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sarawritestories · 3 months

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Unwavering Presence Chapter 5

Cassian X Archeron Sister

Summary: Y/N falls into a routine and finds her place in the Night Court. Even gets to have a one on one moment with the renowned Spymaster. But her anxiety spikes when Rhys and Mor Bring Feyre back urgently from the Spring Court

Content Warning; Nothing comes to mind

Word Count: 3.1

Masterlist Chapter 4

The next few days I was able to fall into a routine. Mornings were dedicated to training with Cassian, where I could feel my body getting stronger little by little. The more I trained, I found that the nightmares were kept at bay. Lunches were spent with Rhys. He was casually asking me questions about Feyre. Her favorite color, if she had any favorite meals before we lost our fortune, any embarrassing stories I could share. Along with that he would lay out the King of Hybern’s plan and how he wanted to take the Human lands back. He gave me more information than Tamlin and Lucien were willing to share. Then Mor would take me to the closest café before we explored the town and all the shops.

After a long day of working out Mor made sure to take me clothes shopping to make sure I had a sufficient wardrobe even though we had gone shopping the day before. My hands were full of the bags from today’s excursion as walked toward the dimly lit sitting room of the town house. Azriel was lounging on the sofa staring at the fire in quiet contemplation, a glass of whiskey in his hand. “Hey, Az.” I dropped the bags and his head moved toward the thudding sound. He tilted his head, his mouth pressed in a tight line as his gaze met mine, a silent question in the air. “Mor made me buy every item that I glanced at for longer than 5 seconds.” He huffed out a breathy laugh, but I noticed how his shadows perked at the sound of the blonde female’s name.

Azriel lips quirked, and he reached over to the end table of the sofa and grabbed an empty glass and filled it with the Amber liquid and held it out for me patting the spot next to him. I dragged my feet over to him and grabbed the drink in thanks for taking a seat on the other end of the sofa, my back resting on the arm rest where I’m facing the spymaster. I hadn’t spent a lot of time with the Spymaster, he had been out doing some missions and I only got to see him in passing. “Thanks!” he nodded and clinked his glass with my own. I took a sip and let the burn of the amber liquid warm my throat. I watched as the shadows swirled around his shoulders and his wings; they were magnificent. “Have you always had your shadows.

Azriel took a sip of his drink, “For as long as I can remember.” He looked at me mischief in his eyes as a breath of cold kissed the back of neck and both of my wrists. Looking down at the sudden temperature change I found his shadows swirled around my arms like the night mist kissing my skin and tickling the back of my neck causing me to giggle. I lifted my free hand and watched as the shadows slid around my arm and through my fingers the scent of citrus and the night breeze wafted through my nose.

I was entranced by their movements and the sensation of them along my skin, “They’re so beautiful.”

I could feel the sofa move and I didn’t need to look to see he was shifting, not used to the compliment I paid his shadows. Though he whispered through his glass, “Thanks,” throwing back the rest of the liquid. He didn’t even flinch from the burn of the alcohol as I tore my eyes from the shadows that were now settling into my hands. Azriel stared back into the fire, his hand idly twisting his glass around his knee. The firelight accentuated the white scars covering his hands. Cassian left out how Azriel got those scars when he talked about how he and Az met, and I would never pry, but he looked glum. There was a haunted look gracing his features and it unsettled something deep in me.

I set my own glass down the whiskey long forgotten and scooted closer to Az. I was about to reach out and looped my arm around his and I caught how he tensed at my reached-out arm, and I retracted my arm the shadows pulling it in protest. As if they wanted me to reach my hand out. “I’m so sorry, Azriel,” I scooted back from him. The shadows left my arms and returned to their master. “I should have asked if it was ok to touch you.” I sighed and looked up at the ceiling guilt building in my gut. “I tend to want to link arms or hold hands or hug anyone who may be feeling sad. I’ve never been good with words but when I sense someone’s sad,” I looked at Azriel, “Or brooding.” Az snorted, but I pressed forward, “Feyre was never one to talk about her feelings including hard messy feelings, but I always knew when she needed me to hold her hand or be nearby. Apparently knowing I was there good enough for her.” Az nodded his head as in understanding.

