you over his shoulder as you gasp and whimper, feeling him trail you up the stairs. His black combat boots echo loudly through the stairwell. He’s so strong. How he knows the layout of the house scares you and implores you. It’s like he knows you, and you may know him.

He takes you to the master bedroom, the one you share with your boyfriend. Fuck, your boyfriend. A naughty sin to cheat, a naughty sin to like it. It’s hard to picture him right now with the man above you captivating your full attention.

Your breasts jiggle when he throws you back onto the mattress. You scramble further up it, putting a safe distance between you and Ghostface. He grips you at your ankles and pulls you to him in an eager yank. A cry escapes your throat, but it’s just because you’re nervous. You saw how big he was in his hand outside, and now, soon, you’d hope he would be inside of you.

“Please,” you whimper, and Ghostface tilts his head. “I-I..” you trail off and shake your head, embarrassment and shame pumping through your veins.

“You, what? Spit it out, pretty girl.” The voice says as he slowly takes off the hooded robe. He wears black pants and a black t-shirt under it but keeps the mask on. You like the mask on.

“I… I need you, Mr. Ghostface, please,” you whimper. Since he pulled you by your ankles back to the edge of the bed, your centers lightly graze one another. You make it a point to grind your hips eagerly into his, smearing the front of his pants with your slick.

The masked man hums in appreciation. You feel his hardened length concealed by his pants. Whimpers leave your mouth as you sit up and reach forward, unbuttoning the black pants with shaky hands. You unzip him and yank him free of his confines. You nearly freeze at his length, prominent veins lining up and down his cock from his pink tip to his swollen balls.

“You wanna live tonight, baby girl?” The low southern voice asks. You quickly nod, big, desperate eyes wanting to fill his every carnal need.

“Then get on your fucking knees, m’gonna fuck your throat.”

He’s aggressive as he pulls you down onto the floor by your hair. You scream out of instinct, but the heat on your scalp brings needy relief.

You quickly scramble properly to your knees and shuffle your hand over him. One hand isn’t enough, so you add your second. He’s so large and girthy. Fucking your mouth would hurt so good. You hope you’re a slobbering mess for him once he’s done with you.

“Did I say your hands?” You frown and slowly stop, shaking your head. “I said your throat, want your fucking throat, you little slut.”

You whimper and force yourself to put your hands behind your back, your breasts perking out more as you spit over him, watching it glide down his shaft and spill onto your shaking thighs. You lick your lips and wrap your mouth around his sensitive tip.

The masked man seethes through his teeth. He takes off both gloves and knots his fingers into your hair. You’re intimidated by his size, anyone would be, so you try to relax your throat and let him sink further and further in.

Your eyes go wide as he rams himself down your throat impatiently. Your hands instinctively fly up to his thighs, smacking at them and clutching desperately, trying to explain with a lack of words that you’re choking on him. You cry out, but his cock muffles you.

“M’not a patient man, I’m warning you now.”

You clench your teary eyes closed and sniffle, trying your best to swallow around him and breathe through your nose. Your black mascara tears turns him on, and he twitches in your mouth.

With a shaky breath, you try again. You have to start slow at first, but you remember how impatient he is. You slick his cock with your spit, trying to work up his shaft inch by inch.

“Open your mouth up, nice and wide for me.” The sight of his mask makes you twitch, but you do as he says and drop your jaw for him. You even go as far as to stick out your tongue for him.

“Wow,” he admires, as both of his hands wind up into your hair and carve out sections of your hair to create ponytails in his fists. “Such a good girl f’me.”

His praise makes you purr, bringing your hands up to your front as you massage over the squishy flesh of your tits.

You let out a low mewl as he stuffs your mouth again, stuffing your face with his cock. It takes a few moments, but you gradually learn how to accommodate him. He hits the back of your throat repeatedly, and he likes it when you choke around him. You try to see him through your teary eyes, whimpering around his cock.

The masked man’s grip on your hair tightens as he pulls you into his cock and holds you there, balls flushed to your mouth as they smack against your chin. He groans, long and low, holding you down as his cock suffocates your throat. You swallow around him, tasting drops of precum, whimpering around him as you struggle to breathe. Despite it causing you to choke even more around him, you stick out as much of your tongue as you can and teasingly lick at his balls.

He sucks in harshly through his teeth and moans, gripping the ponytails even tighter, making your scalp sear in pain. But it was all worth it because he was so goddamn big in your throat. You hoped he would split your pussy.

With a harsh yank, the masked man rips you from his cock. You instantly cough and gag, trying to swallow around the excessive puddles of saliva grouping in the back of your throat and now dripping out of your mouth. You looked like a disgusting mess.

You plant your hands on the floor and drop your head, looking like a dog as you shakily regain your breathing. You slowly look up, seeing his hardened cock slap up against his toned stomach, dripping with your slobber.

You meekly wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and stand up, your legs shaking beneath you. With as much courage as you can muster, you reach for Ghostface’s hand and slowly pull it to your center as you sit on the edge of the bed.

“Please,” you beg in a meek whisper, swallowing the messy amount of existing saliva and precum down your throat as you blink through black, mucky, mascara tears. Your eyes flutter as his long, meaty fingers slowly circle around your clit through your panties. It’s jaw-dropping, stomach-fluttering madness. It’s like he knows you like the back of your hand. “Please, fuck me.” You whisper desperately, pulling him slowly towards the direction of the bed. Towards you.

You don’t feel any more safe with him, but you like the excitement of feeling on the fence. Would he be rough or gentle with you? Call you his sweet girl or his little slut? The edging of unsureness and torrid manipulation has forced white hot heat to pool into your core, and you sure as hell spoiled these red panties enough.

The masked man drops his gaze to your mound. His hands reach up to the sides of your hips.

It’s slow and desperate at first, he almost fools you. Ghostface weakly chuckles before he begins to rip the measly material from your lower half. You yelp out as it causes your body to get tugged around. Your panties are now a mess of threads on the floor. You whimper desperately, clamping your thighs closed on instinct despite wanting the opposite.

Ghostface grabs your ankles and forcibly parts your legs, turning his head slowly as he watches your glistening core.

“Y-You could have a taste, y’know, if you take off the mask.” You offer, your heart pounding in your chest. You loosely hook your leg around his hip and pull him closer. Ghostface plants his hands on either side of your head, hovering over you as his heavy breath puffs through the mask.

Ghostface pulls one hand away to his side and shucks something off his belt. You gasp and flinch your eyes closed as a large knife glimmers in the moon’s light.

“You think I’m going to show you my face, you stupid bitch? Huh?” He taunts you, wielding the knife closer and closer to your throat as you cry out, but clamp your legs tighter around his waist and pull your centers together. You can feel his fat cock sliding up and down your exposed folds. You’re so needy, and it’s repulsive.

He sickeningly laughs, jutting the tip of his knife against the underside of your chin. It hurts, it stings, and you hope it leaves a mark from him so you can look at it later when you replay this night in your mind. You hope he spares you so you can think endlessly about him.

“I-I want you to keep the mask on.” You purr nervously, your hand drifting down your stomach towards your exposed mound.

Ghostface chuckles, low and demonic. “You want me to fuck you with the mask on?” He asks slowly, trilled with curiosity.

It fills you with a pit of guilt and shame in your stomach. But you slowly nod. You were willing to risk everything, your boyfriend, your safety, your life, just to ensure this man filled you to the brim like you know he could.

“Please do. Fuck me, Mr. Ghostface.” You beg. Though you can’t see, you imagine him smirking behind his mask, looking at you with a sense of intrigue and disgust. How could you be so twisted?

“My pleasure.” He says goadingly, ripping the hold you had on the sheets and yanking you closer to the edge of the bed. You cry out as he forcibly spreads your legs with his body and slaps his cock against your aching center. You’re so sensitive from waiting, you needed to have him this very second.

A smirk twitched on your lips, but you forced yourself to bite it down, shakily moaning as Ghostface tucks away his knife and wraps his large hand around his cock, lining up his tip to your dripping center. You flinch every time he purposely flicks your anxious bundle of nerves.

“Fuck,” you whisper, your hand clutching his bicep greedily. “Please, need to feel you inside of me.” You whimper.

Ghostface reaches up and smears his hand down your face, your cheeks smudged with your mucky tears as you whine like a little brat. For your insolence, he strikes you across the face before nastily grabbing you by your cheeks and forcing you to look at him.

“Bein’ a real fuckin’ brat for a stranger’s dick, such a fucking hungry cock slut, aren’t you?” He degraded you to your very core, soiling his cock in your gushing slick. You were pretty sure that if he even just breathed over your mound, you would come.

Ghostface enjoys your desperate whimpers for his dick. He’s more than happy to deliver. He angles his tip to your entrance and notches himself inside. Your gasp surges his adrenaline as he parts you egregiously.

You hook your hands on the underside of your legs, keeping yourself wide and spread for the masked man above you. Inch by inch, you feel your head lose focus, your mind floating as you see stars that consume your vision.

The moans you give him are heavenly, he thinks he’s never heard a more beautiful thing. He’s a sadist watching you take his cock, knowing it hurts, knowing you’re forcing yourself open for him, knowing how much you’re drunk off it. He just can’t help himself to wait.

Air is knocked from your lungs when Ghostface decides he’s, again, not a patient man. He fucks the last few inches into you and hard, pushing you to your limits and filling you to the brim.

Your head is thrown back as you scream in shock, never having been fucked by someone who feels so good. You sob as your walls flutter around him, attempting to accommodate the size in such a short amount of time.

“Yes! Jesus Christ- Fuck!” You moan out, to which Ghostface chuckles lowly.

“Take me so well,” he’s trying to breathe through being squeezed so tightly by your walls, even he finds it difficult. “Such a pretty girl, just needs to be fucked to keep her- shit - her goddamn mouth shut.” The man growls behind the mask and starts to fuck you at an earth-shattering pace.

You cry out in shock, gripping Ghostface at his biceps and whimpering at how strong he is. He pulls himself nearly all the way out of you before he flushes his hips right back to you, slapping your ass cheeks with his clothed thighs. That’s when he really begins to rail you.

You see stars, still adjusting to his size, your slick pooling around him with excitement. You hazily smile, fucked dumb by a stranger, filled to the brim as you stare at the ceiling. Your visions jumps up and down as Ghostface pounds you senselessly. The bedframe rattles and the legs skirt against the hardwood floors.

Impatient whines from you fill the room as he pulls himself from your pussy, moaning out for him needily. He manhandles you, grabbing your hips forcefully and flipping you over onto your stomach.

“Ass up, let’s go.” He commands.

You were still in a funk, head wiped empty of any palpable information. You whimpered as you tried to move but at the pace of a snail.

His impatient hands grip you tightly at your hips, forcing a broken yelp from your throat as he pulls you up to bend over, shoving your face into the mattress and angling your ass up for him to use.

“Yes, please use me,” you whimper desperately, reaching your hands back and parting your ass cheeks for him. “Finish inside me, use me as your cum dumpster.” Where was this language coming from?! This wasn’t you, you didn’t sound or look like you. He was turning you into someone new, someone satisfied by his anonymity. You’d never know who was fucking you senseless, and it might drive you mad until you find out, if you ever will, that is.

Your thoughts are squashed from your mind as a harsh slap followed by a greedy grip is splayed across your ass. A yelp is pulled from your throat, instincts telling you to flinch away and protect yourself.

“Ah-ah,” the man teases, his angry fingers creating bruises on your hips as he pulls you back to the edge of the bed to be his little sex servant. “Good girls take what they are given, so take it,” Ghostface says as he smacks your other cheek, reddening them both, jiggling the flesh much to his appeal.

His large palms seared his prints into your ass, gripping your ass and pulling you to his cock. He lines himself up, and you take him again.

You don’t understand unless it’s happening to you, how it feels like you’re floating in space, fucked numb but also feeling like you’re on pins and needles. It’s indescribable to enjoy being fucked by a stranger, but it’s happening, and it’s happening to you.

He penetrates you, parting your walls, making himself a home inside you. You squeeze around him, and he moans. It satisfies you so intensely.

“Beg for me,” he mutters through the mask, grunting with each thrust. He must be close.

“P-Please, keep fucking me so good, please Mr. Ghostface-”

“No!” He strikes your pretty ass again, hard, and your warm flesh singes with heat. You whimper, imagining how red, angry, and large his handprint looks stamped on your ass.

“Want you to beg... for your life.” His voice had turned as cold as stone, ridged with a sadist tone that left goosebumps bubbling on the surface of your skin. A scared feeling sunk into the pit of your stomach. You swallowed a lump down your throat and shyly peeked around your shoulder to take him in.

“P-Please… I want to live,” you whimper, your hands fisting the sheets as Ghostface slowly picks back up the paces of his thrusts. He’s turned on by this.

“Oh my- please, I know you d-don’t know me, but I’m good, l-look how good I’m being for you,” you begin to cry as he fucks you harder, your ass clapping aggressively against his thighs and the grip he has on your hips intensifies.

He loves fucking you until you cry. Such a sadist.

Ghostface gives a few last gut-twisting thrusts, and his tip kisses your cervix repeatedly. He’s so large you can feel him in your tummy. His hand reaches around your hip, and the other stays gripping your ass while he spanks your clit lightly with his fingers.

“Fuck!” You cry out, beginning to throw your ass back into him, creating your own unique rhythm together. You’re so sensitive, and you’re coming before you can even fully register it.

“Mr. Ghostface, please,” you whimper. “I-I’m coming so fu-ucking hard,” you mewl for him, your thighs twitching along with your walls that squeeze around him, begging to milk him for his seed.

Ghostface’s thick and angry cock twitches inside of you, desperate to fill your needy hole with his sperm. He grunts and pants into the mask, filling his own body with a heat that makes him sweat. He pounds himself into you until you’re flattened against the mattress, begging for release, begging to live.

There’s something about your obedience that he gives into, his cock twitching deep inside the warm comfort of your walls and between your beautiful ass cheeks. He pulls out and pants, handling his cock as he paints your ass white.

The warm droplets of come make you twitch, but it’s so hot to be painted white by the man who praised you and degraded you all night long.

You’re a heap of nothing strewn about the mattress. You can’t seem to calm your shaky breath. You lay there limp, unable to move, unable to think. All you can think about is the man behind the mask and how irate and perverted he is. And how much you fell into his trap.

Shame twisted your guts enough, forcing you to get up and turn around and face your stalker. But when you turned back, he was gone. How long were you not paying attention?

You quickly retrieved your robe, forcing yourself to walk despite your legs feeling like liquid gelatin. Checking room to room, you survey your boyfriend's home and are left empty-handed. It’s like he was never here.

From the top of the stairs, you hear the door open and close.

“Honey?” Your heart sinks, hearing your boyfriend kick off his shoes on the mat.

Rushing down the stairs, you collapse into his arms and cry out of guilt. You tell him everything. Everything besides the show in front of the windows and getting fucked by Ghostface in his own bed. There’s more to leave out than to leave in, but the short story is that you were taunted over the phone by a masked man, scared to death, and begged for your life.

His first reaction was to call the police, and despite how much you hesitated, you let him. Two nice offers responded to the call. They sat you two down separately and asked you what had happened. You were wrapped in a blanket and your robe, shaking in disappointment.

It was scary, lying to the cops, withholding all of the truth. Making sure not to overshare any details. You also didn’t want to give away that you liked it. To the bone, you liked it.

You were hunted like prey tonight, used, fucked hard until you couldn’t breathe. Left in the dark, feeling a little crazy if it even happened in the first place. But you could feel him still inside of you, stretched and still leaking between your thighs. You tugged your robe tighter, smiling weakly at the officer as he closed his notebook.

“We’ll figure out what we can ma’am. For now, keep everything locked up. I wouldn’t leave the house alone.” You wipe away the mucky mascara on your cheeks and sigh, nodding as you walk with the officer to the door.

His badge read J. Miller. He was older, stippled with grey hair within his dark curly locks. He had an aquiline nose and plumish-rose lips. His broad chest strikes something somewhat familiar to you. He glances behind you at the officer who is still asking your boyfriend a few questions.

Officer Miller sighed, looking over the door frame curiously.

“Said you locked the doors?”

You hesitate but nod compliantly.

His pointer finger shapes over the lock, then the entry metal hinge. “No forced entry.” He notes, looking at you curiously.

You evade his eye contact and conceal yourself tighter in your blanket and robe. “I.. I don’t know how he got in.” Your eyes find the floor, planting themselves there as you stare at Officer Miller’s familiar black police boots.

He hums curiously, looking over you slowly.

“You’re tellin’ me everythin’ that happen to you tonight?”

Your doe eyes go wide, your head snapping up to Officer Miller’s. “I-I promise, please, Officer Miller-”

He holds up a hand to cut you off, and you weakly stand there with your lips parted. Then he starts to nod and slowly smile. “That’s a good girl.”

It strikes you like a bolt of lightning, fear and curiosity consume you. You hear footsteps behind you, the other officer, and your boyfriend, who collects his arm around your shoulders.

Officer Miller watches you with a glint of intrigue but nothing more. His eyes shift to your boyfriend’s arm protectively wrapped around you. It makes him twitch up a stomach-twisting smile before he turns to his fellow officer.

“Got everything you need?” Officer Miller asks, tucking his thumbs into the front of his belt while he observes the other officer’s notepad. The officer nods and places his small notebook and pen in his breast pocket.

“Got everything we need. You two stay safe.”

The other officer ducks out first and nods curtly, Officer J. Miller stands there a moment longer.

“Happy Halloween.” He said with a sickening smile. “Be sure to lock the door behind me.”

You gulp as you look over Officer Miller meekly before he disappears outside and into the night. Where he belonged.

---

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dabisbratz · 1 year

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KISS ME THRU THE PHONE — eren jeager x male reader

w.c: ~4.2k

WARNING: dirty talk (a lot of it), degradation, dumbification, camboy!reader, twitch streamer!eren, nerd!eren, parasocial relationships, crossdressing(? reader wears bikini lingerie), amab reader, use of the words ‘pussy’ and ‘cunt’ as synonyms for (ass)hole, fingering, phone/cyber sex, praise, butt plugs, dildos, mutual masturbation

“Fuck,” Eren’s voice crackles loud in your headphones, staticky and grainy as you wriggle the wire until his voice is clear again. It pops in your ears, but you don’t mind, because the next thing you hear is the melodical chime of Eren’s maniacal laughter. He’s streaming a playthrough, about three hours in, and stuck on a certain mission. You can’t help it, his voice is smooth and comforting, like a blanket fresh out the dryer… Even as he yells. It’s easy to imagine how he sounds above you, glasses discarded and his silver chain dangling over your face as you blink away tears. “Fuck! Fuck you! I had it!”

His eyes are a striking type of blue-green; set ablaze by his PC screen and sparkling with shades that remain nameless to this day. His glossy, rosy, lips curl into a frustrated sneer.

It’s not your fault, you ration, failing to wipe away the lewd thoughts somersaulting in your brain. It’s not your fault, the tightening of your pants as you wriggle in bed, laptop illuminating in the dark room. It’s not your fault, the twitch of your dick when Eren’s grainy lips let out an unimpressed grunt. It’s not your fault, the way you’re quick to squeeze the base of your cock in an attempt to satiate the need bubbling in your stomach.

There’s just something different about Eren, something that makes your body tingly and needy.

Okay, maybe it’s your fault.

You inhale sharply, fisting the soft material of your blankets until you glance at the time, digital numbers ticking in the right-hand corner of your laptop screen. Fuck was right, you had your own stream to do and you were running late, too busy focused on the pretty boy reading his chat messages. Heat prickles your neck, the realization of your erection standing strong and determined at mention of the man. You quickly rip the headphones free from your ears, ready to close the tab with an exasperated sigh. At least you didn’t have to pretend to be riled up.

Before you leave, though, you donate a generous amount, giggling to yourself when the streamer pauses to read it aloud, thanking you for the money.

Truthfully, being a camboy was hard work. You had to pick out cute outfits, keep up a cheery voice to satisfy whoever was watching, and… think of something to get you going on the spot. There’s only one thing— one man — occupying your state of mind, making your stomach drop and fill with rocks during normal, mundane tasks.

That stupid, stupid streamer. He’s ruining your career!

Him and his brown tufts of hair that swirl around his head like a makeshift halo, messy and unkempt as if he’d just rolled out of bed to interact with his viewers. His hair that melts like chocolate, warm as it cascades down his cheeks and rests just above his shoulders.

You wish you could see him up close, study the curve of his lips as they pull into a mischievous smirk, watch the way his emerald irises turn into bottomless pools of rich, deep sacramento. With gangly limbs and unruly hair, fingers tousled between chestnut bundles as he groans in reaction to your terrible joke, responding with the energy only an animation could portray.