I scooted once more to create more distance and clasp my hands together and looked at the fire letting the silence blanket us. My thoughts went back to Feyre and how lonely and afraid she might have been feeling. The anxiousness she might be feeling thinking that I’m dead. She was already falling apart while I was there, Tamlin happy to let her wither away. I closed my eyes and tried to level my breathing. The new month was approaching, and I would be able to see her. Would she be angry that I wasn’t dead or think that I ran away and abandoned her. What if she thou-

I blinked once, twice, and was able to acknowledge that a scarred hand over my clasped ones. The softness of them going against the raised skin covering them along with the warmth they provided. The warmth contrasted with the cool kisses his shadows skittering over my cheeks I finally met the Hazel eyes of Azriel that were so much like Cassian’s but different he had more flecks of green. “Your heartrate spiked; you were thinking so hard It was as I could see every thought that appeared in your head.”

Slinking one hand out of his grasp keeping one hand in his deciding the intertwining my fingers with his. There is a silent moment before he weaved his fingers through mine.” I smiled looking back at our entwined hands. “You remind me of Cassian you know.” My head snapped back to the Shadowsinger and he smiled, “When Rhys and Cass found me, and then tormented me like the pricks they are. Whenever I was stressed or scared, Cass would always put a hand on me should or bump shoulders with me. Especially In those first few months when I was free from my imprisonment. He always wanted me to know that he was there and that he had my back.” He gave me another small smile, “Because he knew that I didn’t talk especially big messy feelings.” I smiled as he threw my words back at me.

I leaned my head on his shoulder, “He’s a good male.” I whispered.

He pressed his cheek against the top of my head, “You’re a good woman, Y/N.” I felt the shadows swirl around our entwined hands, “You’re a good sister.”

I closed my eyes for a breath moment and let his scent calm me. “I wish that were the truth, Az.” I lifted my heads and gave him a small smile, “What kind of sister lets her twin get her neck snapped?” I yawned and was met with his concerned look, and I waved him off. “So, Mor’s pretty huh?”

Az groaned and leaned his head on the back of the couch, “Have you always been a busy body like this?”

I smiled at him, “For as long as I can remember, Shadowsinger.” I threw his words back at him. “Don’t worry. I won’t press you on it. She is gorgeous but that’s coming from a plain human girl. Everyone here is extremely pretty.” He rolled his eyes but gave her a smile. “I’m heading to bed, the last thing I want is for Cassian to make me run for being late.”

“Or have water splashed on you in bed. He’s notorious for that.” I snorted to myself, “I’ll be joining you guys tomorrow. Not that you mind the alone time with our general.” Heat crept in my face, “I just want to get some training in before I’m heading out again.”

“You’ll be a nice addition.” I bite my lip, “Do you like your position, Az?”

Azriel furrowed his brow, “I do. Why do you ask?”

I shrugged, “It just seems like being Spymaster can be lonely. I know you have known the Inner Circle for centuries, but if you ever want to talk, I’m around.” I blow him a kiss, “Good Night, Spymaster.”

“Good Night, Y/N.”

***

The next morning, I stepped out in the blazing sun to see the two Illyrian’s shirtless and sparring. Sweat coated both of their brows. Two predators were circling around ready to strike and I could not help but stare in awe. Azriel’s eyes flicked to me and back to Cassian whose back was to me his wings tucked back tightly, hair up in a bun. Azriel shifted his features into one of worry and Cassian spun in my direction and he immediately recognized his mistake. Azriel took the opportunity to strike fist hitting the middle of his back, Cassian barely flinched in pain.