You wonder what he’s like at home, just as Eren. The nerd, the nobody, the offline ‘soulmate’ to many— his chat was living, breathing evidence. Is he just as funny? Does his voice crack when he speaks, or does he make that up too? You stare into your reflection, pulling at the skin of your cheeks in an attempt to free yourself from his digital grasp. The distorted image of Eren stares back at you, castleton eyes wide and prominent, twinkling at you like he wants to reel you in. You try to ignore it, the tugging feeling in your chest that mocks you endlessly. At the end of the day, you’re just a fan.

Shit, you’re late.

You can’t help but pout, jutting out your bottom lip, shiny and plump as you rearrange your tripod in the direction of your bed. Flopping back onto the pillowy mattress with a quiet ‘humph!’, you shimmy out of your clothes to retrieve new, cuter ones, settling for striped (blue and white) panties that were much too small for practicality and a thinly veiled, matching bikini.

The straps are silky against your skin, hugging your shoulders until the fabric dips between the middle of your chest, divided and exposed, with a cute, white bow barely bigger than the pad of your thumb to hold it together.

You look pretty. Angelic, even.

‘AngelzConnect: bunnyboo is live..! Tap in 2 spread ur wingz!’

Eren squints his eyes, vision darting to the notification on his phone. He’s almost four hours into his own stream, and honestly… He could use some time to himself. His skin ends up flushed, a blotchy shade of pink that clashes with the rest of his face.

“Look, guys,” He starts, tired fingers already maneuvering his mouse to click the “end livestream” button. His tone falls flat, thick with fatigue as chat flies by, understanding the tone almost instantly. “It’s getting late… I gotta go!”

“Hi, guys!”

You wave to the camera, apples of your cheeks fattening as you smile, bright and warm. Enough to supply an entire solar system. Your boyish face relaxes, softening as you lean forward to read the influx of messages sprinting across the screen of your old laptop. The catchlights make your eyes look wobbly, bright and doe-eyed as you respond to a few questions, readjusting your spot in bed out of a nervous habit.

You look so sweet in your revealing outfit, arms flexing as you make hand gestures while you speak. Eren wonders how you keep your hands so soft, clearly flawless and callous-free.

With his PC screen large and high quality, he can take in your every detail. An excited tremor racks Eren’s body, forcing blood flow straight to his groin. The upward angle makes shadows meet to frame you perfectly, a realistic display of standing above someone while they sit at your knees. The curve of your face, the slope of Adam's apple, the dips and bends of your silhouette as you shuffle in bed, shy.

He can see an array of pillows behind you, soft and plush as they’re propped up against your headboard. You also have an arrangement of toys places biggest to smallest, beside you. They’re just as cute as you, decorated and sparkly in the camera. His heart stutters in his chest, loud in his ears as he audibly gulps.

“How was your day?” You speak like it’s natural, as if you’re talking to every viewer personally. Like you genuinely mean it. Like you’re talking to Eren himself. He sighs, heavy and hot as he shuffles to pull his cock out the confines of his black sweatpants.

Your thumbs loop around the white spaghetti straps of the bikini until the fabric stretches and snaps, landing against the soft skin of your chest. Your whine is breathy, barely audible as you push yourself back, sure to get the rest of your body in frame. You can’t exactly imagine how you look right now, spreading your thighs as you sit on your knees, staring into a camera with pleading eyes. But you feel good about it, fluttering your lashes as your computer chimes with donations.

You’ve hit your first goal, which earns an excitable laugh that Eren can’t help but coo at. Your eyes curve and crinkle, a sweet smile that’s all teeth and glossy lips. He watches you reach for the glass dildo beside you, moderately sized and gleaming under the soft ring-light that traces your body off camera.

He watches you trace its edges with your fingertips, pretty eyes scanning the chat as users tell you (in great detail) what they’d like you to do with it. Call him parasocial if you must, but it makes Eren’s blood boil. His fit doesn’t last long, because the next thing he knows, you’re suckling on the glass, pink tongue circling what would be the head of a cock had it not been fake.

Eren doesn’t miss a beat, spitting a thick glob of spit into his palm to start at his head, inching his hand further and further down until he’s palming his balls. He’d like to imagine the dildo is his dick, thick and veiny as he pushes it into the aching insides of your throat, feeling it contract and convulsive around him. Oh, fuck.

“In n’ outta that fuckin’ throat… let me use it…” He groans, just a low whisper to himself as he watches your eyes glaze over with tears. “Fuuuck, let me use it while you sit there n’ take it for me.”

You sputter around it, loud and pathetic as your eyebrows knit together. It’s obvious you’re trying to deepthroat it first try, your tongue rolled out of your mouth as drool slides down your chin and into your lap. Your skin is slick and wet, shining in the camera.

“Damn,” Eren gasps, the sound caught and strangled in his throat as he spits down on his cock again, imagining it as your drool. There’s something charming about it, the way you gag and choke, just to blink harshly and try all over again. “Bet you crave it.”

“Gonna be my good boy..?” Eyes glued to the screen, Eren watches you turn to the side, showing off just how deep you can take the makeshift dick. It bulges in your throat, the pretty area stretched out and swollen with the more cock it takes. Your eyes flutter shut, handsome face relaxing as you concentrate on burying it to the hilt, back arched. “Knew you could do it. Mmh, good b—oy.”

He sighs, shaky and tilting into a desperate whine. His heart is stuck in his ears, beating loud as he pumps his cock with more vigor, pressing his thumb into the underside of the pink head, massaging the beading precum into his shaft.

You’ve moved to expose your lower half, slowly inching the striped underwear until you’ve exposed your winking hole to the camera, pretty cock dangling just below frame. Even after all this streaming, you still never got ahold of the framework. Cute. But you’re not empty, whining as you press a cute, bunny-tailed, glass plug into your hole, whimpering loud enough to have Eren’s cock leaping.

His climax is approaching embarrassingly fast, but Eren feels the urge to hold on gripping the base of his cock so he can direct his attention to the ‘donate’ button. He wants to save his cum for you, keep himself pent up so he’ll have plenty to shoot deep inside you.

Your dick weeps, a thin trail of precum connecting itself to the panties around your thighs, and the bashful look you gift to the camera has Eren re-entering his credit card information ten times over.

“Oh my God!” You shriek, voice shrill and surprised as you stumble over your own limbs, tears and drool still running down your face. “Holy… Thank you! Wait, hold on—”

There’s visible embarrassment on your face, eyes wide and mannerisms frantic as you click around, apologizing under your breath. You can barely read the chat, viewers either complaining about being unable to top the donation or claiming it’s a scam.

“Is this.. Are you real, jeagerbomb?” Your eyes scan the donation over and over, pretty and still hazy from your earlier display. The username ticks in the back of your head like a clock, continuous and gnawing as you try to shake the thought. The thought of Eren— your Eren, watching your streams. “I can’t accept this!”

‘im real.’ Eren types, one handed. It’d be awfully embarrassing if he’d just paid to video chat with you for no reason— your acknowledgment almost has him blowing his load over your pixelated face.

‘and you will.’

Your jaw goes slack, lips forming a wide ‘o’ in response to the question. He’d paid the maximum amount, bought a private session with you. Paid to be your ‘Daddy’ for the night.

You’re much more shy one-on-one. It’s the first thing Eren notices. Your demeanor has completely changed, a little less confident and saccharine, much more shy and hesitant. Still, you look like the perfect pornstar, the cutest display of a boy who’d be plastered under a sketchy hentai site. He supposes your coyness adds to it, your shaky hands nervously playing with the strap of your underwear.

Stained with a wet patch of precum that has yet to dry, and he watches you cuddle a pillow, big and distorted as you hug it to your chest. You’re shifting your weight, sinking into the mattress and looking a lot more vulnerable than he expected. Still, you nervously laugh, a small giggle of a thing that has Eren’s lungs filling with water.

Before you’d started to chat, Eren made sure to fix his hair and straighten out his sorry excuse of facial hair. He’d even kept his contacts in, hair tied back so none of his hair could obstruct his vision. He wants to burn

“Hi, jeagerbomb,” Hearing it come from your lips never gets old, and Eren finds himself once again squeezing the base of his cock. He’s glad you have yet to see below his belt, your eyes squinting into crescents as you take in his familiar background and steady the curve of his lips. His camera cuts just above his top lip, but you can still see the memorabilia in his room. Dedicated to Marvel comics and anime characters, it’s charming, a shelf holding up figurines from some of your fondest videogames. “Is there something else I should… Call you? Or.. Or is Daddy okay?”

Butterflies flutter in your stomach. He reminds you so much of Eren, and the username certainly isn’t helping.

His frame looks comforting, a large t-shirt draping his body as he lifts his hips, careful not to expose himself. As he lifts himself up with his forearms you notice the veins in his arms, snaking up his wrists and disappearing into his large, skinny hands. He has a few tattoos littered across his knuckles, a cursive ‘Carla’ cascading up his ring-finger. Just below the area that disappears beneath the shadow of his dark t-shirt’s sleeve, there’s a bird tattoo, flapping its wings oddly and fitting for the stranger. Funny, your favorite streamer has that, too.

Wait. . .

“Eren,” He breathes, and your world crumbles. “I’m Eren.”

His voice tilts, breathy and hitched. You’ve dreamed of moments like this, of hearing his voice in your ears while he spreads your legs, sinking deep inside your velvety walls with the click of his hips. It’s nothing compared to the real thing.

“Eren,” You purr, sweet and gentle as you smile at him through the camera. “Thank you for the donation, Eren.”

It’s only a matter of time before lust catches up to you, grabbing you by the throat as you watch Eren’s pretty hands in motion. Every noise he makes is audible, the small pants and sighs when you say his name, the ruffle of fabric when he has to grip his cock to stop himself from cumming early. It was innocent at first, a sweet talk that had the two of you bouncing back witty quips and flirtatious glances.

There’s a bite to your lip, heat flaring in your tummy as you open the chat box.

‘You look pretty.’ Was he too nervous to say it aloud?

“Thank you!” Your grin spreads, body lighting up from the praise.

“My bad, I’ve never…” His mouth opens and closes, like a fish out of water, as he scrambles to rearrange his words. He is not a pent up virgin. You’re so used to hearing him yell, his natural speaking voice sounds much more relaxed.

“I’ve never done this before. I jerk off to you all the time, just never, you know… With you.”

You nod, clear as day on his large screen as you shyly trace stars on the exposed skin of your thigh. Eren looks like he regrets telling you that, hands curled up into fists before releasing, again and again. But you can feel the tension, thick and palpable even through computer screens. So you swallow down your nervousness, your fear of embarrassing yourself in front of your favorite streamer, and wave away his stubborn outlook.

“We can guide each other! Mhm?”

“Wanna give you sweet kisses… all around your hole… run my tongue down it…my…warm, fuck, wet tongue…” Guide you, he does, and you can’t take it, a moan flowing from your mouth as your fingers melt into your sopping entrance, lube spilling onto your thighs as you work it inside, slippery and wet. “Bet you taste perfect.”

Eren’s rambling to himself now, legs spread wide and in-frame as he twists his fist around his fat cock and spits down onto it.

“Bet my boy’s hole tastes so fuckin’ good.” He reiterates. Shaking his head, unsteady groans float into the air as he watches you finger yourself, hole opening and closing over the digits like it’s too shy to fully present itself. Your eyes are heavy, legs kicked up into the air as you keep yourself as open as possible, holding onto the back of your knees so Eren can clearly see inside of you.

“Please, mhmm, Rennie...” You whimper, and Eren swears he blacks out. You’re not entirely sure what you’re begging for. It’s the implication because you being his. His boy. His to fuck, his to use, his to hold. So, what is it? His presence? His dick? His hands? His cum? Whatever it is, he wants more. And he wants to give it to you, fast and deep and ruthless.

There’s something about your eyes, the way they stay in contact with Eren’s cock as he gently squeezes his balls and bucks up into the air with increasing desperation.

“Yeah, look up at me while I spit on my cock,” Hes breathless, lowering his face into frame and gathering saliva in his mouth. This spit should be yours.“You like that? Such a good boy for me.. so pretty.”

You nod profusely, though he’s not sure if it’s because you like the nicknames or if you’re answering his question. But it’s good enough for him, watching your head bob eagerly as you fuck yourself on your fingers, lube occasionally squelching and shooting straight into the camera.

“That’s it, pretend like you’re fucking my cock.” His pupils are blown wide, lips parted as he watches you scramble for the dildo beside you, patting your hand against the arrangement of toys until you’ve found the one you like. The glitter is green, this time, and the toy has a slight curve to it. It’s thick, too, and he can’t wait to see it splitting your pretty hole open.

“Re— Rennie, can I.. Want you here.” He watches your fingers slip out, slick and sticky as you spread yourself open. Your gooey hole throbs against your fingertips, achy and needy as you struggle to see past your balls. You press a small tap to your gaping entrance, puffy and empty as you whine and beg for something to fill it back up. “Want you in here.”

“Yeah, pretty boy, you have permission,” He twists your words back to you, punching you right in the gut as your eyes roll back and your brain short circuits. You have his permission. “Get my cock wet for me.”

His cock. You’re quick to nod, squirting more lube onto the toy with something a little more pitiful than grace. A little more desperate. But Eren doesn’t seem to mind, instead lifting the hem of his shirt to pin the fabric down with his chin, dick fully exposed and pulsing on camera. He’s waiting.

“Ohh, ‘Ren,” You mewl, your rim expanding around the glass toy as it slides inside, pushing past the band of your puffy hole and sliding obscenely from the lube. Your eyes burn with unshed tears, wrists working to push it deeper and deeper, aiming for that spot that’ll have you seeing stars. “You’re… inside…”

“Keep takin’ it for me. That’s it, let your brain go empty,” He groans, swiftly reaching to the side to grab a toy for himself. Under different circumstances you’d laugh at the implication of Eren streaming to a huge audience with a fleshlight just beside him and out of frame, but this time it makes you moan. “Don’t have to think, just go dumb on this cock.”

You admit it. It feels better to think with your dick, tears spilling from your eyes as you fuck yourself like a whore, whimpering and moaning around the glass. It should be Eren, warm and wet and real. You should be able to feel him pulsate inside you, burying himself against your prostate until you’re babbling on his dick, holding onto him for dear life while he desperately ruts into you

“Feel how hard I am inside of you? Feels so fuckin’ good, pretty baby. Just hold on.”

You look pathetic, spread open with drool painting your face as you moan on his cock, quickly timing your thrusts with each rapid stroke of your cock, loud and messy and so fucking greedy.

“Pound that hole for me… There you go.. You look so good like this.” Eren can’t wait to shoot his load, watch the thick ropes shoot around his fist and hopefully onto your face, he can’t wait to hear you thank him for his cum. It’s all for you, after all.

You’ve always made the prettiest noises, high in your throat and whiny. Your voice comes out in tiny squeaks, barely comprehensible as you gurgle on your own drool and keep your cheeks spread. Jesus wept, he wished he could hold you open with his own hands.

“Stro— Stroke that cock with that pretty fuckin’ hole.”

Eren can feel himself getting closer, the sight of your eyes rolled back and blank while you fuck yourself into oblivion, helpless and frenzied. You can’t look at him, not when your brain is derailed and hijacked by the thickness of Eren’s dick.

“F—aster? Oh, fuck, go dumb on my cock.” The brunette’s voice cracks, cute and high as he struggles to keep his eyes open, thighs trembling and burning. “Keep moaning for me, keep pounding that pussy, s’all your little whore brain can tell you to do, huh? You got it.”

“Uh huh, uh— Rennie! M’gonna cum, wanna cum on your cock! Ican’tIcan’tIcan’t!”

“Gonna take care of you, gonna make you feel good.” His fist and just as sloppy as your hole, arm tensed up and tight as he cums with a gasp. Thick, milky ropes of cum spurt from his cock, dribbling down the crown and painting itself on his PC screen. “Just keep listening to that cunt, s’telling you to keep pounding, don’t stop.”

“I can’t.” You sniffle, overstimulated and sensitive as the glass cock shifts inside you. Your voice comes out wet and staticky, but despite the shakes of your head, you’re grabbing the toy again, and slowly pushing back in and out.

“I know, baby,” Eren’s voice comes out soft and quiet, barely audible as he tugs his cock tantalizingly slow. You can see him growing softer in his hand, so he must be riding the wave of an afterglow. “Not gonna hurt you, just milk my cock for me.”

It’s weird. You’re fully capable of pulling yourself free from the searing hot grasp of overstimulation, you could easily pull the toy out and end it there. But you feel the desire to please, the need to listen to Eren’s calm voice as he catches his breath.

So you listen, rocking your hips back and forth with tiny moans that clash perfectly with Eren’s labored breaths, until you’re both soft and melting into your collective seats.

“See? So fuckin’ perfect..” Eren grins with a breathless laugh, the clarity of what he’s just done hitting him like a pickup truck. Heavy shades of pink dust his cheeks, pooling at his ears as he averts his intense gaze.

You look cute even like this, fucked out with a head full of cotton as you aimlessly wipe your face with the backs of your hand. Your underwear is haphazardly pulled back up to your hips, and there’s an obvious cum stain on the matching top. You don’t seem to mind all that much, a sleepy murmur erupting from your throat as you try your best to direct your attention to Eren, who you expected to be gone.

“ ‘Ren?” You ask, reverting back to that sweet shyness from earlier. Your handsome face contorts into something of uncertainty, but he’s not sure what you have to be nervous about.

“Yeah?”

“Could we.. Stay ‘nd videochat ‘til my laptop dies?” There’s a beat of silence, no longer than twenty seconds, but it has backtracking apologies ready to spill over.

“Yeah,” There’s a giddy glint in his eyes, bright and familiar— like he’d just received a successful hype-train. That’s the Eren you recognize, all smirks and knowing eyes. “Y’know, I stream sometimes too. We should collab sometime.”

1K notes · View notes

whole-circus · 11 months

Text

Fun summer activities with creepypasta boys! x gn.reader!

➥ with Homicidal Liu, Jeff The Killer, Masky, Ben Drowned, "Ticci" Toby, Laughing Jack English is not my first language so i can make silly mistakes! >:)

.•┈••✦ 🖤 ✦••┈•.

☆ Homicidal Liu - gardening

Okay okay.. but he totally gives off this "plant mom" vibes!!

Just imagine you two planting flowers (eg. Hibiscuses, Marigolds, Daises, Asters, Salvias) or berries (oh god, and later making jam of them..!). Taking care of plants alternately! Because they are your babies and you need to take care of them, right? Almost like parents simulator. Going together to this big markets with plants and spending there literally hours..! Choosing these fancy pots.. OR! Making competition and planting the same plant, see which one grows prettier and faster! And what winners get? Silly question..kissess of course! Also sitting on chairs, having the view on your pretty work and just chatting or drinking tea/coffee and snuggling! Nights would be also cozy..just saying! You two sitting on a blanket, holdings hands or cuddling..dunno man, there is some warm and proud feeling when looking at your plants. Its almost like you watch your kids grown..

„Oh look at them grow! Im so proud of us Y/N” he says with the brightest smile, as his eyes almost shine!

☆ Jeff the Killer - forest hiking

Wild men in wilds? What can be better than that?

Listen, I am sure that Jeff knows forest like the back of his hand. Just you holding hands and walking around forest. You could also do a little competition on picking berries or looking for pretty rocks for eachother (what is more romantic than that??). Also! Maybe animal tracking? That sounds like a fun activity..! On really warms days the bathing in the stream (or just soaking legs if you are constantly cold) - he would definitely push you into water tho, so good luck. If you are behaving well enough, maybe you could even try carvings in wood? And after long, tiring day of having fun? Just laying on the blanket and stargazing, holding hands..

,,I actually had fun today, you know? I love being around you...” he looks into your eyes and gently kisses your hand.

Just remember to be careful and look for ticks after that!..maybe on eachothers body..? (just kidding..or am i?)

☆ Masky - campfire

Im sorry..but I would totally make him a nice marshmallow!

A bit of a dad on barbecue vibe?? Sorry, kidding. Just imagine a nice, warm night and you both sitting on tree trunk, snuggling under a blanket! What will you roast? Anything you want, veggies, meat or marshmallow..just not each other please! I bet he could play something on guitar, and what is more hot than a man that can do that? You singing along to campfire songs or..or whatever he could play. We slowly turning your silly little date to some slasher movie..so why not tell some scary stories or urban legends? You could jump together at the tiniest sounds (it sounds like a good reason to hold hands..just for security ofc). After all, everything is terrifyng in the dark. Oh, just you spending a warm night eating and cuddling..just you two together!..and maybe his bad dad-jokes..and mosquitos..anyways, good luck!

,,Only two of us..I could get used to living like that, you know sweetheart?” he says as he caress your cheek ad look into your eyes, smiling.

☆Ben Drowned - trampoline sleepover

I know its not 2020 anymore..but come on!

First of all..making the trampoline all nice and cozy..many, many blankets, lights and pillows (definitely a pillow fight in the meantime)! When the trampoline-fort is ready? Get snacks and come in! All kinds of junk food are welcome - popcorn, chips, jelly, candies..! Just not the healthy things..okay, maybe strawberries are invited but thats it! What will you guys do? No worries, Ben is definitely a funny fellow (so are you!) so you won't be bored. Playing games on Nintendo? Watching some movies? Playing board games? Just cuddling and laughing at the silly things? Its all up to you! ..Just be careful with scary stories..I dont want you guys to have a heart-attack! And after a night full of cuddling and laughing? The best part of your sleepover - putting cream to help relieve itching on mosquito bites!!

,,Oh man..you are my favorite person in the whole world..you know that?” - Ben gently whispers, giggling, as you hold each other.

☆ "Ticci" Toby - Monopoly night

Good luck..i hope you will survive this devilish game!

You and Toby treating it completely serious.. you know, getting all dressed up into elegant clothes and having the night of your life..or maybe even longer..Hey, you are serious investors! Monopoly deserves to be approach with respect! The other funny idea is just creating the background of character you will play as and trying not to come out of it! Anyways..you sitting opposite and playing against each other. If he is in a good mood, he will let you win just to see your pretty smile! ..well and maybe to finally end your endless game..

,,Ah you got me..you are the best Y/N, arent you? Now..what do you want as a reward?~” - he chuckles softly (if his pupils could turn into the hearts, they totally would!) as you enjoy your victory.

☆ Laughing Jack - making homemade ice creams

Yeah right..what is better than spending time with someone you love and make sweets at the same time??

I think that the whole making process would be way funnier than eating..but hey, how can you ever be bored with Jack? On the nice warm day, you go into kitchen and come up with this brillant idea - its ice cream time. You would definitely wear this silly aprons (you guys look so cute in them!). And even if you put nice music in the background, your laughs are way louder than it..the whole house fills with your happiness! Do I even have to say how much mess you made? The cooking turned into small food fight, the ingredients are anywhere but where they should be. No worries tho..after a long long process the ice creams turnet out great (you will not get poisoned, i promise)! Now you can enjoy your sweet meal AND your company!

,,You are so sweet doll..maybe instead of the ice-cream I should eat you?~” he chuckles and picks you up, giving you a gentle twirl in the air.

•┈••✦ 🖤 ✦••┈•

227 notes · View notes

ellievickstar · 1 year

Text

Friendly Monster (Azriel x Reader)

A/N: I love procrastination and I refuse to stop generating new ideas and going back to this one, let’s please my intrusive thoughts and make a fic based on my impulsive idea so this is Day 1 of my 300 followers week!

Summary: An ACOTAR one shot that paints the life of Rhysan’s youngest sister.

Inspired by: Nothing I ended up scrapping the original inspiration

Request: N/A

Warnings: Angst, Beron Vanserra, Amarantha, mentions of Rhys’s trauma from under the mountain. Mentions of rape.

~*~*~*~*~

Growing up with Rhysand and Cassian was a pain. You spent your time with Morrigan in the court of nightmares but when your brother and his friend visited, or vice versa, they were assholes. Rhys and Cassian were like any other pair of reckless, stupid, ignorant illyrian boys, even with hard training, they were still cocky and had egos the size of the entirety of Prythian.

They constantly pushed and prodded at your buttons, you were frustrated with the constantly, however, you were never furious with them. Not even when Cassian slept with Mor. The one time you were truly furious with them was when they were making fun of Azriel for not being able to fly.

Something about their lack of sympathy ticked you off, the scars of Azriel’s hands were a good indication of his situation before the Illyrian camps. You berated Rhysand whenever he laughed at Azriel’s meek attempts at flying and told them off constantly.

And that was somehow home.

During the war, you were kept away from prying eyes and Amarantha somehow never got wind of you. You never followed you older sister and mother to the Illyrian camps because you had been busy sorting out some issues with Keir with your father, something you would always regret.

When they were slaughtered you were devastated and fell deeply sick, by the time you recovered you were fatherless and your only living relatives were Morrigan and Rhys. You sobbed into you brother’s arms as you grieved over the lost of your father, even though he was still emotionally abusive.

You were so much younger then Rhys and that reality hit you hard as you witnessed your brother harden his demeanour in front of your eyes, in front of others he became cold and distant. In a way, you also mourned the loss of your brother.

That’s when the day of Rhysand’s party he threw for Amarantha came.

Your first mistake was following Rhysand to that party.

Your second mistake was not running.

You last mistake was coming out of hiding.

You screamed when you realised that Amarantha had taken control of your brother. Amarantha giggled and the sound made you want to throw up. You reached out to your brother’s mind, devastated as you realised that Amarantha had made him shut you out.

He glanced at you once, the mask he wore cracking as he seemed to try to communicate the words that he would never be able to openly express for th next fifty years. I’m sorry.

Tears streamed down your face as you watched your brother change again, as he became the swaggering, arrogant, loyal servant to the one woman you begun to despise. You watched for fifty years as she dragged him to her bedroom and used him in ways that you couldn’t begin to imagine. Every Starfall you were forced to entertain Amarantha’s goons, every Starfall another heart break, and maybe that changed you too.

The worse was when you were gifted to the oldest son of the Autumn Court one night when Rhysand broke the rules. You whipped your head to your brother as you were dragged away by Eris, you screamed and screamed, pleading for him to do something, but he stayed rooted to the ground and watched.

You remembered the fear that overwhelmed you as Eris snarled at you to shut up. You remember the opening of the door as you were lifted bridal style once you calmed down. You remember that he told you to start screaming and crying again. You remember screaming your throat raw until you felt like you were going to pass out. You remember the feeling of arms wrapping around you as you were placed into a warm bath. You remember Eris murmuring in your ear, trying to comfort you. You remember falling asleep.

It was only at the end of those fifty years were you able to explain everything to Rhysand, he thanked Eris in private and you hugged the red-headed male who had grown to love you like a brother as well. He made you swear to tell him if anyone hurt you so he could burn them alive himself. That made you laugh, but you weren’t sure if he was serious.

You stayed under the mountain as you ensured that everyone could leave. That was when Tarquin approached you.

“I know your not that much older then me, any tips to get all the old bastard’s respects,” He tried. You were startled at the words he used, breaking into a smile as you began to share some of your experiences with the High Lords. How you visited Kallias after the attack and made sure that he understood that it was Amarantha’s fault, how you protected Thesan’s lover when Amarantha tried to ask why he never slept with any women — though it may have also been because he wasn’t attracted t any of them — you even shared how Eris helped you all those years ago.

Tarquin listened intently to your stories before you finally bid him goodbye and winnowed to the moonstone palace. There, you found Rhys on the floor having a full blown freak out while Mor was trying to comfort him without laughing.

You soon understood the situation, you wanted to smack Rhys’s head when you found out about the bargain, and you wanted to throttle him for deciding that he would not tell Feyre about the bond. After his — comical to say the least— freak out, you winnowed to the House of Wind and was immediately greeted with huge arms wrapping around you as you were spun around. Cassian cheered as he practically shouted to the whole of Velaris that you had returned home.

Azriel smiled and you opened your arms, he rolled his eyes as he picked you up and threw you over his shoulder, you shrieked, pounding on his back while Rhys just pointed a certain finger st you when you cussed at him when he refused to help you.

When Azriel finally put you down, you spent the rest of the night with your family, sharing the time under the mountain. Though it wasn’t great, you all cried together and that was important. Mor was astounded to hear of Eris’s change of character and considered that maybe the bastard could change after all.

Once everyone was tired, you waved goodbye to everyone as they retired to their rooms for the night. You helped Nuala and Cerridwen and bid them good night before approaching Azriel’s room.

Pushing the door open, you were met with Azriel’s hazel eyes as he closed the door. You sighed as you collapsed, tired, into his arms and he held you quietly against his warm body. You sighed, content to stay there the rest of the night.

“Your brother would kill me if he knew about us,” Azriel suddenly said. You looked up and realised that you had been screaming your thoughts down the bond. “We found out just before I went under the mountain, give him some time to adjust the the good things then we’ll tell him after I finally accept the bond,” You said simply.

And there was your secret. Azriel was your mate. You had found out a few days before Rhys’s party, you had planned on accepting the bond, but you never had the chance to. You had wondered if Azriel had waited for you, if he would have moved on…

Azriel rubbed a thumb against you palm, snapping you out of your thoughts, mumbling that your think too much.

“I could never replace you, you would be the only one who could love a monster like me,” He grumbled and shifted you to lie down next to him as he snaked an arm around your abdomen. Though he had said that in good light, you knew that deep down he meant it. Your heart broke a little and you turned to face him.

“You might think that your a monster, but you’re mine,” You hummed as you traced circles against his cheek. “My friendly monster,” You giggled and he chuckled. The sound reverberated against the walls of the room, and everything seemed to finally be at peace.

~*~*~*~*~ Taglist: ask me if you want to be tagged! tag list: @moonfawnx @bankerfrog @younxii @hideing@flightlesslittlebirdie @menagerofmischief @famousbasementpainter @owllover123 @gigisssz @cityofidek @aetherl0l @judig92

#Azriel #rhysand acotar #acotar #acotar fanfic #mor acotar #morrigan #Eris x platonic!reader #azriel x reader #Azriel x reader fuff #azriel acotar #azriel fanfic #reader #Rhysand x sister!reader #rhysand sibling #Amarantha Acotar #tarquin acotar

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frenchmina · 2 months

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Tea and Time

A/N : This is my second ever fic, another one shot I wanted to write in opposition to the very angsty first one. I was talking with my best friend about what we considered being moments of true happiness, and this little fic is what was born from the conversation. I hope you enjoy, don't hesitate to tell me how you felt about it since I'm just starting out in fic writing ! Also, english is not my first langage so there might be some mistakes, sorry about those.

Pairing : Joel Miller x reader / no physical description of reader. No use of Y/N.

WC : 3.1k

Warnings : None really, it's just pure fluff and tenderness. There's just mention of the reader's fear of abandon.

Summary : A lazy sunday with Joel allows you to reflect on what love truly means to you.

You would hear the ticking of the clock if you had one. One of those ancient machines made of wood and glass which made their grand musical entrance during complete silences — tic… tic… tic…

Your grand mother had one in her living room, you remember it ticking away since you were old enough to understand the concept of time. You would look at it intensely and try to will the needles to slow down, because, let’s face it, there was no way in hell you weren’t a witch.

That certainty had, since those days at your grandma’s, seen some bumps in the road. First of all, you had not received your letter to Hogwarts, which had been a bummer. If you were being honest, you still blamed the postal system and its incompatibility with owls. But as time passed, you had made peace with the fact that you would not be a wand-wielding sorcerer and had tried your hand at potions. Dirt mixed with worms, grass and gravel made a poor soup, but if you added the picture of a loved one and some of your family cat’s hair found on your clothes, then you were supposed to be able to ask anything out of your mother and she would comply… As time had passed, grass and dirt had turned into mint and rosemary, essentials oils and lemon, turmeric for the immune system and ginger to fight off a creeping cold.

Some people would say you made tea. You knew better than to mistake your magic for tea making, and so did Joel.

You two had just come back from a long walk in the woods near your house, walking the same path you would always walk on Sundays, the one where your hands knew exactly when to be joined and when not to be. It was almost like a danse, interlocking your fingers with his on the wider parts of the path, unlocking at the fallen oak to make your way behind him towards the pond, and locking again at the makeshift bridge he had built after you’d almost fallen in the little stream twice. It was the middle of February and as usual you had been arrogant enough not to take your winter coat with you.

“You gon’ be cold baby” he had drawled, knowing you well enough to tell you were about to argue that —

“I’m not a child, Joel” with that look on your face that betrayed how childish you were being.

“Ain’t saying you are, love.” He had tried and failed to hide the playful smile tugging at his lips, which made any hesitation you might have had about bringing the coat vanish. Your dignity sometimes laid in weird places; he loved that about you.

Of course you had been cold. Of course he had had to hold you tight in his arms while you had stopped to listen to the myriad of little sounds the birds and squirrels and insects and wind in the trees made in the deepest part of the woods. Some part of you might even have made the conscious choice not to put on that damn coat so he would embrace you in his warmth. He had done so with no more playfulness, just plain tenderness and love, his fingers drawing lazy circles where they laid on your sides, sending little jolts of electricity throughout your spine — alongside with the shivers of cold.

You chugged off your boots in the entryway, not giving a crap about where they landed, and made your way to the kitchen.

“Gonna make me some tea, do you want some ?“ You had a habit of always asking him that, although you knew he was a coffee man and didn’t drink any o’ that leaf soup, as he called it.

You heard him sigh behind you.

“Hell, why not.“

You stopped dead in your tracks and slowly turned to face him. You didn’t have to say anything, the shock on your face was enough to prompt him to explain.

“You’re always goin’ on about how good it is for ya…“

“Yeah… Yes, I am…“

“Come on dun make a big deal outta this…“

“I’m not !“ You cut him, the shock on your face slowly turning into a proud smile. “I’m not I swear, I’m just glad you’re finally acknowledging my talents as a potion maker…“

“I ain’t saying that yet“ he laughed, “lemme try and then I’ll be able to acknowledge whatever ya want.“

As you were carefully choosing what to pair with fresh mint leaves and valerian, you heard Joel moving to the living room and, with a content sigh, drop heavily on the couch. You smiled, conjuring the mental image of him spread out on the sofa, head resting on the back of it, hand coming to rest lazily on his thigh. You could just close your eyes and see him, the exact spot he was siting in, how his left arm rested on the green cushion.

The water was slowly starting to boil and the kettle made more and more noise, drawing you away from your little daydream. It amazed you how after multiple years together you still found your thoughts drifting towards him at every chance. Even that domestic image of him sitting on your couch made your heart flutter and a well-known warmth radiate from your chest.

Orange blossoms. It’s exactly what you needed to ensure relaxation, and that Joel would actually like it.

The water was boiled and as the kettle’s rumbling died down, you started to hear faint sounds coming from the next room. A melody, drawn from an aging guitar by expert fingers. Joel did not play often, he was unbelievably shy about it which kept him from working on it as often as he’d have liked to. Your fingers came to a halt, a bunch of herbs slipping from them as you listened closer; it was a new song, one you had never heard him play, but you recognized it instantly : Helplessly hoping, one of your all times favorite. It drew immediate tears from your eyes, your heart swelling and swelling so much you thought it was about to burst out of your chest and yell out its love for him.

But then, without you realizing, it morphed into something else. The feeling of a weighted rock on your stomach, blood running colder in your veins, the tears threatening to be ones of fear.

You breathed. One. Two. Three. You were okay.

You were not about to lose this. He was not going away, not leaving you here alone, not running away. And if he wasn’t running towards the exit, you were damn well obligated to return the favor. It crept up on you like that sometimes. The fear that what you had was way too good to be true. It felt like a Damocles sword hanging above your head, always here to remind you that at the slightest mistake, at the second you were not exactly perfect, you would loose everything. Although everybody had told you that it didn’t happen that way, your experience proved them wrong. From your best friend of 8 years never returning your calls all of a sudden and moving across the country without telling you, to the boyfriend who had told you one day he had actually stopped loving you months ago, to all those tiny abandonments we all go through in life, you had learned not to expect anyone or anything to stick with you. And maybe, at one point, you had started to believe you weren’t worth the trouble of saying goodbye.

Joel had not actually said anything to ease the fear that he would be leaving, he had just not left. Never. And while the fear creeps up on you, whispering in your ear to just get the hell out before he inevitably abandons you, it’s the only thing keeping you together : he hasn’t left, has not promised anything more than what he’s capable of giving you, but most of all he’s proven time and time again that he would always be honest, that he would never hide his fears and doubts from you. He’ll never leave you alone with the eternal nagging question about why you were not good enough.

You slowly calm your breathing. You can’t control him, can’t make him stay if he doesn’t want you, he’s utterly free — and you are too. You are free enough to choose to be here, to choose to listen to him playing your favorite song on his worn out guitar while making him tea and actually enjoy it. You’re free to let go, he made sure of that. So you do.

You listen. You take it in. This gorgeous man who’s had the time to define what he wants out of life, and who, with that knowledge, has decided to put his energy into learning a song he knows fills your heart with joy just to be able to see you smile.

He’s been working on it for a while now, the chords actually gave him a hard time. It’s gonna need a bit of work still, he thinks to himself while trying to pay attention to the noises coming from the kitchen. Did you hear him yet ? He wanted to be able to play it in front of you, to say “Here it is my love, I learned it so you could sing along to your favorite song.“ But he is such a coward… He would not take it well if he saw the slightest hint of disappointment in your eyes, but he also knows you would never be disappointed in him. Throughout your years together, he’s learned you would never expect anything of him but the best he could be or do, even if it was messing up one chord out of three in your favorite song.

You were so understanding, so sweet with his mistakes — and he had made a bunch. You would always take him by the hand and squeeze it just tight enough to tell him I’m here, I believe in you. It wasn’t like anything he’d ever felt; he doesn’t actually know how he could live without your love, now that he has had a taste of it. Everything in his life was made better by your presence. He had learned that he was okay, that he was worth someone’s trust. He wouldn’t be able to un-learn it.

He also knew perfectly well that learning to play a song you liked or giving you his coat without a second thought when you were cold was just what you needed to trust him. He did not need to prove anything to you, to tell you over and over how stunning and loved you were — although to be fair he did tell you more than enough — he just needed to be there. And he was. Oh how he was. The depths of his commitment to you, to your life together, were lost on you he was sure. Your own insecurities prevented you from seeing how desperately in love he was with you, which made him realize that, as alike as you both were, you might love him with ten times the strength he thought you did.

He was content to love you mostly in secret : in the little noise you made as you were falling asleep, in the way you brow furrowed and you clicked your tongue slightly when you were unhappy about something, in the way your eyes switched colors in the sun, or how you’d always bit your lower lip while reading a book. He loved you like he breathed, each exhale a song he would learn for you.

You appear out of the corner of his eye, and he immediately catches the tiniest sign that you might have cried.

“You good sweetheart ?“

You respond with a sort of sad smile he has come to recognize as the one you give him when you’re battling your inner demons. He won’t push, he knows you’ll speak if and when you want to, and you know he’ll never turn you down when you need him.

“Common then, let’s see if y’are a good witch or an evil one. Will this…“ he smells the fuming tea out of his favorite mug “mixture a’ yours turn me into a frog or a prince ?“

You scoff, he’s offering you playfulness to get out of your meltdown and you take it gladly. “You’ll just have to drink it and see, a witch never tells“ you lean towards him to teasingly rub the tip of your nose along his, and hear his breath briefly catch in his throat before you let yourself plop down on the couch next to him.

Joel carefully puts down the guitar in its case, brings the tea to his lips, stops for an instant and studies your face, as if looking for a proof this actually is about to transform him into a frog. You don’t say anything, relishing in the feeling of his attentive gaze on you.

“Nah… you ain’t about to turn me into nothin’, I’d be useless to you as a frog.“ Before you even have the time to think about a snarky response, he’s gulping down a huge sip of tea. Your eyes widen.

“Shit ! Fuckin’— god dammit — fuck it’s hot !“

“Why would you…“

“Turning me into a damn volcano that’ what you’re tryin’na do ?“

“Not my fault you’re chugging the damn thing like it’s a beer ! “ You say while trying to hide your laughter and getting up to get him a glass of water, but his hand lands on your arm and he pulls you back towards him.

“Where d’you think you’re goin’, witch ?“ You laugh wholeheartedly now, which elicits a smile on his lips. He’s enclosing you in his embrace now, his strong arms wrapping around your frame and pressing you to him. The mug has found its place on the coffee table again, the two of you tangled in each-other, time starting to pass at a whole new pace. You don’t really know if it’s going faster or slower, it just isn’t on the same rhythm as the rest of the world anymore. The seconds might be hours, the hours weeks, or the other way around. In movies, the ticking of the clock would slow, completely disappear even, to let the spectator know reality was slipping.

Time doesn’t feel like time anymore when you’re this close to him. He is like your own human sized black hole.

Joel hums and you feel the vibration throughout your entire body. It’s like you’re both tuned to one another, the waves of him resonating with yours; and in that instant, in that shared understanding of how much you both belong here in this moment, you start to believe you might actually be a witch. Because how else would you have been able to reach this type of calmness with someone ? Your eyes closed, your ears drowned in the sound of him, you picture your love as an oak, unmoved by time. Its seed grown from the adoration and trust you have for each other, made to withstand cataclysms, storms and droughts all the same, grown by the light of his loyalty and the rain of your empathy. A tree connected to the rest of the world by roots that sink deeper in you and him by the day, allowing the two of you to communicate without words. Those days, you realize, those uneventful and boring days when you just allow yourself to exist in his presence, are what nourishes that type of love.