He turned back to the Shadowsinger and went in straight for an attack. Punch. Dodge, sweep of the leg, The way Cassian fought was like the way Nesta would dance on the ballroom floor and there was a pang of sadness that hit my chest at the thought of my sister. I wondered if either of them missed me or Feyre. I honestly doubted it as they never really cared of my presence before so my absence would not make a difference doesn’t mean that I didn’t miss them and wished for Elain to brush my hair or Nesta to read me a story like they did when we were small.

A grunt pulled me from those thoughts to find Cassian putting Azriel in a chokehold, Cassian’s wings flared in triumph. “You gonna tap, Az.”

Az smirked and gave me a playful wink, “Not a chance.” Quickly Az stuck his leg and wrapped it around Cassian’s knee and twisted his body and Cassian found himself on his back and Cassian had just enough time to tuck his wings so that it wouldn’t scrape going down. Az in a snap had his hand to Cassian’s throat keeping his wings tucked.

Cassian’s eyes shifted toward me ever so slightly and an idea bloomed in my head. I gave him a wink and made a show of stumbling causing. Azriel didn’t take his eyes off his prey, and I let the world tilt on its access and collapse on the floor the sun blazing on my cheeks and behind my eye lids. I could hear feet shifting and shuffling. A scarred hand grazed my cheek, “Shit, Y/N” Panic laced in his voice, and I opened one of my eyes to see Azriel flaring his wings to block the sun from my face.

Azriel gazed back at me in a daze and Cassian placed him back in a headlock. Azriel eyes shone shock. “Do you yield, Shadowsinger?” I teased a playful smirk gracing my lips.

Azriel reluctantly tapped Cassian’s arms and the General released his friend. “You’re an evil little thing, Archeron.” Azriel rose and walked over to the water station. I remained lying down and enjoyed the sun on my face.

Shadows blocked my sunlight and then Leather and Sandal wood wafted over me. “What a clever little stunt you pulled, Princess.” I opened my eyes to see Cassian, basically touching his nose to mine. His eyes gleamed brightly and there was a sense of pride in his face, a smile wide across his handsome tan face. “Clever wicked, Woman.” He whispered, nudging his nose with mine and I smiled placing my hands on his chest and lightly pushing so I could sit up. He got to his feet and held out a hand,

I placed my hand in his and he hoisted me up and I stood up with such speed I ran into his chest. He wrapped an arm around my waist, to stabilize me, “You, okay?” He asked concern worn on his features.

I nodded and the General released me from his grasp. “I have to say I was hoping you would get what I was trying to do.” He chuckled as he put his shirt back on.

“Oh, he got it alright, He will always find a reason to cheat. Since we were children.” Azriel grumbled. Handing some water to his brother.

Before Cassian could argue Mor ran through the door with urgency, her eyes scouring until her brown eyes locked on mine, “Y/N we have a problem. Tamlin locked Feyre in a manor, she freaked out. Rhys could feel her pain, her fae power erupted. I brought her to Rhys.”

A hand slid around my waist, as the words sank in. “Is she okay?”

Mor’s lips formed in a tight line, “She’s unconscious but we got her out of the manor.”

My hand slid over the one on my waist to ground me. “Where is she?”

“Rhys took her to the House of Wind.”

“Cassian.” I whispered.

Cassian had me in his arms in an instant, “Hang on.” He instructed me and I wrapped my arms around his neck as he shot to the sky. My grip on him tightened and I closed my eyes as the speed we were going made my eyes water.

Time moved slowly even though Cassian was flying at rapid speeds. Feyre was alone when she was abandoned by Tamlin, and I wasn’t there. I am no better than Tamlin leaving her on her own. “Stop.” Cassian gritted. I opened my eyes, “Its not your fault.” He said as he landed on the balcony of one of the rooms. He placed me down and I was about to run find Rhys when his hand gripped my arm, “Princess, listen to me.” I paused, “This. Is. Not. Your fault. Tamlin did this, not you. You don’t need to shoulder this burden.”