“C’mon, put your feet on the couch and lay your head on my shoulder.“ He whispers, barely audible.

You manage to do just that without ever completely detangling from each-other’s embrace; and end up laid down on the couch, your head resting on his chest and his arm around you. To your surprise, he reaches for the mug with his other hand and takes another, more careful sip.

“So… you actually like it ?“

There’s a long silence before he answers.

“Don’t hate it.“ He admits.

The sun pierces through the clouds and warms up your face. A gentle sleepiness starts to overcome you when Joel’s fingers expertly land on your head and play with your hair. It’s safe, sweet, and loving. Like your whole being is bathed in his warmth.

His hand in your hair tells you the story words never could : he’ll never leave you stranded, never vanish without an explanation. You’re his best friend, his light, and whatever happens between the two of you, whatever life throws at you, you’ll always have a place by his side.

This is what love means, you think. No promises to be broken, no emphatic speeches about what you mean to one another, no grand gestures or empty pledges about what you’ll always or never do. Just this common understanding that your lives are intertwined wether you’re next to each other or not, just those tiny gestures and caring acts that tell how kind you’re willing yourselves to be for the other. The space to make mistakes and to let the other one make some to, the space to grow. Watering the oak tree.

It’s a fucking marvel, he is a fucking marvel. You listen to his heartbeat finding a common rhythm with yours, and you can feel his eyes closing as your own do, while his fingers still play with strands of your hair like they played the guitar, drawing a melody of happiness out of you just as well as they drew the notes from the instrument.

“I love you.“ You say, voice clear despite you slowly drifting to sleep. There’s a stillness in the silence that follows, you know he’s just taking it in, letting the emotion run through him before responding.

“I love you too.“

Another silence.

“Promise it’s not the potion talking?“ You tease and he chuckles. You relish the sound.

“If it was, it’d be a hell of a potion to make me feel that way… Goes to show how powerful of a witch you are though.“ He could say so much more, but you don’t need him to. You understand him just fine in the way he caresses your shoulder softly before returning his hand to your hair.

You would hear the ticking of the clock if you had one. Since you don’t, you’ll make do with your very own metronome : your heart and his, setting the rhythm of whatever comes next.

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Thank you so much for reading, looking forward to what you thought of it ! Requests are open if you feel like giving me some inspo !

#He is my end goal #pedro pascal #tlou #walk in the woods #the last of us hbo #the last of us #joel the last of us #tenderness #fluff #witches #tea #joel miller fic #what it means to be happy

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heartbeatan · 11 months

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The Art of Revenge (Chapter 1)

Return to Table of Contents.

Return to Jungkook Fanfictions.

Return to One Nights Series.

Return to Masterlist.

Chapter 1

You were healthily addicted to your cell phone, the way most twenty-first centuriers were. It offered you safety, connection, entertainment, news, directions, and food delivery. You lived a pretty happy digital life. You avoided the toxic corners of social media, successfully skirted wasting money on fad product trends (well… success is a relative term…) and spent most of your time smiling at the hilarious memes posted by friends, rolling your eyes at your step-mother and future-mother-in-laws aggressive “wedding suggestions” emails, and squealing at the romantic and occasionally naughty texts from your fiancé.

Today, however, as you looked down at the black, cracked screen - your thumb hovering over the lock button - your pink-cased smartphone more so resembled a ticking time bomb, rather than a miniature computer.

You had turned the sounds and vibrations off days ago. The endless stream of notifications and phone calls since “it happened” had frayed your patience and your nerves. You couldn't stand to hear another “I’m here for you!” or “I’m sorry!” or “You should [insert unprompted advice]” without wanting to vomit. The only reason why you wanted to vomit was because the alternative was going to cost you several court appearances for attempted murder, vandalism, and arson - and you were reasonable enough to know that the bastards who already ruined your life weren’t worth ruining your future.

But, since vomiting only seemed like a self-punishing form of anger - and that didn’t seem fair either - you decided that you could channel your hate for the world in other ways.

That brought you to this moment: parked along the shoulder of a two-lane highway, flanked by old, tall trees, hours away from your civilization, staring down at your phone as you decided which crisis you were going to address first when you finally unlocked the screen.

You pressed your thumb and the screen lit up, prompting you for a password. You scrunched your nose as the lockscreen notification indicated that you had received another slew of text messages, notifications, emails and missed phone calls. A wiser person would have started blocking numbers and addresses - but you weren’t wiser… you were vindictive… and thus, you needed those numbers unblocked so that you could execute your plan accordingly.

You punched in your passcode, and immediately scoffed as you came face to face with your wallpaper. It was an engagement photo of you and your fiancé, hugging each other tightly, and beaming into the photo lens with bright smiles. Of all the photos that had been taken that session, this one wasn’t the best of the lot. The sun was hot and painfully bright, meaning neither of you could see. In fact, tears from trying to keep your eyes open had streaked your mascara. Chris - your fiancé - had also begun to sweat beneath his dress shirt, and the wind blew both your perfectly coiffed hairstyles out of place. But you remembered vividly how happy you had been when that photo was taken. Chris had made some ridiculous joke about life being about “as good as it sweats”, and although his puns were usually met with jeers and boos, you couldn’t help but fall into a fit of laughter. Life with him was always a bit corny, but fun as hell. He held you tight against him, and you pressed your cheeks together as you laughed stupidly towards the photographer.

You should have changed your wallpaper the moment you walked in on Chris, your fiancé, fucking your Maid of Honour, Stephanie. But you decided that, for now, you needed to be reminded of his face. You needed to remember why you were putting an obscenely high number of miles on your car. You needed the anger to flush your system and strip you of all trepidation. You needed your inhibitions gone, so you felt no remorse about fucking the man whom Stephanie called “the love of her life.”

Perhaps, we should back up…

Stephanie and yourself had been inseparable since middle school. She was your best friend, and you had remained loyaly at each other’s side through the chaos and mess of your formative years. University was the only thing that pulled you two apart - but, despite the time zone difference between your respective schools, you stayed in touch. That was when you first heard about Jeon Jungkook.

Jungkook and Stephanie were in the same dormitories, shared friends, and even took the occasional class together. She was completely enamored by him from the very first moment they met. You remembered the phone call she made to you that very first day of school, and how brightly you smiled from the other end of the phone as she recounted how she had just met “the love of her life.” You were happy for her, and admittedly a bit jealous that her first college experience had been so monumentally more exceptional than yours. You considered yourself to be a social person, but your first week out of your small town, on the heels of breaking up with your highschool boyfriend, and amidst the bustle of a large, University City, you were feeling like a fish out of water, and worried about finding your place there. Fortunately, your fears were misplaced. You quickly established a core group of friends, and spent the next four years bonding, growing, learning, and partying like a rockstar. By the end of your undergrad, you couldn’t even remember the person you were before you had gone to school. Yet, Stephanie and yourself had still managed to stay close - even visiting each others’ campuses on occasion. That was how you met Jeon Jungkook.

The first time you saw him was at a small pre-drink gathering in Stephanie’s room. She, of course, wanted to take you out on the town and show you a good time. Show off the fabulous life she had cultivated for herself. You were looking forward to meeting him. By the way Stephanie had described Jungkook and their time together, you had assumed that something was happening between them… if they weren’t already in a relationship she hadn’t yet disclosed to you. But when you got there, you quickly became of the suspicion that the life long love Stephanie had found was likely one sided on her part. You empathized with her. You weren’t exactly the best at handling unrequited feelings - you had already gone through a bout of them with your own fellow classmate and temporary fuck buddy. Whereas you dealt with those feelings by talking them out with a pint of ice cream, Stephanie coped with denial and delusion. You wondered how she put up with it for so long. Your friend was beautiful, charming and, by the way the boys of her school tripped over themselves when they were around her, you were sure she could have easily found real, two-way love with the snap of her perfectly self-manicured nails. You wondered who the hell this Jungkook guy was, and what kind of asshole he could have been to not only have this hold over her, but also the audacity to reject her.

But the moment he walked into the party… you understood. He made your heart instantly thump, your mind whip through a reel of fantasies, and your nether regions pulse. He was gorgeous beyond belief. Thick ebony hair, a loose, black t-shirt that somehow was tight over his broad chest, an array of dainty tattoos dancing their way up his muscular arms, and a strong, squared jaw that emphasized both his boyish and masculine features. There was something insouciant about how he walked into a room, and the way he casually scanned the space around him. His dark and brooding aura instantly made you desperate for his attention.

You felt guilty for being even remotely attracted to him - but that guilt also made you completely understand your best friend's misleading banter. If you had to see that man everyday, you too would need to find a way to cope beyond the abilities of frozen sugar.

You met him a few times over the college years, and even several times afterwards, since Stephanie’s friend group stayed relatively in touch and she often invited you along. Jungkook and yourself, however, hadn’t shared many words between you throughout all those occasions. Whenever you were around, he didn’t talk often to Stephanie either, and you questioned if it was because of you, and that he didn’t like you very much. But, of the few times you did speak, he was cordial, still insouciant, and generally a decent person. You could easily describe him as an “artist.” A flower child with the air of James Dean. He had started his own graphic design business and was in high demand; he toured every summer with his indie-rock band; he made decent bank on paintings, photographs and graphic prints which he sold online; and, just because of course he could, also ran a tattoo and piercing salon out of his house.

You had only been to his home once. He had invited his college friends up for a long weekend, and you, of course, tagged along. You didn’t get much of a look inside his home, aside from the bathroom off the mudroom. The home was in the middle of the woods and had the outside appearance of a luxury cabin, but there certainly wasn’t enough room inside for all of you to sleep - so you stayed in tents sprawled across the lawn.

That was the weekend you met Chris. Stephanie had actually set up the meet-cute. He was the brother of one of Stephanie’s friend’s whom she had met once or twice - an unfortunate detail that would become relevant later.

That weekend, it felt as if all the stars were finally aligning. Chris and you clicked immediately, and you unashamedly spent the next four days attached at the hip, and those three total nights “sleeping” in his tent. Stephanie seemed to be finally getting what she wanted as well. She was at Jungkook’s side at every opportunity, and from behind your rose coloured glasses, you were sure something was finally going to happen between them.

Unfortunately, your newly love-drunk perspective was far from correct. Stephanie was in a foul mood the whole drive home. Apparently, she had finally mustered up enough courage to tell Jungkook that she loved him, and he had coldly shut down her advances. She even cried at one point, and you comforted her by dutifully calling him a blind asshole, and declaring that she deserved so much more than him.

After that trip, two years passed, and you were deeply in love with Chris, and Stephanie seemed to get over her Jungkook heartbreak. She respectfully got over him by getting under other lovers. The problem, however, was when she got under Chris. There weren’t many pertinent details to that revelation. You came home one day early from work, saw Stephanie’s car in your driveway and assumed she had been by to drop off a dress of yours she had borrowed for your bridal shower. When you stepped into the house, instead of finding a garment bag hanging neatly at your backdoor, you found her clothes strewn about the kitchen floor, and Chris pounding her over your pristine kitchen counters.

You left without saying a thing. You ignored their terrified cries and guilty apologies. Truly, you felt nothing in that moment. Just numb. You shut off your phone, drove five towns over, and held yourself up in a hotel room.

Inside that hotel room, you experience the intensity of every stage of grief.

Denial. You hadn’t seen what you had seen. This man who told you he loved you, who treated you right, who asked you to marry him - there was no way he was cheating on you.

Anger. Stephanie - the woman who was family to you. The girl who had been with you through thick and thin, who introduced you to your fiancé, whose mortgage you paid when she lost her job and needed time to find a new one, the one who held your hand at your mother’s funeral, the way you did at her father’s… Stephanie, would have the audacity to betray you in the most intimate way possible.

Bargaining. People make mistakes. Perhaps there was a good explanation they could give you - one that could convince you that this affair could be forgiven and forgotten, and everything could return to normal before the “mistake.”

Depression. Realizing you would need to leave Chris. Knowing that you lost a friend. Thinking about just how much physical, emotional and financial labour you were about to endure to pull apart your intrinsically tangled lives.

Acceptance. You were no longer engaged. Stephanie was no longer your friend. You were alone again.

Of all the stages and feelings you went through, anger was the one that ironically made you feel the best. So, upon acceptance of your fate, you returned to the anger stage, and began scheming your payback.

Chris was a pretty easy target. You were an accountant, and he was a fool. Nearly everything you owned together was in your name, since your credit was fabulous, and his looked like he had spent his retirement savings on crypto currency the day before the big crash. Long story short, the man would be homeless, carless, and broke by the time you spoke with him again.

Stephanie was a bit of a different story. You couldn’t get to her by destroying her financial life, and frankly, her social life would bounce back easily. Regardless, that wasn’t how you wanted to get back at her. Chris destroyed your collective life together, so you made him start over in every way possible. Stephanie, however, destroyed your heart. You needed her to feel the loss of love, the stab of feeling worthless, and the sting of betrayal. You needed her to hurt. You needed to take something away from her that she loved so dearly… but the only thing she had ever truly claimed to love (aside from you) was Jungkook.

You turned your phone back on, then went to the bathroom while the millions of notifications flooded your phone. When you returned, you cleared them all with one simple swipe of your finger, then opened up your social media folder.

You hadn’t had Jungkook as a friend on any of your socials, but you also knew he wasn’t much for personal social media to begin with. Regardless, you easily tracked down his business page, but grimaced to find his private messages closed. But there was a phone number…

You looked at the clock. It was nearly midnight. There was no way he kept office hours open until now. But, he was self-employed… so perhaps the phone number was also his personal?

You hovered over the number, seesawing between calling him, or waiting to call him during normal hours, until you nearly convinced yourself to not call him at all. As your feet got colder, you moved to close the phone and toss it across the room - but just before you did, another text message popped up on your screen.

Stephanie.

You once again seesawed between finally reading their messages, or putting the phone back on mute until you were ready to face what either of them had to say. But before you could consciously decide, your finger pressed the notification and the full message popped up on the screen.

It was less than an apology. Although she did start by saying she was sorry, the remaining five paragraphs were probably the most audacious things you could have ever imagine to have read from someone who was trying to apologize for fucking your fiancé. She pointed out that she had in fact met Chris first, and that there had always been a spark. She said that she had given him to you, because she felt you deserved happiness. She said that she felt she needed to stop putting the happiness of others ahead of herself. Then, with all the narcissistic, self-deluded frenemy energy she could muster, told you that if you were a good friend, you would be happy that she had finally found someone who respected her.

You clucked your teeth, now beyond the point of anger. In that moment, years of memories flooded your thoughts. Every backhanded compliment she had ever made to you, every crush of yours she had flirted with, every moment she flaked on you for someone else. They were small moments, and they were surpassed by a mountain of great moments, but you couldn’t help but wonder if they had been signs you had always ignored. Perhaps Stephanie was an objectively bad person, and perhaps you had been too blind to see it until now. Perhaps she was one of those people whose nastiness was subtle, and you were one of those people who gave others too many benefits of the doubt. Well… if provoked… you could be nasty too…

You closed the message, opened the phone app, and pressed “call.”

“Hello?”

Your nerves instantly flared the moment he answered.

“Hey, uh, Jungkook?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Y/N.”

“Hey,” he answered, although there was a clear hint of confusion in his voice.

“Stephanie’s friend. Chris’ fiancé, ” you elaborated, although saying those words tasted like acid.

“Yeah, I know. What’s up?”

You took in a deep, audible breath as you gathered the courage to power through what you wanted to say. Your shotgun plan was to engage in some sort of small talk at first, but in the end, what you were about to suggest wasn’t worth all the discomfort of trying to pretend as if the two of you were close.

“I have a humiliating favour to ask you – and it would be completely fair of you to think I’m insane, but, I’ve already been humiliated beyond belief today, so I’m hoping you’ll at least take pity on me because there really isn’t much further to go until I hit rock bottom.”

He paused for a second, and you could sense even more confusion radiating through the phone.

“Shoot,” he responded, casually bracing himself for what you were about to ask.

“You know, Stephanie has been in love with you since college. She still calls you the love of her life.”

He sighed. “No offense, but I’m really not interested in her, and she’s known that since college. And I’m getting really tired of her ploys to convince me otherwise.”

Interesting, you thought, picking up on how his voice grated when he spoke about her.

“I’m not calling to play matchmaker, Jungkook.”

“Good to know. What can I do for you then?”

“Well… today, I walked in on her and Chris, naked in my kitchen.”

“Shit,” he exclaimed, although something in his tone implied he wasn’t particularly surprised. You skipped past that thought, given that he was fairly indifferent 99% of the time. “I’m sorry. You don’t deserve that.”

“Thanks. But I didn’t call for pity. My best friend had sex with the man I thought was the love of my life. I would like to return the favour.”

Once again, Jungkook went quiet, and even though it made your heart race and your cheeks heat, you let the silence hang so he had ample opportunity to work out exactly what you were implying. Then, with an even voice laced with intrigue, he asked, “What specifically do you want from me?”

“I want you to fuck me so God damn stupid that the next time I see her, I can’t walk straight.”

You heard a soft huff of a laugh come through the phone. But to your surprise, and to your excitement, there wasn’t much of a pause or hesitation before he gave you his answer.

“How soon can you get here?”

Go to Chapter 2.

#bts smut #jungkook fanfic #jungkook smut #bts fanfic #jungkook x reader

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laurfilijames · 6 months

Text

Even When...

Part 2

Part 1

Pairing: Pete Dunham x reader

Words: 2.1k

Warnings: Nudity. Mentions of a fever/the flu. Swearing. Mentions of alcohol.

Summary: Pete continues to look after you while you're sick, but with a match on tonight, you convince him that it's fine he goes to the pub to watch it with his mates.

A/N: Yes, I am this bitch and write myself comfort fics when I'm sick because why wouldn't you?!

---

Pete smiled when he heard the door to the flat open and close quietly again, knowing it was Dave following through on his soup delivery, and he would make sure he kept his own word in buying him his next round, or two, the next night they were down at The Abbey.

He didn't feel much like sleeping, it was still early after all, but he was more than content to lay in bed holding you, keeping a close eye on you as your body worked hard to fight off this bug that was unfairly plaguing you.

His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn't eaten anything other than the sarnie he scarfed down at lunch, and despite being hot from the amount of heat you were giving off from your fever, he stayed put.

After a few minutes, he stuck his leg out from under the covers that was closest to the edge of the bed, getting some relief from the cooler air in the room, and he reached his hand up that was wrapped around you to feel your forehead.

"Fucking Christ," he muttered, concerned with how much you were burning up.

Your skin was clammy and damp, and he tossed the duvet off of you to let some of the heat out.

"Shh, shh, you're alright," he spoke, the sudden change in temperature making you stir and whine.

You had a hoodie on, and even though he knew you would be sweating, Pete slipped his hand up under it to confirm.

"Alright, come on," he said, moving off the bed, "we need to get you in the shower, you're overheating."

He guided you up to sit on the edge of the bed and leaned down to kiss your head. "Wait here a tick, alright?"

You reluctantly opened your eyes, the pain showing in them breaking his heart, and slowly nodded yes.

As quickly as he could, he scooted through the living room to grab the soup from the door and stuck it in the fridge before running into the bathroom to get the shower running. He set two towels down on the sink so they'd be handy to grab afterward, and slipped out of his boxers as he made his way back to your room.

"Right, c'mere," he cooed, grabbing the edge of your hoodie and whisking it up over your head, reminding him how he undressed you similarly last night, only in a very different context.

"Hang on to me," he instructed, giving you a moment to wrap your arms around his neck as he lifted you off the mattress and carried you through the flat to the bathroom.

Stepping carefully into the shower, he continued to hold you until you got used to the temperature of the water, standing directly under the showerhead with you until your tight grip on his neck loosened slightly.

"You alright?" he asked, leaning his head back slightly to try to see your face.

You nodded, "Yeah, I think so."

"Right, easy now," he coaxed, slowly letting you down to stand on your own. His arms wrapped securely around your body, allowing you to lean on him completely without risk of falling, knowing you were using what little energy you had to keep yourself upright.

Your head rested against his chest, feeling the water run down your skin and his hands smooth up and down your back in a calming pattern, the surety emanating off of him giving you enough strength to make you feel like you could stay like that for hours.

The water was somehow perfect, not too hot or cold, and as you stood under its stream, you felt even more comforted as Pete slowly began to sway on the spot.

"How do you feel?" he asked after a few minutes of quiet other than the soothing sound of water.

"Hmm, better," you spoke, your voice still tired, peeling your face away from his chest to glance up at him with a weak smile.

"You want to stay here for longer?"

"Maybe a little bit," you admitted, burying your face against him again, your cheek landing on his West Ham crest tattoo that decorated the space over his heart.

"Long as you want, love."

You smiled against his skin when he kissed your head and continued to gently move with you, letting your fingertips ghost in circles on his back in a way you hoped silently conveyed your appreciation.

It wasn't clear exactly how long you had stayed there for, but eventually you sighed and pressed a kiss to his chest, "Okay, I think I'm ready now."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you nodded, your head moving against him.

Your body followed his movement as he reached forward and flicked the taps off, extending his arm even further to grab one of the towels to wrap around both of you at once. Outstretching his arms, he put it around his back and shoulders and then captured you in a tight hug again, pulling you against his warm, solid torso firmly.

His lips met with your forehead, seemingly unable to kiss it enough, and part of you wondered if it was a way for him to test your fever without being obvious.

Rubbing the towel gently over your tender skin to dry each drop of water, Pete worked quickly to ensure you wouldn't get cold now that you were out of the shower, and once satisfied, he unfolded the dry towel still sitting on the sink and covered you with it before wrapping the now-wet one around his waist.

"You're too good to me, Pete," you praised, watching a slightly bashful smile grow on his face.

"Nah, love, it's what we do," he explained, "You'd do the same for me."

You laughed lightly, "I wouldn't be carrying you!"

"What?" he said in mock offense. "You'd better!"

His laugh automatically made you do the same, and like he was relieved to hear it, he cupped your face and looked at you adoringly before leaning in to kiss you.

Parting from your lips, he took a long breath to calm himself, "Right, back to bed then, eh?" he whispered, his thumbs grazing your cheeks in languid back and forth motions while he rested his forehead on yours.

Tucked up in your bed together again, you were so close to drifting off to sleep when you abruptly opened your eyes, remembering Pete having said something about West Ham playing tonight.

"Isn't there a match tonight?"

Pete sighed, sounding as if he was about to fall asleep himself. "Hmm, yeah."

"You should go."

"'S alright, I can miss it."

"No, go. I don't want to keep you from it, you've already done enough," you insisted, tilting your head to glance up at him from your position on his chest.

He contemplated it for a minute, feeling torn what to do.

"I can't let you just lay here with me all night doing nothing and miss the game, you'll have a much better time at the pub."

You had already heard his phone buzzing over and over with text messages in the time since exiting the shower, more likely than not all from the lads, and now it was ringing, the chimey ringtone of 'I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles' carrying through the flat.

"Pete…"

"Alright, alright," he said to appease you, sitting up and stepping out of bed. "I'll go, but if you need anything," he stressed, his eyebrows raising high on his forehead, "you call me immediately and I'll come right home."

"Promise."

"I mean it."

You settled into his spot, wanting to surround yourself in his warmth and scent and keep it with you in his absence, watching as he got dressed.

"Have a good time," you wished, smiling what you hoped was convincingly.

He must have asked you at least ten times before he left if you were sure you were going to be okay, stepping in and out of the room as he put on his jumper and fetched his wallet and keys, and doing your best to seem as well as you could, you swore each time that you would be.

Pete trotted down the flight of stairs leading to the car park, having stopped twice already to debate turning back and cursing out loud each time as he forced his feet onward. He felt guilty for leaving you when you were this ill, but you were stubborn and weren't taking no for an answer, not wanting to ruin a night of footy for him.

His phone rang again, and he paused and whipped it out of his pocket.

"What?"

"Fucking hell, Pete, calm down, yeah?" Bov said from the other end. "Have you not been getting all our texts? The games about to-"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm on my way, calm your tits."

Pete hung up without saying goodbye, taking one last look up at the flat before getting in his car and driving off.

He checked his phone at every light, making sure he didn't miss a call from you, his mind worrying and second guessing having left from the moment he stepped out the door.

The short drive to The Abbey felt long, and when he finally made his way inside, he took a deep breath to grant him the patience he needed not to be pissy toward his mates.

"Eh, there he is!"

"Hi, boys," he nodded, stopping at the bar to order a round for them all before he got comfortable at their usual table.

Dave walked over, patting him on the shoulder, "How's she doing, mate? Clair said she talked to her earlier and she's having a rough go."

"Yeah, not great," Pete confirmed, a pit forming in his stomach out of sheer guilt just by saying it out loud.

"Ahh, well we hope she gets feeling better soon. Give her our best, yeah?"

"Yeah, will do, thanks. And thanks again for dropping off that soup."

Dave winked at him before heading back to the table, leaving Pete and his growing remorse behind.

He exhaled a long breath through his mouth, his leg bouncing up and down as he rested his foot up on the bar rail while Terry filled their pints, his impatience getting the better of him. He pulled his phone out of his jeans again, thinking he might've felt it vibrate, only to feel more worry wash over him when his screen was blank.

"Hey, Terry, you don't mind bringing those 'round to the boys, yeah?"

"Sure, Pete," Terry agreed, looking at him suspiciously.

Without saying goodbye to anyone, Pete moved through the crowd and out the door, rushing to get back home in the realization he never should've left in the first place.

Taking the stairs three at a time now, Pete raced up them, his keys gripped in his hand and ready to unlock the door as soon as he reached it.

The flat was quiet and the same as when he'd left with the one lamp beside the sofa switched on to provide enough light so it wasn't totally dark, the only difference he noticed being the kettle sitting out on the counter with your mug left next to it.

The thought of you standing weak and holding onto the counter as you waited for your tea to brew made him feel even worse, and he wasted no more time in getting to you as he removed his jumper and discarded it somewhere near the chair by the telly while striding through to the bedroom.

A slight bit of relief washed over him when he saw you sound asleep in his spot, but the need to be with you and feel you in his arms became overwhelming.

As quietly as he could, he stepped out of his jeans and walked over to your side of the bed, carefully crawling under the covers where he caught a glimpse of your otherwise bare body dressed in his brown Stone Island sweater.

He settled up beside you, wrapping his arm around you to tug you closer to him, kissing your head when you sighed and let out a quiet whimper.

"It's alright, darling," he whispered. "I'm back now."

Without waking, you instinctively held onto him, curling yourself into his body, your leg slipping between his to secure yourself to him even more.

He let his lips linger on your forehead, happy to feel your temperature had regulated, and inhaled deeply, trying to breathe in every part of you that he could.

"I'm sorry I left," he spoke against your skin, his hands giving you a reassuring squeeze as he closed his eyes and focused on the feeling of your soft breaths fanning out on his chest.

---

Taglist:

@stealfromthedevil @theesirenteller @inbar-thomas1980

#pete dunham #pete dunham x reader #green street hooligans #pete dunham comfort fic #charlie hunnam characters #charlie hunnam

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hello-kuni · 2 years

Text

𝐢 𝐛𝐞𝐭 𝛐𝐧 𝐥𝛐𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝛐𝐠𝐬

ft. sanzu

syn: even though you walked away from your doomed relationship, you just can't stay away

cw: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, angst, mentions of toxic relationship, mentions of cheating (on reader), soft sanzu, fingering, unprotected sex, praise

wc: 3.7k

a/n: i chose to take a he-wants-to-be-loved-but-doesn't-know-how-to-love sort of approach to this (this is also my first time writing a fic this long so be nice pls) (repost for like the 3rd time but on the new blog this time im so sorry if you're seeing this again)

the relationship was doomed from the beginning. you knew that, and yet you still threw yourself into it anyway.

the long disappearances, the cheating, the unpredictable use of drugs, the evident violence of his work. it all piled up on you. but he spoiled you; told you all the right words to keep you there, waiting at home for him.

what made you finally leave was to some a small thing, but the last straw for you. you were hosting a small dinner party to celebrate your recent promotion, the biggest milestone of your career thus far. all you asked was for him to show up and celebrate with you. never had you asked for much--or for anything at all. the saddest part of it all was that, at least, he could do this for you. After all, he was the only one you truly wanted there that night.

as the minutes ticked by, the hope of him showing up dwindled. no one could mistake your dim, halfhearted smile for anything other than what it was. you tried your best to keep the spirit alive but it was no use. the ache of disappointment was too great to ignore.

it wasn't the first instance of this happening. when he wanted you to accompany him somewhere, you'd be there. but when it came to you having a function of any sort, he'd never show. leaving you to make up an excuse for his absence. this just happened to be the last time.

when he came home three days later--returning from his absolute radio silence--he found you waiting in the living room, bags packed. it was three in the morning and he couldn't imagine why you were sitting there in the dark with luggage at your feet.

"what are you doing?" he asked, flicking on the light switch.

"i'm leaving," you stated, standing and facing him. it should be obvious. you wanted to leave it at that, just telling him, but the words bubbled up in your throat and spilled out without warning. "i can't take this anymore, haruchiyo. one night. i asked for one night. all you had to do was show up and you couldn't even manage that."

"i had to work. you know how unpredictable my job is."

"it's always work. couldn't you let someone else deal with it for once? just one night. that was all i wanted."

"i'm not dealing with this right now," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose and turning toward the bedroom.

"could you at least pretend to care about me?"

"i do care about you. when have i ever given you a reason to believe i don't?"

oh, you could write a book with all the examples. you chose to ignore the question. "only when it's convenient for you. otherwise, you act like i don't exist."

that seemed to be his final straw. "if you wanted to leave you have done so by now. so why are you still here?"

your hands clenched at your sides, tears burning in your throat. you knew it would end up this way, but there was always a part of you that hoped it wouldn't. because when you were with him everything was fine. or at least it felt that way. he made you happy, even when he broke your heart he'd always make it better. but this--it made you realize none of it was worth it. that fleeting happiness wasn't worth all the pain he caused.

you bent down to grab your bags and walked past him without another word, tears streaming steadily down your cheeks. as the door slammed shut behind you, a distant sound in his ears, he stared at the spot you'd been standing in. the ghost of your presence would haunt his apartment forever.

he'd sworn to do right by you every time he did wrong, but he kept messing up, kept falling into old habits again and again and again. everyone warned him he’d lose you if he didn't change and he never believed them. the only thing he hated more than them being right, was himself. he could promise to change, but he knew it'd never happen. he simply just wasn't the type of person who’d change, and in that moment, he wished he was.

you sat on the couch in the living room of your friend’s apartment, a temporary solution until you could find your own place. despite your choice to leave, you couldn’t ignore the fact you still loved him.

what was it that made you fall in love with him in the first place?

you laughed quietly to yourself, a pitiful sound. it was so obvious. it was the culmination of all the little things. all of them had your heart melting in his hands, and for so long, they outweighed all the pain he caused.

from one of the bags near the couch, you pulled one of those reasons out. a simple necklace he gave you a year into your relationship. not for an anniversary, or a birthday, or a holiday. not even as an apology. he gave it to you because he thought it'd look pretty on you. the memory made your heart swell in your chest.

you could feel the firmness of his thighs beneath where he sat you. the ghost of his fingertips brushing against your neck as he moved your hair and clasped the necklace for you. the shivers erupting down your spine at his touch. the feeling of his lips soft on your neck as he placed a kiss there in appreciation of the fact he was right: it suited you.

why did loving him have to be so painful? why couldn't walking away for good be easier?

he threw himself onto the couch, the same spot you'd been sitting in the night you left. he stared unseeing at the ceiling, head resting against the back of the couch. the apartment felt so empty without you. so cold. everywhere he looked, there were little reminders of you he couldn't bear to get rid of, in spite of the anger coursing through him. who that anger was directed towards he'd never answer.

if he really cared about you, he never should have been with you. he knew that. he'd eventually taint you, drag you into a world you didn't belong in. he wasn't weak, but he could only protect you from so much. he hated to admit it, but he was only one man.

from the night that he met you, he was drawn to you. most people were terrified or disgusted by the mere sight of him, but not you. the way you looked at him...it was so foreign. he didn't know how to describe it, but he wanted you to keep looking at him like that. never had he thought himself as the type to settle down with someone, yet he wanted to make you his.

the night he fell in love with you, truly fell in with you--he could still recall the memory clear as day. he'd needed a place far from his to stay at for a bit. the police were sniffing a little too close to him for his liking. lucky for him, he'd just started seeing you and you wanted all the time with him you could get. and he couldn’t get you out of his head.

when he showed up at your door, you didn't hesitate to let him in. it was the first time he'd gone to a woman's place. he'd never needed to before. usually opting for the backroom of a club or the nearest hotel. this was new territory for him, but not unwelcome. you stayed up all night with him, just talking. he was surprised to find himself caring about what you were saying and actively participating in the conversation.

you didn't question when he showed up for the next few nights, greeting him with a warm smile each time. the feelings you evoked in him terrified him. he didn't know how to handle them. he'd end up disappearing for days on end, sleeping with other women, or disposing of the bodies of traitors. without fail, he'd be shrouded in guilt each time. swearing to do better.

he thought moving you in with him would change things, neglecting the danger it put you in. changing his nature wasn't as easy as he'd thought it'd be. he was determined. every time he fucked up by falling into old habits he promised he'd do better starting the next day. but the cycle continuously repeated. and then you were gone. taking every bit of light from his life with you.

he just needed to accept he'd never be the right person for you. despite how much he wanted to be. he needed to let you go.

after over a year apart, he'd always show up at your door when you called on him. when you needed him, he'd be there in a heartbeat. a change made too late. you'd be lying if you said you weren't taking advantage of that fact.

tonight, when you called him, you told him you didn't feel safe at your apartment. which wasn't a lie. earlier, you'd noticed someone following you, and the only thing keeping him from following you all the way to your door was the fact the building door could only be opened by a keycard. it may not have been the smartest thing to enter your building with him tailing you, but you weren't thinking clearly due to the panic buzzing through you.

thoughts of worse-case-scenario swarmed you to the point of calling on your ex. because even though you were the one who broke things off, he was still the one you felt safest with. and, in all honesty, you missed him. you always missed him right when you thought you were fine without him. it hurt you every time.

why sanzu had your spare keycard was beyond you, but you didn't really care. he was at your door within fifteen minutes of hanging up the phone, hands in the pockets of his slacks as he waited for you to answer the door. he'd let himself in, but he was trying to exercise some self-control.

"you shouldn't open the door for strangers," he said by way of greeting. "you could get hurt."

he stepped inside when you opened the door wider, and you replied, "you're not a stranger and you wouldn't hurt me."

"haven't i?" he looked at you when he said it, something vaguely sad in his eyes. he took his shoes off and led himself into the living room. after a brief survey, he said, "you've redecorated."

your brows raised with surprise. you honestly didn't think he'd notice. it wasn't like you changed everything, only swapping out some minor decorations to fit a new aesthetic. everything else was the same. the couch, the table, even the rug were the same. "i didn't do much."

a simple nod was his only response. he crouched down by the coffee table, bending to look under it. and then the couch. and the lamp. he looked over every piece of furniture. you frowned but didn't stop him.

he searched your apartment for anything unusual or out of place. you trailed after him, a little curious as to what he was doing. if he was snooping, he was definitely bold to do it with you watching. but that wasn't it.

he never told you about the details of his work. one of the few things he wanted was for you to be kept away from that part of his life as much as possible. however, there were instances where parts of it would seep into the relationship. unavoidable glimpses into his darkest parts. he hoped tonight had nothing to do with him. that the man following you was unrelated to his work. he'd lose himself if anything happened to you because of him.

though he knew he should keep his distance, he couldn't resist coming to you every time you called. it was a risk then, and it was a risk now. he should let you go. He really should. but he didn't want to.

your bedroom was the last place he checked. nothing unusual turned up in any of the rooms. he was relieved but he'd still stay for the night. just in case. from your closet, he pulled out a spare pillow and blanket for the couch.

as he walked towards your bedroom door, you grabbed his hand to stop him. the words caught in your throat, but you forced them out anyway. "stay with me. i don't want to be alone."

he didn't look at you when he replied. "we both know what'll happen."

"and?"

"i thought you were done with me? isn't that what you said the last time?"

you didn't say anything, only tightening your grip on his hand. when he turned around, it was like something shifted inside of him. a hint of the wildness that had initially drawn you to him returning. yet his touch was gentle, almost cautious, as he cupped your cheek.

"if you want me to stay, i'll stay,” he said, leaning in until only an inch separated you. “but remember, this was your idea."

"it always is," you said, the words leaving on a breath, and pulled his lips against yours. you wrapped your arms around his neck, his wrapped around your waist. both of you trying to get closer to the other. it always ended up like this. finding your way back into each other's arms. constantly pulled to each other despite the effort put into staying apart.

how could you resist the temptation within your reach when all you could think about when he wasn't around was him. more than his presence, you craved his touch. no one made you feel so safe while also lighting your every nerve on fire.

his tongue slid against yours, a familiar dance. one of his hands trailed down your body until he was cupping your ass. he swallowed the moan you let out.

both of his hands found their way to the backs of your thighs. he hoisted you up, never breaking away from your lips. it wasn’t his room but he knew it’s layout like it was, blindly walking to the side of your bed.

he set you on the bed, finally parting from your lips, and crawled in beside you. propping himself up on one arm, he grazed his fingers over the stretch of skin where your shirt had ridden up. the intensity with which he looked at you had your breath catching in your throat.

his hand dipped under the waistband of the pants you had yet to take off—changing was the furthest thing from your mind when you got home. that little action drew a gasp from you. he smirked down at you, the scars around his mouth pulling with the movement.

he circled his fingers slowly around your clit. he relished the way you were already writhing under his touch. you always were so sensitive to the way he handled you.

“more,” the plea left you on a whisper, pushing your hips down for more friction against his hand.

“so needy,” he chided but obliged your request. he tugged your pants down just enough to give him room to work. once he’d given himself a moment to admire your bare cunt, he dragged his fingers through your wet folds before dipping one inside. a soft moan met his ears.

he pumped his finger slowly into you, warming you up enough to slip a second finger in. your hands wrapped around his forearm as he curled his fingers, eliciting yet another moan from you. you were getting restless beneath him. pushing your hips against his hand. his torturous movements weren't enough for you despite how good they felt.

he took pity on you and sped up the pace of his fingers. wet sounds mixing with your soft noises. the whole time he watched you from above, taking in the way you crumbled beneath him.

the grip you had on his arm tightened, your back arching. "that's my girl," he said, smiling at the way you clenched around his fingers. he guided you through your shaking orgasm with deft fingers.

as your orgasm waned, you looked up at him. "enough stalling, fuck me already."

oh, you didn't have to tell him twice. he helped you take off your pants while you rid yourself of your shirt and bra. he scooted to the edge of the bed, hands already unbuttoning his shirt. you watched the way the fabric slipped down his arms. the muscles of his exposed back rippled as he bent to take off his pants. he turned to you, fully bare, and your heart raced as you met his eyes.

he crawled over to you, finding himself between your legs once again. he trailed soft kisses up from your hips, pausing at your breasts. hands braced on either side of your body, he kept his head dipped to suck on one of your nipples. swirling his tongue around the peaked bud. he released it with an audible pop, moving on to the other one and repeating his actions. he only stopped when you tugged at his hair. the trail of kisses continued from your collarbone, up your neck and jaw, and finally, he reached your lips.

you reached down between your bodies, hand wrapping around his hard cock. with some effort, you managed to line his tip up with your desperate hole. Your cunt sucked his throbbing cock in with ease. he swallowed your moan as he held back his own. whatever facade he'd put up that night was crumbling away with that single stroke. he started a slow pace, desperate to make this night last.

eyes closed, your hands roamed over his sides as he broke away from your lips. your breaths huffed out of you, interrupted by soft noises of pleasures. back then, he would fuck you like he had nothing to lose, drawing out every sinful melody from your pretty lips. but now, on nights like these, he fucked you like he had everything to lose. those little noises coming from you now--he'd give anything to hear them every night for the rest of his life.

"this is the last time, sanzu." the words spilled out of you, cutting through the moment with a sharpness that even you felt. he had to admit, it stung for you to not call him by his name. he shoved that ache aside.

"you say that every time," he said, resting his forehead against yours, breaths mixing with your own.

your retort died in your throat as his strokes grew faster, harder. not by much but enough to drag a sigh from your lips. you raised your legs higher, giving him access to thrust deeper. and he did. the tip of his cock kissed the one spot that had your toes curling repeatedly.

"sanzu," you moaned out, pushing your hips against his, meeting his thrust. that name--the one that was his but wasn't--coming from your lips was grating on his ears. he didn't want to hear from you. not now, not then, not ever.