I bit my lip and gave him a curt nod; the General released my arm and I darted to go find Rhys. I ran through the hall and followed the pull that I always have for my sister. I slammed open the door and Rhys stood his eyes rimmed red. “Y/N.” His voice was drowned out by my sister’s unconscious body. Her breath rising and falling.

Y/N, she’s fine. She had a major panic attack. She’s just sleeping it off.

I sat at the foot of the bed and gripped my sister’s ankle and rubbed my thumb. Her chest rising and falling in even Rhythm.

“Y/N did you eat?” Rhys asked, his voice hoarse.

“Rhysand.” I whispered and his hand gripped my shoulder and gives it a comforting squeeze, “Shut up. I just want to be with my sister.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No. Stay.”

Rhys moved a chair next to the one he was sitting on, a purple lounge chair a chair that could accommodate wings. “That chair is yours when you want to move. I’ll go bring you some food.” I nodded as he walked out and shut the door behind him.

Once the door closed, did I let the tears fall as I squeezed her ankle, “Feyre, I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

I sighed and moved to the chair and sat there while I watched her chest rise and fall afraid if I look away she’s going to stop.

***

I was sitting on the large chair Rhys left for me, my knees tucked to my chest watching the rise and fall of Feyre's chest. I hadn't kept track of the hours and meals missed, just the even breathing of my slumbering sister. I could feel Rhys behind me he had not been able to sit down, and they came back from the Spring Court. I lifted my arm out of my palm open. Rhys slid his hand into mine. "She'll be okay, Rhys."

"I know," His voice was hoarse. I felt his lips abnormally dry on the top of my hand, "Get some sleep. She's not going to wake up anytime soon."

"I'm fine." I leaned my head on the back of the chair.

There was a prolonged silence, Rhys's thumb swiping the top of my hand when there was a knock on the door, and door creaked open and a familiar deep voice filled the room, "Y/N, can I steal you?"

I didn't look at Cassian focused on Feyre's pale gaunt face guilt overriding my system, "No, I won't leave her." The door shut, and Rhys released my hand. Boot thudded on the tile, and I could feel the General's gold flecked eyes on me.

"Princess, you need to sleep."

A tan hand tucked a strand of hair behind me, "I can't leave her. Not when this is my fault." My voice was hollow to my own ears as I reached out and stroked my sisters, overheated cheek and leaning back.

A sigh rang in the room, and strong arms lifted me from the chair, and before I could protest, Cassian was sitting where I was adjusting his wings in a comfortable position and placing me on his lap. “What are you doing?”

His toned, muscled hands tucked me close, and he maneuvered his wings to provide warmth “I know when I’m not going to win a battle. So, I’m compromising.”

The comforting smell of Leather and Sandalwood flooded my nose, and calm and exhaustion ran through my bones. I stilled and whispered, “Why?”

Cassian pressed his forehead to mine and whispered, “You take care of all your loved ones. Someone needs to take care of you. Someone to remind you this is not your fault, and you shouldn't punish yourself because of what happened. Rhys is here. You are not the only one who wants and can take care of your sister." He pulled away, and I finally met his gaze. He patted his shoulder, indicating where I should lay my head, and I obeyed the silent command. "Good, now close your eyes, Princess." I did and let the sounds of the fire pull me under, and I swore I felt gentle lips upon my forehead.

***

Cassian POV

The steady heartbeat of Y/N's chest almost lulls me to sleep when Rhys softly speaks, "I'm going to need you to go to Windhaven."

I softly swore working hard not to wake up the sleeping woman in my arms, "Are you kidding me?"

Rhys looked exhausted and rubbed his face, "We are going to need the Illyrians you'll need to spend some time there to make them more willing to join the cause." I formed a tight line on my lips. "It's bad Cass."