"please," he begged, head nestled in the crook of your neck. his strokes, long and deep, never faltered. "say it. just this once, say my name."

you ran your hand through his hair. "haruchiyo." he shuddered at the sound of it. no one said his name like you did. you wrapped your arms around his neck and legs around his waist, pulling him closer to you. and repeated his name. again and again. a mantra to an aching soul.

the last time you called him by his first name was the night you left. his lips pressed against the sensitive skin of your neck, sucking and nipping. intent on leaving a little mark on you. it was the only thing he could do to keep what remained of his composure--which wasn't much.

he never should have been with you. but consequences be damned, he needed you in his life. even if only in these fleeting moments. he'd come back every time. just for a taste.

your back arched against him. "close," you mumbled out. "please, haruchiyo."

he lifted his head from its home on your neck. he wanted to watch you cum. to see the way your eyes looked back at his while that small death claimed you. he cradled your face with one hand. in that moment, he wanted to make you every promise under the sun. but he could never ensure your happiness. so he could give you this at least.

a few more deep thrusts were all you needed. a shiver crawled down his spine as he watched you twitching beneath him. you dragged your nails down his back, moaning his name as he guided you through your orgasm.

feeling your pussy spasming around him sent him over the edge of his pleasure. painting you white from the inside. he hovered over you, forehead to forehead, panting in tandem with you.

i love you. the words died in his throat. he couldn't say them now. he wished he'd said them before. always--he'd always regret missing that chance.

a few hours past and you lay awake, staring at his back, chest rising and falling in his sleep. your fingers ghosted over his spine. the words you'd said earlier came rushing back, striking you with a force that had your heart clenching in your chest. "this is the last time, sanzu." a lie. a burning lie on the tip of your tongue. you could say it a thousand times and it'd never be true.

you knew he had his faults, things he hid away from you, but you wanted to believe that deep down he had something good buried away. something unseen that was the reason he was deserving of love. you'd give him chance after chance, and it didn't matter if he'd hurt you in the end.

you thought maybe you could be content to live like this. to play this game until the very end. having him for a few hours every so often. so long as he keeps coming back to you.

#trying this one last time #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers smut #tokyo revengers angst #tokyorev x reader #tokyorev smut #tokyorev angst #tokrev x reader #tokrev smut #tokrev angst #tokyo rev x reader #tokyo rev smut #tokyo rev angst #sanzu x reader #sanzu smut #sanzu angst #bonten sanzu #゜ﾟ*☆*ﾟlyn writes

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quaranmine · 1 year

Text

The Incandescence of a Dying Light (Chapter One)

It's 1988. Grian and Mumbo are roommates living in the US. Mumbo leaves on a solo camping trip at Grian's suggestion to get away from his job for a while. But when he fails to check in at the end of his trip, Grian is forced to report him as a missing person. And now the clock is ticking.

It's 1989. Grian takes a job in Shoshone National Forest as a fire lookout, prepared to spend the summer alone in the wilderness. But his primary goal isn't finding forest fires: it's finding Mumbo, who went missing in this location a year ago, alive and well. He expects to be alone. What Grian doesn't expect is having the company of the other nearby lookout, a man named Scar. Their relationship grows through their conversations held via two-way radio, as Grian finally begins to let Scar into the truth about why he's really here and mystery he's unraveling.

A Hermitcraft Firewatch AU.

Chapter One: 7,162 words

Masterpost | Chapter Two >>

Welcome to the Firewatch AU! It's okay if you've never played the game, since the plot of this story is different than in the game. If you have played the game, you'll notice some similarities, especially in the setting. If you plan to play the game, this fic will not spoil it. I just really really like fire lookouts :]

Content warnings will be added per chapter as needed. I've done a lot of research on this topic so some there will also be some notes on a reblog. This fic will be Grian and Scar centric, but it's also very much about Mumbo as well. There will also be the inclusion of art with the chapters.

May 31, 1988

Grian remembers it because it’s 7:30 PM on a Tuesday evening, and he’s sitting at his desk in front of the window trying to catch the early evening slanted sunbeams on his sketchbook. The light is golden on the page and his hand casts a shadow on his work.

That’s when Mumbo crashes through the front door–quite literally, too. The door swings shut with a bang. It’s a heavy door prone to closing on its own.

Without looking up, Grian calls out, “Remember not to slam it! Mrs. Grant complained last week, you know.”

“Right! Right, sorry!”

“Bad commute?” Grian asks.

He hears Mumbo drop his bag in the corner with a sigh, and the sound of him flopping down on the couch. Grian turns around to look at him sympathetically. Mumbo has dramatically put his palms over his eyes, slowly dragging them down his face.

“Ugh,” he groans. “It was the worst. Someone wrecked on 25.”

“That sucks.”

“Oh, shut up,” Mumbo says. “How long have you been sitting here? All day?”

“Nuh-uh, I had a meeting today with Mr. Perry.”

“Did that go well?”

“Yeah,” Grian says, lying through his teeth. But only just a little.

Mumbo hops up off the couch and walks over to Grian’s desk. “Is that what you’re drawing now?” he asks. He picks up the sketchbook.

“Yes,” Grian says sagely. “I have many ideas.”

Mumbo squints at the page. “You’ve only got a tree, Grian.”

“Hey!” Grian says, snatching his sketchbook back. “Look around! There’s plenty of trees out here! Well, maybe not on this street specifically, but give me like 20 minutes and I’ll drive you to a big forest.”

“Oof. Make it an hour. The traffic’s awful today, I told you.”

Grian and Mumbo stare at the tree drawing for a few seconds. “Is it at least a nice tree?” Grian asks.

“You’re supposed to be drawing houses, mate,” Mumbo says, amused. “Your meeting went terribly, didn’t it?”

“I have absolutely nothing,” Grian says. “Zilch! Zip! Nada! Empty brain. I can tell you there will be at least one tree next to his house, though.”

“Imagine that,” Mumbo says. “Million dollar house on a mountainside. One tree guaranteed.”

It’s Grian’s turn to use the shut up line. “Shut up,” he says.

There’s something ticking in Mumbo’s brain, and Grian can tell. He looks past Grian through the window with the streaming gold light, out at the mountains in the not-so-far distance. And Grian remembers it, even when he doesn’t want to.

“We should go camping,” Mumbo says. “Get out of the city for a few days. See some trees with no houses next to them. Get away from all that highway traffic.”

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” Grian says. “This weekend? Do you want me to call and see if I can reserve a spot in the national park? Or a little more west and hit a national forest?”

Mumbo screws up his face a little at that. “Let’s go a bit further this time,” he suggests. “Do several days instead of just a weekend. We could even leave the state. Go someplace we haven’t already been a million times. Maybe even a little more remote.”

“When?” Grian asks.

“Is next week too soon? I could just take off midweek and we could go drive somewhere. Please? Think of all those early summer wildflowers up in the mountains.”

“Dude, I can’t take off mid-week,” Grian says sharply, suddenly feeling very frustrated. “You know that. I need to be finishing these designs! You gotta give me more notice than this, Mumbo.”

“Right,” is all Mumbo says, and he looks so tragic that Grian already feels bad for snapping at him.

“Is it that bad at work?” he asks.

Mumbo looks away, past Grian back back out into the mountains in the distance. “I just don’t know if I can take another week,” he admits. “I need to take some time off. And hey, maybe he’ll even fire me this time for giving him only a week’s notice that I’m taking vacation time!”

“You need that job for your visa,” Grian points out softly.

Mumbo rolls his eyes. “Fine, I’ll try to keep my job I guess. No trying to get fired. I’m still taking that time off though.”

“He wouldn’t fire you anyway,” Grian says. “You’re much too useful.”

That causes Mumbo to crack a little, and he starts to smile again. “Yeah, mate, that place’ll burn down without me. If I leave for a week they’ll be begging me to come back and fix everything that went wrong.”

“If anything, that’ll just ensure your job security!” Grian says. “Hey, maybe you could just go without me. I’d love to go, I really would, but I can’t lose this deal with Mr. Perry. I’m the project leader this time and he’ll likely drop the whole project if I don't so much as answer the phone on the first ring…”

“Rich people,” Mumbo says with a nod.

“Ugh, yes, rich people,” Grian says, and throws his head down on his desk for dramatic measure.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Mumbo says. He thinks for a moment. Grian lifts his head and watches the way contemplation flashes across Mumbo’s face.

“Dude, just go by yourself,” Grian urges. “I can’t stand to watch you drive yourself insane another week. You’ve done it before, right? And why don’t you bring the bike? That way you can do all those difficult trails you’re always trying to drag me down without worrying about me wrecking it.”

“Should I?”

“Yeah,” Grian says, and he remembers this too, for as long as he lives, “I bet it’ll be fun."

»»———-　　———-««

June 16, 1988

Grian is bouncing his leg, trying to bleed off nervous energy with every shake. He’s bouncing his leg because at least his leg is hidden under the table he’s sitting at, whereas the pen he’d been tapping earlier was about to have resulted in an annoyed client and lost job.

The table is large, and oval. He’s in some weird conference room-home office place in Mr. Perry’s gigantic house, discussing the floor plan for yet another gigantic house Mr. Perry wants to build. Mr. Perry, of course, hates half of the floor plan Grian has proposed.

Grian hasn’t quite figured out why Mr. Perry needs two gigantic houses, but it really isn’t his business considering he’s being paid. And he’s being paid very well for this. It’s probably the best job he’s landed since he started and he’s grateful his boss let him take this client, annoying as he is. This newest house would be within walking distance of a ski lift though, and this house isn’t, so Grian can at least see the value there.

He bounces his leg. He tries to count how many times he bounces it in a minute, only to find that he can’t really keep up with the passage of time, number of bounces, and the bouncing itself all at the same time. He loses track instantly. But if he can just get through this meeting, then he can make an excuse to go home. Only 4,000 leg bounces until he’s passed enough time to leave. He’ll be out of this stuffy room like a bullet.

He’s thinking so hard about leaving this meeting and going home that he forgets that he has to actually be in the meeting first.

“Excuse me?” Mr. Perry says sharply. “Did you hear any of what I just said to you?”

“Hm?” Grian says back, before suddenly being slammed back into reality. “Oh, apologies sir. Can you repeat that, please? I must have been a little distracted.” He gives a wan smile.

Mr. Perry gives him a long look. “I was saying that I don’t think I like the placement of this room.” He jabs a finger at the blueprints. “I mean, who needs a parlor these days, let alone a second parlor? I want to change it.”

Grian squints at the room in question. “I think we could open it up to the kitchen and living room,” he offers. “Open concept and all that. There’s a lovely view to be had that’s being blocked by the walls right now.”

“Let’s make it a pool room,” Mr. Perry says.

“Uh, a pool room sir? On the second floor?”

“Not an entire pool, that’s nonsense,” he says. “Just a large indoor hot tub. It’ll be cold out when I’m visiting this house.”

“I…I think I can do something like that, sir,” Grian responds. “We’ll just ensure that the engineers clear it for the amount of water weight it would put on the floor and add extra support if needed.”

“Can there be some windows or screens in the room?”

“You mean on the inside wall?”

“Yeah. So I could see the hot tub from the living room if I wanted.”

“Um, sure. We can do that.”

He sneaks a glance at his watch. Only 35 minutes to go now.

He just…doesn’t want to think about it. He just needs to leave. He’ll get home, make the phone call, and it will be okay and he’ll feel silly. But every second he’s stuck in this godforsaken massive house is just another second he has to spend knowing that he’s delaying something very, very important.

If he thinks about it, he’s going to spiral, so instead he keeps trying to channel every bit of the nervous energy into his right foot.

“Grian,” Mr. Perry says, and Grian snaps his head back up from the blueprints, a little surprised that the man has used his first name.

“Yes?”

“Would you like to leave early?” Mr. Perry asks. “Since you clearly have somewhere else you want to be.”

Grian freezes. “My apologies sir, I’m not trying to make you feel rushed in this process. It’s very important to me that you feel like everything in your future home is exactly how you want it, no matter how many tries it takes for us to get to the perfect result.”

“I don’t appreciate it when my employees lie to me, you know,” Mr. Perry says. “Save the corporate spiel for later. You’re making me exhausted just looking at you. I think if you bounce that leg any faster it’ll fly off.”

“Oh,” Grian says with a hint of a nervous chuckle. “Suppose that’s true.”

“You can go home now,” Mr. Perry says. “You’re not paying attention anyway. Just get me some new ideas for that hot tub room and we’ll reconvene on Monday.”

“Yes sir, thank you so much,” Grian blurts, and grabs his papers off the desk, and tries to walk out of the door at a normal speed instead of sprinting.

»»———-　　———-««

He arrives home a little after 3:30 pm, tossing his bag and papers haphazardly on the couch as soon as he runs in. The door accidentally slams again, but he doesn’t really care what Mrs. Grant thinks today. His goal is the phone on the table by the kitchen; even all the way across the room he can see the message light blinking on the answering machine next to it.

He pulls the phone off its rack and presses to listen to the message on the tape. It plays, and…he sets the receiver back down.

It’s just his landlord, calling to say that he won’t be around to fix the door for another few days.

Grian paces once around the living room, then twice.

He pauses in front of the window. It’s clear and sunny out, with very little smog on the horizon. The mountains are in clear view.

Grian returns to the phone, and dials 411. Directory assistance. He’s not quite sure the number he needs to call for this, and his local phone books are of no use for out of state numbers. An operator picks up.

“Hello? Yes, I’d like to place a call to the Shoshone National Forest Ranger Station. Location? Uh, I think it’s in Cody, Wyoming. Yes, thank you.”

A minute or two later with the correct number for the office scribbled on a notepad, Grian is patched through. A young woman answers the phone.

“Good afternoon, how may I help you?” she asks.

“Erm, hi,” Grian says. “I’m calling because I’m worried about my friend. He was in the National Forest and he’s missed his check-in.”

“How long has it been since he missed his check-in window?”

“Several hours at least,” Grian answers. “He told me it might be late, or really really early, so I was expecting a call last night or this morning. But I didn’t receive one. I left for work early, thought maybe he’d taken a bit more time than he told me, but it just nagged at me. It was supposed to be hours ago. When I came home just now there’s no message on the answering machine.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, darling,” the ranger says. “Can you please give me some information about him? Full name, age, appearance, vehicle, license plate if you know it, and the trails or locations he told you he would be hiking in? We can pass that information on and begin a search.”

A knot in Grian’s throat forms at the word search. “Of course,” he replies.

He rattles off the information as she asks for it, from Mumbo’s somewhat rickety AWD sedan that he was always convinced he could drag down any road he wanted, to his dark hair and mustache. He gives her Mumbo’s full real name, and feels a little silly when he includes the nickname right along with it, but he figures Mumbo might appreciate it. He tells her the trails Mumbo had mentioned doing, and how many days he planned to spend hiking.

“He brought his mountain bike too,” he says. “I don’t know if he took it with him on any overnight hikes but he had a setup for that, where he could strap his pack to the bike.”

“Thank you,” the ranger says. “Being on a bike could extend the range he could be in, but it could also limit which trails he could be on due to terrain. Here, I’m going to patch you into the local Sheriff’s office to make a report too, is that okay? I’ll call some of the field offices and get some rangers on this. We’ll start by checking for his car at the trailheads.”

“Thank you,” Grian says.

He calls the Sheriff’s office and makes a report. He tells them much of the same information he told the ranger, and the second time repeating it only makes it seem more macabre. He answers all the questions to the best of his ability. Yes, Mumbo was an experienced hiker. No, he was not having a personal crisis, just wanted a few days off work to unwind.

And then he sits and waits. The whole process had only taken a little over an hour.

He paces some more for a while. He goes to the kitchen to get some water, drinks that, and finds it only killed a couple minutes, so he goes and paces some more. He stares out the window for a while again. Then, he organizes some of the papers he hastily threw down when he got home, because it’s still probably not a good idea to risk losing or bending any of Mr. Perry’s documents.

He gets another call around 8 pm.

“We found his car,” the ranger says. “It's still at the trailhead.”

“So he never made it back to his car last night.” So he’s not just a spoon who forgot to find a payphone and give his friend a call.

“I’m afraid not.”

“So…so what now?” Grian asks.

“We’ll start sending some rangers and volunteers down the trail to look for him, in case he’s hung up somewhere and needs a little help. His bike wasn’t in his vehicle, so he must have had that with him.”

“Thank you,” he says. “Please keep me updated.”

That night, Grian doesn’t sleep, and the next morning Grian doesn’t go into work. He’s already driving northwest.

»»———-　　———-««

May 1989

11 Months Later

He’s grateful when he finally rolls up to the trailhead after being jerked around on the rocky, uneven road for the last 19 miles. He’s the only one in the small lot, which is less of a parking area and more of a clearing at the terminal point of the road.

He lays his head back on the headrest for a moment just to rest, eyes closed, and sighs. The sun through the windshield is warm on his forehead, but the day outside is pleasantly cool with the bite of winter still on the wind. There’ll still be snow on the mountaintops for a while yet.

It’s noon. He spent the night in Cody, in an old motel but different room and left in the morning with his whole life packed in a bag. He has a long hike ahead of him this afternoon, and he won’t get there tonight. But he might as well start.

Grian gets out of the car and inspects it. It’s a 1978 Chevy Blazer he picked up two weeks ago when he realized he was going to need a 4x4 to even make it to the trailhead and traded in his old sedan. Its red and white paint is covered completely in a coat of dust and topped off with several mud splashes from snow meltwater on the road.

Fortunately, nothing rattled off the vehicle during its inaugural off-road journey, so Grian is just left to hope it still has air in its tires the next time he hikes back out. And that might not be for a while, so he’s stocked it with a spare and patch kit. He has an elementary knowledge of how to fix a tire but he figures the motivation of being stranded 19 miles back on this empty road will breed enough desperate ingenuity to fix any problems he encounters.

Grian grabs his pack from the backseat, and starts down the trail.

Grian loses himself for a while during the hike. It’s easy to do that–to just walk and turn your brain off completely. One foot in front of the other over and over. The motions over and over tune the rest of Grian’s brain into a nice numbness. He listens to his boots crunch gravel and dry leaves. He looks at how the sun dapples the trail.

He hikes onward.

The forest is loud in a way the city isn’t. It’s not the type of loudness that announces itself, but the longer Grian hikes onward and alone the more its presence makes itself known. It’s like Grian’s brain is getting rid of the noise that’s filled it for so long and allowing him to really listen to the sounds of life.

The wind whistles through the trees, shaking the pine needles. It doesn’t blow on Grian; the taller trees around him shield him from the gusts. He hears the light gurgle of a creek well before he comes down a hill to cross it, and when he approaches it a frog leaps away from the bank.

At one point, Grian’s dragged out of his silent contemplation by the commotion of rattling leaves in the undergrowth next to him. It spikes his heart rate and he freezes in place, until a medium sized brown spotted bird explodes out of a bush at the side of the trail and flies away, low to the ground.

He smiles a little to himself. Just a bird, startled by a person. He is trespassing, in a way, it seems, to intrude his presence upon such a wild area. This is the bird’s home, not his. He’s just being offered a place in it to protect it.

He hikes onward as the sun dips lower in the sky.

»»———-　　———-««

June 17, 1988

Grian arrives at the Forest Service office in Cody, Wyoming at half past ten in the morning. The sky is blazing blue and cloudless, but there’s haze on the horizon.

He stumbles into the office, brushes a piece of greasy hair that’s fallen on his forehead back up, and tells a slightly-startled looking lady at the front desk: “I’m here to join a volunteer search. My friend’s missing.”

She looks him up and down with a critical, yet sympathetic eye. “What’s your name, sir?” she asks, in a way that suggests she might already know.

“Grian.”

“Grian, where did you drive in from?”

Grian stares at her. “Denver. Why?”

“Denver’s eight hours away,” she says. “Isn’t it?”

“I don’t see why that’s relevant.”

She sighs, and gives him a look. A pitying one that he hates. “Darling, how much sleep did ya get? It’s not even noon yet.”

Grian huffs. “I don’t know. An hour or two. I’m fine!” He looks at her pleadingly. “Please, just let me know where I can go to help out.”

She just shakes her head, and picks up the phone on her desk. Grian watches her dial it, and hopes for a second she’s calling another ranger to come escort him or something, but that hope is crushed the moment she speaks again.

“Hello?” she asks on the line, and waits while the other person answers. “Yes, I was wondering if you had a room available. You do? Good. I’m going to send someone over your way. Yeah, I’m doing good, how are you? Glad to hear it. Thanks, darling. Yeah, he’ll be coming in a bit.”

She hangs up and scribbles something on a notebook, before tearing out the page and handing it to Grian. It’s got a short list of directions. Down the road two miles, turn right on the second road after the bridge.

“It’s a nice little motel not too far from here,” she says. “They’ll give you a room and you can get some rest.”

Grian shoves the paper back across the desk at her. “No. Tell me what I can do to join the search for my friend, please.”

She smiles saccharine-sweet and hands the paper back to him again. “Take it. I don’t want to see you back here for at least another few hours. In fact, I won’t give you any information unless you come back in a few hours. Get some sleep, you stayed up all night and just drove eight hours straight. You’ll be much better equipped to help out if you aren’t too tired to hike.”

Grian feels frustration well up in his chest, consuming the ball of anxiety in his chest. It threatens to break him too, so he looks away from the ranger and at the floor instead, though. Finally he speaks again. “My friend,” he whispers. “Will he be okay?”

The woman answers, “All our rangers are trained in search and rescue. They’re professionals. This is what they do, Grian, and they’re good at it. They’ll do everything in their power to find him.”

Grian nods tightly.

“Now get some sleep, darling.”

»»———-　　———-««

May 1989

It’s night when Grian arrives at the tower, on his second day of hiking. He’s been backpacking many times before, but the rough terrain on this hike was still a surprise. It’s difficult to scale rocky hills with a bulky pack, and his shoulders are sore and his walking is slower now–so it’s night by the time Grian arrives at the place that’s going to be his home through October.

It’s a wooden tower built on a hill. A staircase winds itself around, leading to the top where there’s a single room surrounded by boarded up windows. Nearby on the ground is an outhouse, small storage shed, a generator, a water tap, and nothing else.

Well, at least he’ll have electricity. He’ll have water too, but it seems like he’ll have to haul it. He knows from his lookout orientation a few days ago that there’s a water tank with rainwater catchment and filters, but there’s no way to pump it 30 feet to the top of the tower.

Grian turns on the generator, and heads up the steps with the single-minded determination of an exhausted man who knows there’s a bed waiting for him. When he arrives at the top he throws on the lights, tosses his pack down, and surveys the place.

He was expecting it to be pretty dusty and ill-maintained, but it seems pretty clean. There’s bedding folded up neatly on the mattress–Grian had been expecting to just use his sleeping bag. It looks like someone had been sent to the tower recently to clean and stock it in preparation for his arrival, which he appreciates.

He’s not really sure the level of effort it takes to maintain this place out here in the wilderness, and his mind goes down a brief rabbit hole. How was all this wood hauled out here? What about the nails, the rivets, the glass, the tanks? Was it hauled up on the same trail he just spent a day and half walking down? They must have used horses to carry materials but someone still had to assemble all this. He has a lot of respect for that.

Grian is just starting to lay out the bedding when something over on the table begins to crackle. He walks over to inspect it. It’s a small black handheld radio sitting on a charging stand. He was told he’d have one of these.

It’s not set on the frequency he was told to keep it at, but before he's able to tune it to the correct one, it crackles to life anyway.

“Two Forks, Two Forks come in! This is KSNF, broadcasting to you live from Thorofare. Your host on this fine spring evening is-”

Grian picks up the radio. “Hello?”

“-none other than Scar.”

Grian sighs. Of course, this is a two-way radio. He can’t respond until the other person on the line has stopped talking. He waits as the so-called Scar keeps going. It occurs to him that he might be trapped out here all summer with this guy.

“He’s brilliant, he’s handsome, and he’s calling you dear listeners, hoping to hear your thoughts. What ails you tonight? What are your hopes, dreams, loves, losses? Or perhaps, what is your name, Two Forks?”

Grian, sensing the pause, jumps in. “Um, hi,” he says. “This is Grian. The new lookout at Two Forks. And you must be…Scar, I presume?”

“Grian!” the radio chatters. “What an interesting name. Yes, I’m Scar. I’ll be your supervisor this summer, ‘cause I’m so good at this. I’m also practically your next door neighbor.”

Grian looks out the window, but it’s dark and the windows just reflect himself. He looks away. “Uh, yeah. How did you even know when I got here? Where are you?”

“I saw your lights flick on,” Scar replies. “Been keeping an eye out for when you’d arrive. Go outside, you’ll see my lookout to the north.”

Grian steps outside, feeling the chill in his bones again. Once he stopped hiking and rested for a few minutes, the warmth from the movement wore off and he’s reminded again how cold spring nights in the mountains are. Sure enough, out in the distance, snuggled amongst the dark peaks, is a tiny orange light.

“Oh,” he says. “There you are. I see your light too.”

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Scar says. “We’re the only lights out here tonight. Nothing else for miles around. Not even a campfire–well, of course not, ‘cause those are banned right now. Please report any of those you see.”

“I’ll be sure to do that,” Grian says. “That is the job, is it not?”

“Oh, we've got a smart one,” Scar replies, and it’s a sentence that would probably sound acerbic in anyone else’s mouth, but Grian detects no sharpness in the words. Just friendliness.

There’s an awkward few moments on the radio, before Grian speaks again. “Okay, erm, I’m gonna call it a night, then. See you in the morning.”

“Goodnight!” Scar calls, and then, “Wait, wait, don’t go yet. Your radio, um, write down the frequency band we’re on right now. Keep that.”

“Um, okay,” Grian says. “It’s different from the one I was told in orientation.”

“Yeah, we’ll use that one too. That’s the one you need to report on. This one’s just for us. You don’t want the whole Forest Service to hear us chatting all the time, do you?”

Great. This guy wants to chat with Grian.

“I guess not,” he says finally, not untruthfully. He doesn’t really want anyone to overhear him talking, because he doesn’t really feel like talking to anyone in the first place. Half the point of taking this job was the distinct lack of human contact in every possible aspect, after all.

“Good! Anyway, talk to you tomorrow, um….Grian. Your name was Grian.”

“Yeah. It is.”

“Goodnight, sleep tight, don’t let the mosquitoes bite, Grian!”

He flicks the switch on the radio to the off position before Scar can say anything else, and runs a hand tiredly through his hair. This might be a long summer, and he cannot allow this guy to distract him from the other half of the reason he took this job:

He’s here to save Mumbo.

»»———-　　———-««

“Two Forks! Two Forks come in!”

Grian wakes up to the tinny sound of his radio across the room, and streaming golden sunlight over his face. But mostly the radio.

“Oh wonderful lookout of the tower over yonder, wake up! It’s a beautiful afternoon today, the sun is shining, and I can let you sleep no longer! Alas, our duty calls. Two Forks, answer your radio.”

Grian rolls over and puts a pillow on his head. Scar continues.

“Perhaps this is like a fairytale,” Scar muses. “Are you sleeping beauty, locked away in your tower, desperately waiting for true love’s kiss? Well, I can hardly speak for your true love, so you’ll have to settle and wake for me instead. Do you like Disney, Two Forks? What’s your favorite movie?”

Grian kicks his blanket onto the floor and slides unceremoniously out of bed. He sways for a moment. His legs aren’t really sure they’re ready to support him today, not after all the mountain climbing he did the other day. Then he strides resolutely to the other side of the room, picks up the radio, and turns the switch off.

Ah, peace.

Grian wanders over and sits on the bed for another few minutes, letting his mind spin out and gain traction again. He takes his glasses out of their case beside the bed and puts them on. The sun is bright and high in the sky, so it’s not early. It casts the room in a nice light, and Grian takes his first opportunity to look over his new home. It’s painted an old and slightly chipped white, with little posters and photos pinned to open spaces on the walls. The room is mostly filled by its spacious windows. They frame every side of every wall, almost as if Grian is living in a glass house.

The view is, of course, spectacular.

The mountains are both jagged in some places and rounded in others. He can see hills upon hills for miles, wrinkling out into the horizon like a piece of crumpled paper. There’s pockets of meadow and open woodland that contrast with thicker pine forests, creating a patchwork. The hillsides are painted in different greens–an aspen grove there, fir here, golden spring grass, or the bright spring flowers he can see coloring patches of the meadow. The sky is a blazing blue, and there is no haze on the horizon.

It would be spectacular, wouldn’t it? Something so beautiful would have to be so cruel. Grian is already familiar with these views in the way of someone scorned. He’s been here before, and this time he isn’t leaving without dragging the secrets from the darkest valleys.

Grian stands up again, a little more clear headed, and heads to the stove. It’s propane powered, and he’s grateful it exists at all. He takes out a small metal pot and, upon finding it dusty, casts it aside and pulls his own camp pot from his pack. He’ll wash things later. He pours some water in it, sets it to boil, and tries to figure out where he’s set his tea.

With a mug of tea in hand–tragically no milk and a supply of sugar he’s decided to use very, very sparingly–and the radio in his other hand, Grian steps out onto the wraparound walkway at the top of his tower. It makes for a nice deck.

Lazily, he flips the radio back on. “This is Two Forks,” he says smoothly. “I’m awake now, what do you need?”

“G-man!” Scar nearly shouts on the other end. “It’s great to hear your voice this afternoon.”

“Ugh, afternoon,” Grian groans. He checks his watch. “It’s what, 12:30? Lunchtime? Already?”

“You’ll be okay,” Scar says. “You’re not really officially on duty until tomorrow anyway. I always like to check on the new lookouts on the first day anyway, though. You doing good?”

“Fine.”

There’s a pause, like Scar was clearly waiting for more than that. Grian is giving him nothing. After a moment he gets the memo and proceeds.

“Good to know, good to know. So, G-man,” he starts. “You’re a lookout now. That means your only job, from now until October, is to keep an eye on this forest for any fires. If you see a fire, report it to me, or to the rangers on the official channel. I’m talking campfires, fireworks, lightning strikes, everything. You got that?”

“I believe I can handle it,” Grian says drily. “I’m pretty good at looking out windows.”

“Do you see the round thing on a table in the center of the room?” Scar asks. Grian does not, because Grian is outside on his deck, but he’s seen it before already and doesn’t feel like walking back inside to play along.. “That’s your Osborne Fire-Finder. I assume they taught you how to use that?”

“Yeah. Always keep it calibrated, locate the fire in the rotating sight, and use the tool’s measurements to determine its location and precise angle.”

“Wow, you’re going to put me out of a job!” Scar says, and somehow Grian just knows he’s genuinely beaming on the other end of the line.

“I can’t be in two lookouts at once, now can I?” Grian says, words sharp. It doesn’t phase Scar.

He continues. “The only other real thing is that you need to report daily first thing in the morning with the weather conditions at your tower. This helps us keep track of what the fire danger is on any given day or week, so I expect you to take that seriously. Additionally, you’ll be expected to keep logs of conditions in your area. Anything else, well, I’ll just help you with it if it comes up!”

“Cool.”

“Any questions, G-man?” Scar asks.

“Um, yeah,” Grian says. “Just one. Have you been calling me ‘G-man’?”

“Yep!”

“Alright, follow up question. Can you stop?”

“Nope!” Scar says brightly. “Every lookout needs a nickname, it’s only fun. I suppose if you had a nickname you’d rather be called though, I can consider it.”

“Uh, no,” Grian says. “I don’t have another nickname for you to use.”

“Aw, too bad. I guess it’ll just stay G-man, then.”

Grian is nearly overcome for a moment, and, despite the objectively peaceful surroundings, desires to tear his hair out. He does not. Instead he replies, in his most carefully snarky tone, “Fine. Is Scar your nickname, then? What’s your real name?”

“Grian!” Scar exclaims, in mock offense. “I’ll have you know that this is my legal name, thank you very much.”

“I have so many reasons to doubt that.”

“I would never lie to you, G-man.”

Grian rolls his eyes at that, but he can’t stop the corner of his mouth from turning up. He takes a sip of his tea. It’s nice in his hands, warm, and the smell alone is making him feel more at home. There’s silence on the radio for a long time, and Grian almost assumes that Scar has gone. He’s fine with that being the end of their discussion for the day.

Scar isn’t gone, though, and after a while the radio crackles again. “Say, G-man,” he starts. “Now that you’ve asked me your questions, mind if I ask one of my own? A little equivalent exchange, you know.”

“Go ahead.” Grian sips his drink.

“Where are you from?”

“Denver.” It’s not untrue.

“Um, I don’t mean to be rude,” Scar says tentatively, “but…where are you from before that?”

Grian sighs. “England.”

“I knew it!” Scar cries. “Uh, sorry. Didn’t mean to shout, there, my bad! It’s just interesting to me, that’s all! You’ve got such a lovely accent.”

“I guess,” Grian says. “You never met a British person before?”

“Oh, sure,” Scar says. “I’ve met several tourists from the UK. But between you and me, most people flyin’ across the ocean for a vacation tend to just stop at Yellowstone or Grand Teton instead of here. And the ones that do don’t stray too deep into the Forest.”

“Yeah, well, s’bit far back here. Took me two days to hike in and then I slept until noon afterwards.”

“Yeah, that hike tends to beat people up,” Scar says. “So. What on earth brings someone from England to Colorado to Wyoming?”

“Maybe I just like the mountains.”

“You don’t have mountains in England?” Scar gasps in horror. “Oh my goodness, that’s a tragedy. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”

“No, it’s like, well–we do have mountains in England. It’s just, well, they aren’t exactly like this are they? It’s a different sort of landscape. And besides, the place I grew up in just had hills.”

“Oh,” Scar said. “You know, I’ve never been to England. Never really left the western half of this country, actually. Is it pretty there?”

Grian thinks back, to cobblestone streets in town and misty mornings. He thinks of the way everything was just drenched in vibrant green in the summers. He thinks of old churches with ivy on the walls and fields of grass hemmed in by stone fences.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s pretty there.”

“Man,” Scar says. “I’ll have to go one of these days. I am wondering, though–it’s not, uh, very common to meet, um, someone from another country working this job. Since the Forest Service is a federal agency, you know.”

Grian scoffs. “Isn’t this line of question a little forward for a first introduction?” he asks. “Whatever. It’s not like they didn’t poke into my background enough during the hiring process. I have dual citizenship–free, clear, whatever you wanna call it, to work for the US government.”

“That’s so cool,” Scar says. “So does that mean you like, came here and applied for citizenship and got it or–or were you like born here, and then moved to England. Or, even, you got it through marriage? Are you married? Like how does this work?”

“I’m not going to tell you all the details of my life.”

“Oh. Sorry,” Scar says.

“It’s fine.”

“Hm,” Scar says. “You know, it’s interesting that I met you, almost like a coincidence, right? I remember hearing about another British guy in the park last summer–a tragedy, I tell you. I heard the rangers still haven’t–”

Grian’s blood instantly runs cold at the mention, and the warm mug in his hands isn’t doing enough to pull the heat back into his body. For a moment he wants to dash the mug onto the ground dozens of feet below, and cut his hands on the ceramic when he goes to pick up the shattered remains–leave no trace–on the forest floor, dripping blood onto the leaves.

He doesn’t do that. Instead, he flicks the radio off with shaking hands, cutting Scar off mid-sentence, and stalks back into the cabin.

»»———-　　———-««

Grian’s sitting on a rock next to a lake. The sun is slanted now, casting golden orange rays across the water. The air is crisp and, although Grian hasn’t touched it, he knows the water is cold. It’s snowmelt-fed, afterall.

He’d turned on his radio again an hour or two after he turned it off earlier, once he’d recovered enough to have a normal conversation. Scar had been worried, but he’d accepted Grian’s excuse that he’d left some water boiling on the stove and needed to attend to it immediately. He hadn’t known Grian long enough to see through his excuses yet, unlike Grian’s old supervisor.

Scar had been quiet the rest of the afternoon, though, as soon as Grian told him that he was going out to explore. Grian appreciates the peace.

He pulls a map out of his bag to study it. It’s not the map he was given of his lookout area when he started. No, this one is worn on the edges from countless foldings and unfoldings. It’s not so much a map as it is several maps–it’s several detailed topo maps taped together into a square.

In one map, the Two Forks lookout is circled in red marker. Grian did that a few weeks ago, when he’d learned which lookout he was assigned to. It’s a beacon on the page, his new base of operations for the next few months. And it couldn’t be in a better location.

The rest of the map is marked-up too. There’s highlighter along some trails, penciled in areas of interest, and shaded areas. They’re search areas. It’s not the first time Grian has been here.

He examines the maps, cross referencing his with the topo map he was given as a lookout. The Two Forks domain covers much of the locations that Mumbo’s search did last year, but more. There's still a lot of blank space on the maps, especially in areas that were inaccessible by trail. Just because it was off-trail doesn’t mean Mumbo never went there for some reason.

Grian takes a pencil out of his bag and begins to mark up the map once again. It’s something he’s done before, and there’s spots on the map where his eraser has rubbed off part of the ink. He pours over the contours, thinking, this valley has shelter from the wind, or there’s a source of water here.

When he’s finished he stares at the page for a long moment, and then back out at the lake in front of him. The shadows are even longer now. On the other side of the lake, the ground is cast in shadow already, with the sun disappearing early behind a mountain.

Did Mumbo enjoy these views, too? Was he here?

Grian would ask him when he found him.

Masterpost | Chapter Two >>

#hermitcraft #grian #mumbo jumbo #goodtimeswithscar #gtwscar #hermitcraft fanfic #hc_firewatch_au #quara fanfic

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fandom-imagines-stories · 1 year

Text

Honor and Espionage Part Two

Aramis x Reader

Words: 5013

Part One

Summary: Shut away in the ambassador’s mansion with a woman who knows her true identity, the reader attempts to complete her task. Aramis must wait helplessly as the fatal night ticks on.

Notes: I cannot even begin to explain how much of a chokehold this man has me in. Aramis has stolen my heart, and I hope there are those of you who can relate! Let me know what you think, these are just such fun characters. (I also plan to do more with this reader/Aramis dynamic in the future, including the story of how they met)

Warnings: Violence, blood, angst, more steaminess

Find more Musketeers: HERE

The doors closed and the last of the guests appeared to be inside. Aramis tucked his spyglass away with a frustrated sigh. He could see you now in his mind, your dazzling smile winning over the guests and the ambassador, your charm earning your way to more secluded areas of the house. Areas with information. Areas with proof of his treason. Aramis had seen firsthand how skilled and precise you were at your job. But that didn’t keep the turning in his gut from adding to the pained worry in his chest.

The musketeer leaned back against the bark of the tree he’d hidden behind. The others were in similar positions, all glancing up at the house for any sign of trouble.

D’Artagnan shifted, leaning toward him with a raised brow. “How do you do it?” He asked. “I imagine marriage would be hard enough when only one of you is a musketeer, but both of you?”

Aramis looked up at the boy and found only innocent curiosity on his face, as well as a hint of admiration. He inhaled deeply and ran a hand through his hair. Aramis knew of the younger man’s complicated feelings for a particular merchant’s wife. Perhaps all he was looking for was a little hope.

“It isn’t easy, but I’m sure you’ve gathered that,” he said, a small smile teasing his lips. “But I think it helps us understand each other more than we would if we lived in a cottage somewhere.” Aramis chuckled. “Perhaps understand isn’t the right word…” In all his years of knowing you, he found that your mind was one he had yet to comprehend. Luckily, trying was one of his favorite activities.

“What is then?” D’Artagnan rested his arm on his knee and tilted his head. “The right word?”

Aramis contemplated the question for a while, listening to the distant sounds of the forest around the ambassador’s property and the occasional laugh streaming from one of the open windows.

“I don’t know, ‘appreciate,’ I suppose,” he answered. D’Artagnan noticed the intense sincerity overtaking his features. “I cherish every moment I have with her because of everything we’ve been through. I worship each second breathing the same air as her as if any inhale may be my last. Because when I even think of a world where her voice has been silenced and her heart has been stopped…” He trailed off, turning back to the house. “I know my soul would follow her, even if my body could not.”

Porthos’s deep and thoughtful laugh joined their conversation. He sat with his head tilted back and a smirk on his face.

“Always the romantic hero type, eh?” He said. “Both you and her.”

“Yes, Porthos, I am a man guilty of loving my wife and she is guilty of the same. Tease all you like.” Aramis smiled to himself, still facing the place where his wife could be in danger and he’d have no way of knowing until it was too late.

Porthos shifted so he was sitting beside him. He put a hand on his shoulder, gaze following his worried friend’s.

“She’ll be alright, yeah? She always is.”

“And if anything happens, we’re ready,” D’Artagnan added.

Athos merely nodded but Aramis felt his support. All four men contemplated the situation in silence, each plagued with his own thoughts and concerns. Aramis forced slow breaths to calm himself but reached again for his spyglass to peer through any windows he had a clear sight of.

D’Artagnan thought of the fierceness he’d already witnessed- had even been on the receiving end of- and had faith in your abilities. He felt sorry for anyone inside who’d be unfortunate enough to cross you.

With the man who was to be your escort now rotting away with poison in his belly, you had to alter your story to one Treville would likely have a headache of explaining later on. Rather than the daughter of a prominent merchant in the area, you’d presented yourself as a friend of the king of France’s sister, the Duchess of Savoy, who was traveling with her brother- unable to attend the dinner due to a head cold he gained on the journey- and looking for an advantageous marriage. A forward approach, of course, but luckily it seemed the ambassador couldn’t resist a good challenge of pursuit. All of the other guests seemed to buy your story as well.

Almost all of them.

As you giggled mindlessly at something Laurent had said, you could feel the harsh, burning glare from your rival across the table. Milady de Winter, making conquests of her own, ensured that you couldn’t ignore her presence. Her intentions, you had yet to decipher, but you knew her presence could only mean trouble for you.

Why had the cardinal sent a spy after the ambassador? Did he have the same information as Treville or were his motivations more sinister, as they often were?

“Tell me, mademoiselle,” Milady began, the same knowing smugness in her voice as before, “what do you think of the rumors growing in Paris regarding the musketeers dueling with Cardinal Richelieu's noble Red Guard? I, for one, have been frightened of even stepping outside of my door.”

Laurent grunted with an approving nod and took a drink of his wine. “A bunch of lawless miscreants, the lot of them.” He leaned forward so only the two of you could hear. “You know, I’ve heard that the imbecile Captain Treville even has some of his men following me.”

“You poor dear,” you cried, placing your hand beside his, “how awful to be pursued by those brutes. I’ve personally spoken to the cardinal recently and he couldn't agree more with… I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name madame.” You stared pointedly at Milady. She didn’t blink.

“Lady de Bonacieux.”

You kept your face politely neutral, but inside you wanted to reach across and slap her. The use of your close friend’s last name was surely not a coincidence, but you failed to understand how she could know about your relationship with Constance. And her degradation of the musketeers was certainly meant to frustrate you, which meant she knew about your marriage to Aramis. But why not reveal you now? Why keep your identity a secret when it would benefit her much more to see the ambassador throw you out, or worse?

“Ah, yes, we’ve met before,” you said. She wasn’t the only one with veiled threats up her sleeve. After all, you were not the only one here under false pretenses. “The cardinal introduced us once, did he not?”

“I believe that was the occasion, yes.”

“How lucky am I,” Laurent cheered, “to have friends of the cardinal’s on either arm.”

You noted his boisterous tone and genuine glint in his eye. Either he was a much better liar than you anticipated, or there was something you had yet to discover.

After dinner, Ambassador Laurent insisted on showing off his gardens to his guests before the men would separate to discuss subjects they felt were ‘too intense for the women’s delicate sensibilities.’ It always made you laugh, having to play the part of the naive ornament that they foolishly believed women to be. If any one of them could look into your mind and discover what you truly knew and understood, the burdens of knowledge you carried, they’d be terrified.

Whereas, with your husband, your mind was his favorite thing about you.

You pushed Aramis to the back of your thoughts again and continued batting your lashes at the idiots around you.

Servants holding lanterns lined the paths of the garden, illuminated by the moonlight. Grand statues and topiaries were the center of Laurent’s boasts. You nodded and giggled and flattered until your brain was numb of boredom.

A glint in the trees caught your eye. It was only for a second, but you could have sworn you saw movement. A flicker of silver. A contrast of blue-gray in the dark between the trees.

You restrained yourself from groaning in frustration.

Surely, Athos was smarter than this. Surely, he wouldn’t allow for Aramis and the others to stake out the ambassador’s house because your husband was a touch too protective. Surely, they wouldn’t be that stupid.

And yet… you knew it was them.

Aramis ducked behind the tree with his breath caught in his throat.

“Do you think she saw me?” He whispered. Athos shot him a silencing glare. One trip, one loud noise could give away their presence.

D’Artagnan eyed their leader and leaned over to Aramis. “She definitely saw you.”

“Do you both want us to be shot?” Athos snapped.

Aramis held a finger to his smirking lips. Athos’s blue eyes glared icy daggers. They all turned back to the group in the gardens and found that you’d looked away from their hiding spot.

“Mademoiselle, have you seen your companion, Lady de Bonacieux?” Ambassador Laurent asked as he approached you. You’d only just noticed her absence yourself, sending a shock of panic through you that pushed the thoughts of your sneaking husband to the back of your mind.

You gave Laurent a confused smile. “I haven’t, mousier. Perhaps she forgot something inside?” He looked to the house with a disappointed frown. “Oh, don’t let it upset you, sir. I’ll find her at once and we can continue our merriment.”

There was something else in his expression, as well. A flicker of suspicion. But it was gone as soon as it had appeared, replaced by a smile of encouragement.

“Don’t be gone long, my dear. I have yet to show you the largest of the statues.”

“Of course.” You bowed and hurried back inside.

In the trees, D’Artagnan’s teasing of Aramis halted with Porthos pointing to the gardens.

“Look,” he said. Four pairs of eyes snapped over to watch you go. Porthos shook his head in confusion. “Where is she going?”

“More importantly,” Athos said, motioning to another member of the gathering who retreated back into the house. “Where is he going?” Laurent’s ornately dressed form followed after you just long enough that you wouldn't notice.

Aramis’s stomach dropped. He moved into a readied crouching position. “He’s discovered her. We have to help.”

“Wait.” Athos held out a hand to stop him. “We must have faith in Y/N’s abilities. If we act too quickly, it could be a disaster for both her and us.”

“But if he knows, he’ll kill her!”

“Not with all of these people here,” Porthos noted the still full garden. “Even he’s not that stupid. He’d have to take her somewhere else if he’s going to kill her.”

“How surprisingly unhelpful,” Aramis snapped.

But, with no other choice, he again remained, holding a clenched fist to his lips as he uttered more prayers he could only hope someone was listening to.

Inside, you crept along the halls to the sounds of the crowd outside. You couldn’t help but wonder how many of them knew. How many knew of this man’s betrayal of his country and stood by and let it happen? How many helped him?

You came upon a door on the second floor with movement and light streaming through the cracks. You removed the dagger you had strapped to your leg and opened it. Milady de Winter stood over the ambassador’s desk, rummaging through piles of parchment.

“I expected a more subtle exit,” you said, closing the door behind you. “I believed you were more skilled than that. I thought wrong.”

“Speed, in this situation, is favored for stealth, I’m afraid. Not all of us have musketeer husbands waiting to rescue us if this goes poorly.” She sneered at you over the countless letters and plans on the dark wood desktop. You froze. “Oh save me the shocked looks. It’s my job to know who you are.”

“As it is mine to know who you work for,” you fired back. Of course, your marriage wasn’t a secret, but something about her knowing of Aramis made your skin crawl. “How did the cardinal find out about Laurent? No one else was supposed to know. Why would he send his favorite spy?”

“Why indeed?” The growling voice behind you made your heart stop. A hand roughly grabbed your arm and the glower of Ambassador Laurent loomed over you. His burning gaze shifted over your shoulder. “What does the cardinal mean by this? I thought we had a deal?”

“A deal?” You gasped, whirling around to look at Milady. “The cardinal is working with this traitor?” Laurent’s grip on your hand tightened and you forced a cry of pain back down your throat.

“Unfortunately, you’ve run out of usefulness, ambassador. You’ve drawn too much attention to yourself, as this musketeer insider proves.” Milady said calmly. She raised her arm from behind the desk, aimed her pistol, and fired. “And someone has to clean up the mess.”

Laurent crumpled to the floor.

Milady skirted around the desk with a cold, hard glare. “I’m afraid that goes for you too.”

The crowd let out a collective gasp as the sharp sound rang through the night. The four men hiding in the shadows jumped to their feet.

“Did you hear that?” Aramis exclaimed, not bothering to stay quiet anymore.

“Steady, Aramis,” Athos urged, though he’d reached for his weapon.

“We can’t wait any longer,” Porthos said.

Aramis didn’t wait for an order. He dashed across the clearing separating them from the gardens. The other three swiftly followed. The guests gasped again upon seeing their approach.

“Everyone remain calm,” Athos instructed. “We have everything under control.” His voice boomed with enough authority that nobody questioned him.

Aramis’s feet carried him through the main door. Candlelight flickered in his vision. Gold shimmered from every surface it was nearly blinding. He whirled around, holding a hand out to stop the others, and listened.

You dove for the weapon with one hand and slashed at her with your knife in the other. Milady knocked against the desk, sending parchment flying over the ambassador’s bloody body.

“We could have made quite the team, you know,” she said. “The cardinal would have liked you, had you not married a musketeer of course. Aramis, isn’t it? I’m told he’s such a charmer.” She finished reloading her weapon. “Too bad you’ll never see him again. Husbands are useless anyway. He’ll betray you. Just wait.”

You snatched a candlestick from the side table and launched it at her. She fired accidentally into the wall. In the bright flash of your weapon, a note caught your eye. There, on the edge of the desk, was a letter. In the moment you were able to read some of the words, you recognized it as Laurent’s plot to pay Savoyan soldiers to assassinate the king. And in the corner, was the cardinal’s signet.

You swung your knife in Milady’s direction again, grabbing the letter and taking the second she had to reload to retreat. The ambassador’s guards met you in the hall. One reached for you. You plunged your knife into his arm and elbowed the other in the nose. If they pursued you, you didn’t turn to see. You ran.

The second shot might as well have been through Aramis’s pounding heart.

The third consumed his senses completely.

With Porthos and Athos busy with more guards, he and D’Artagnan raced up the stairs. The ornate white marble brought them to the second floor where you laid with your back against the wall and a cloaked figure standing over you, gripping your arm as you screamed in agony. The figure tore something from your hands and hurried away without looking back. Aramis fired a shot but missed.

“After her!” You shouted. You tried to pull yourself to your feet using the railing, but any movement in your arm shot searing pain through your body. Blood had already soaked the sleeve and side of your gown.

“Go,” Aramis said to D’Artagnan. The young man sprinted after the assailant while Aramis rushed to your side. When his dark, beautiful eyes hovered over yours, you almost breathed a sigh of relief through your clenched teeth.

“My arm,” you groaned. “The wretch shot me in the arm.”

Aramis examined the wound, lifting your limb gently. You took a sharp breath that sounded more like a whimper. He laid a hand on your cheek.

“It’s bleeding too much.” Aramis unlatched his belt and wrapped it around your arm just below the shoulder. He tightened it and this time you couldn’t keep the scream at bay. “I know, love. But if I don’t remove the ball and sew the wound soon-”

“I’ll bleed to death,” you finished. There was a flicker of terror in his eyes.

He saw the light leave your gaze, felt the warmth abandon your skin. He heard your final breaths as your blood stained his hands. He imagined his life without you. It was as dark and cold as a moonless night. The mere image of standing at your grave planted a seed of despair in his chest that he forced himself to push down in order to ensure that it didn’t become real.

“That’s not going to happen.”

Downstairs, Athos and Porthos’s battle showed no signs of ending. D’Artagnan returned with a shake of his head. Aramis put an arm under your legs and the other behind your back. He scooped you up and you bit back tears of anguish with every step as he ran.

“I can walk,” you protested. “It’s my arm, not my ankle.”

“Now is really not the time to argue, darling.”

“What happened? Is she hurt?” D’Artagnan asked, keeping up beside you.

“I need you to bandage her arm and apply pressure to the wound,” Aramis instructed. The younger musketeer tore off a piece of tapestry from the wall and wrapped it around your arm.

“Sorry about this,” he said, pulling the fabric taught.

You bit your lip and buried your face in Aramis’s chest.

“What in God’s name happened?” Athos exclaimed. He and Porthos joined the rushing group.

Aramis kept his eyes forward and his focus on you. “I need the ambassador’s cabin. She can travel on horseback and we need to get to a secure location for me to operate.”

“Where is the ambassador?” Athos asked.

You lifted your head. “He’s dead.” The four men exchanged a glance. You scoffed. “Don’t worry, I didn’t kill him.”

“That might not matter,” Athos said. He held the door leading out to the path where carriages awaited.

“What’s going on? Who are you?” The driver jerked the reins away from Porthos’s reaching hand.

D’Artagnan lifted his gun. “We’re going to need to borrow this, monsieur.”

“Aramis, there’s something I need to tell you all,” you said, voice weaker than before. He lifted you into the carriage, keeping you close in his arms.

“It will have to wait, darling.” He kissed your forehead.

“But if I-”

“Don’t.” His tone was firm, but it shook with fear nonetheless. He gulped. “Everything is going to be fine.”

A short ride away sat a small farmhouse, apparently abandoned. Porthos halted the carriage and the other two soon rejoined with the horses. Aramis hurried you inside.

“She needs a drink. This is going to hurt.”

Porthos held out a leather flask. “Why don’t we just do what you did with me?”

Aramis scowled. “I like her face the way it is. I’d rather you not damage it.”

“I’ll have to agree with my husband on that.” You snatched the drink from his hand and downed as much as you could as quickly as the burning liquid allowed. You were already feeling the dizzy discomfort of losing so much blood from the inner side of your arm. “Before you start, I have to tell you all… I have to tell you… the ambassador was plotting to kill the king. And the cardinal was a part of it. That’s why he sent one of his spies to retrieve his letter. She’s the one who killed Laurent and the one who shot me. If you can find her, you may be able to expose the cardinal.”

“We can worry about that later.” Aramis brushed a strand of hair off of your sweat-spotted forehead. “I’m taking care of you first. And I’m sorry, my love, but it is going to hurt.” His voice sounded as pained as you felt. The anguish in his eyes showed how much seeing you like this broke his heart.

Finishing the rest of Porthos’s brandy, you gripped Aramis’s shoulder with your uninjured hand.

“Do it.”

Lacking the proper tools, Aramis took the sharpest knife he had and reluctantly plunged it into your gaping wound. The burn of the bullet was nothing compared to the blinding sting as he worked to remove the ball from your flesh. Athos gave you a piece of leather to bite down on, but even your muffled screams made Aramis sick to his stomach.

“I know, mon amour. I’m sorry. It’ll be over soon, I promise. I’m so, so sorry.” He clenched his jaw and forced himself to focus. “I’ve almost… got it.” The gore-coated piece of metal fell into his palm. Blood poured out from your wound. Again, the sensory images of your failing body filled his mind. Your eyes struggled to stay open. He worked faster. “D’Artagnan, tighten the belt and hand me my needle.”

“Is it supposed to bleed that much?”

“Just do as I say!”

You let the leather piece fall from your mouth and managed a weak smile. “This reminds me of when we were attacked by thieves on the way to Gascony,” you laughed, ignoring the growing haze in your head.

“I think we have different accounts of that.”

You smirked. “Only, I saved you that time.”

Aramis shook his head, his lips teasing upward. He threaded his needle and held the point over a candle’s flame.

“Like I said,” he examined the needle. “Different accounts.”

The sharp point pierced your scarlet-stained skin. It didn’t hurt as much as removing the bullet. You squeezed your eyes shut, took shallow breaths, and tried to stay awake.

“There.” Aramis sliced the thread and wrapped a fresh cloth around your arm. “It’s over. You’ve lost a lot of blood but, God willing, you’ll heal.” He adjusted the cushions beneath you and cupped your face in his hands.

“Aramis,” you breathed weakly and placed your hand on his. Your voice was hardly above a whisper.

“What is it, love?”

You opened your eyes to his brown irises staring in panic. Your smirk grew.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

He breathed a sigh of relief and brought your lips to his.

Porthos chuckled behind him and slapped him on the shoulder. “That is a tough woman you’ve got yourself.”

“Don’t celebrate just yet,” Athos warned, though he was smiling as well. “We have to make sure the wound doesn’t get infected.”

“Your concern warms my heart, Athos,” you teased. You pushed yourself up on your good arm and tried to stand. But the blood loss, as well as the brandy, weakened your legs. You fell back against your husband.

“What are you doing?” He fretted.

“I must get to Treville. We have to find de Winter. She has the letter.”

“You aren’t going anywhere.” Aramis wrapped an arm around your waist and kissed your temple. “You need to rest.”

You squirmed in his hold, grimacing when you moved your injured arm. “Leisure is not one of my specialties.”

“I’ll just have to help you practice.” His dark gaze glinted with his smug smile, brow raised.

“Perhaps you will.”

D’Artagnan coughed, reminding the two of you that three other men stood in the room. You might have blushed if you hadn’t lost so much blood.

D’Artagnan winked. “Well, I’m glad to see you’re going to be fine.”

Aramis made a sling for you from his deep blue sash and the five of you headed back to Paris. You rode with Aramis, his arms on either side of you and his eyes shifting at every movement. He tensed at each snapping twig, his arms holding you a little closer.

“It’s just a bird,” you whispered. “Besides, you needn’t be so worried.” You turned your head over your shoulder so you could kiss his cheek. “Broken wing or not, I’m still a better shot.”

But if there were any of the ambassador’s allies, you did not encounter them. Nor was there any sign of Milady. By the time you reached Treville, you were sure the cardinal’s letter was little more than ash and memory.

The captain paced before you as Aramis changed the crimson bandages on your arm.

“If I had known your contact was Baffier, I would have warned your spouse to expect you.”

“That certainly would have made you simpler.”

“Admit it,” you snickered, “it was fun.”

“I can’t say that’s the word I would use for you almost bleeding to death,” he said. He wasn’t smiling, rather his face held the same concern it had at the farmhouse.

“Nor I.” Treville gave you a hard stare. “The ambassador is dead and we don’t have any proof of what he was planning. This is going to be a mess to try and explain to the king.”

“It was the cardinal’s spy that killed him, not I.”

“Unfortunately, we also don’t have any proof that she exists and if someone from the gathering comes forward and recognizes you or the others, it’ll be a hell of a time explaining what you were doing there.” He stopped his movements and turned his head to both of you. “Which is why I’m not assigning you to anything else until this all dies down.”

You stood up, Aramis following behind you.

“What does that mean?”

“It means stay home,” Treville sighed. “You are injured. For God's sake, Y/N, you could have died if Aramis hadn’t been there!”

“I’m afraid I have to agree with the captain.” Aramis stepped forward. “It’s far too much of a risk for you to be seen.”

Treville changed the subject of his exasperated glare from you to your husband. “And I’m sending you with her.”

Aramis’s face fell so quickly you would have laughed had you not been so frustrated.

“Captain, I don’t… do you really think that’s… surely you’ll need-” He stammered.

“You can keep an eye on each other until I can get this awful business figured out and her arm can heal.”

You both opened your mouths to argue, but he held up a hand.

“That is my final decision.”

“What if you should need our services?” You asked.

Aramis nodded frantically in agreement. “Yes! Surely Paris will find itself in danger some way or another and you’ll need our skills to stop another villain.”

“If an emergency arises- and only of the utmost importance-'' Treville pinched the bridge of his nose. “You two will be the first to know. Now I have to try to begin to sort this out.”

He dismissed you with a wave of his hand.

You wanted to stay and fight, but between the ache in your arm and your husband’s guiding hand leading you to the door, there wasn’t anything you could do.

“God knows how long it’ll take for this to quiet down,” you huffed once you were outside.

“You two don’t look happy,” Porthos said.

“Let me guess.” Athos crossed his arms. “House arrest?”

You crossed your arms, grimacing from the jerking movement.

“Careful, darling.” Aramis winced.

You ignored him. “We aren’t allowed on any assignments until this whole ridiculous situation is handled.”

“So, what, you have to go into hiding?” D’Artagnan wondered. “What are you supposed to do until then?”

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll think of something.” Porthos gave you a mischievous smirk, but his teasing did not lighten your mood.

“He might as well have sent us to live in a cave.”

“Now, dear,” Aramis said, putting an arm around your shoulder “don’t you think you’re being a tad melodramatic?” Your face morphed with fury and your eyes burned into his. He gulped. “I love you?”

You turned on your heel and stormed away. Aramis looked desperately at his three companions, but none offered any solace. In fact, they all grinned in amusement.

“God help me,” he muttered, chasing after you as the trio started to laugh.

Two Days and A Country Cottage Later

You swiped the damp cloth over your skin, bringing it further up your arm until fingers gently grabbed your wrist, stopping you from soaking your stitches.

“Mind my needlework, darling.” Aramis purred into your ear. He took the cloth from your hand and began his own soothing motions over your arm. “Allow me.”

You laid back against him, the bath water rippling with each movement. With your head leaned on his shoulder, he carefully cleaned the area around your wound. Any ache in your nerves was erased by his lips on your skin- from your shoulder to your neck to that little spot behind your ear.

“You know,” you sighed contently, “maybe the captain was right to send us out here. I can’t remember the last time we’ve gotten to spend this much time together.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” His lips followed your jaw as you turned to face him.

“I just hope the city is still standing by the time we get back,” you giggled. “I’m surprised we haven’t already been summoned.”

Aramis flicked at the water. “I give Treville and the others three more days before they come begging for our help.” A cocky smirk played on his features.

“Well,” you stood, water cascading from your skin and glittering in the setting sun streaming through the window.

Aramis basked in the sight of you. Almost glowing, you looked practically angelic. You stepped out of the bath and ran your fingers through your hair, beckoning him with a hooked finger and a suggestive glimmer in your eyes.

“We better not waste them then.”

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