I adjust my arm so that I could cradle Y/N's head as she adjusts and sighs contently. "What about Y/N and Feyre?"

Rhys looked at the woman in my arms, "Y/N will be training with Az he's coming home tomorrow. Feyre, will need time and I'll take care of her. Though Y/N is going to fight me on it."

I chuckled, "Probably. She loves fiercely and she's so protective of the people she loves."

Rhys gives a waned smile, "Just like someone else I know."

"Prick."

"You love me." Rhys leaned against his chair. "Rest Cass, you'll need your strength"

"You too, Rhys." and I took in the sweet Jasmine scent of Y/N and placed my head against the head rest and fell asleep, with Y/N tucked tightly in my arms.

Chapter 6

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#cassian x reader #cassian fanfic #cassian acotar #cassian x you #acotar #acotar fanfiction #rhysand x reader #azriel x reader #archeron sister #cassian imagine #cassian acosf #unwaveringpresence

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readychilledwine · 3 months

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Drumming Song

Summary - 49 long years without your mate finally comes to an end after Amarantha grants him one night of freedom

Warnings- smut, rough oral (mrecving), shadow play, slight angst, impact play, power play, mention of sex magic, occational capitalized word where there shouldn't be (I think I caught them all)

A/N - Listen... there's potential for this to have a second part under the mountain where reader is Rhysand's whore

“Behave,” Tamlin gripped your chin gently. “Pick wisely and preferably from the guard, y/n.”

Lucien snorted behind you, having been the male you had picked the last four Calanmai. You two figured the magic would lead you to him again. A strong, high born male and heir was the obvious choice for the night.

Tamlin looked at Lucien, “Stay near her.” The red-headed male nodded. Gently reaching for your hand to accompany you to the Fires as Tamlin began the Rite.

“What are the odds dearest daring Feyre stays in her room?” You linked your arm to Lucien, leaning into him and staring up at his beautiful face hidden by that fox mask.

“For her sake, she better,” he sighed heavily. “I'd really prefer not to watch your brother and my closest friend fuck my mate.” The stark reminder had your toes curling, thinking of your own mate trapped under that damned Mountain. “Oh you have got to be kidding me,” Lucien looked to the sky, whispering a soft prayer to the Cauldron. “I'll be back.” He motioned with his head towards where Feyre stood with a male.

You shook your head, laughing as Lucien went to her, and the male walked away as he approached. You continued your pathway to the forest, enjoying the feeling of grass on your bare feet.

An almost feline like presence had you pausing as a familiar feeling began to set into your stomach. Calloused hands ran up your bare arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake as they then moved your hair to the side, “Hello, y/n Darling,” the purr had shivers running your spine as a combination of shocked chill and the heat of the magic began to truly set in.

His scent hit you then causing that faint drumming sound to increase rapidly. Citrus and sea salt mixed with what you knew was the lingering scent of Amarantha.

“What are you doing here, Rhysand?”

You felt him smile into your neck, “Rhysand? Darling, I thought we were way past that?”

It took every fiber in your being, every single ounce of strength you had, but you managed to pull away from him, walking away as you shook him off despite the rhythmic pounding indicating you had Found your partner for the night.

With every footstep away, he took two near, and the drumming grew louder. “If you need to know, I was allowed off my leash tonight to check in.”

You scoffed slightly, picking up pace to head toward your greenhouse, your safe haven. “You mean to drag whomever the poor female Tamlin picks for the night to the false queen to be tortured and murdered?” It was no secret that once every 5 years Amarantha had sent one of the crueler high lord or an Autor to Spring for the poor maiden picked from Calanmai.

Rhys was smirking behind you, knowing you were engaging in a game of chase with him, smiling to himself and knowing he would win. “I do have that unfortunate privilege, yes.” He paused, allowing you to get several paces ahead of him.

Thick silence fell between you two. The air was heavy with magic, with arousal, with the sound of moans and cries while fire cracked distantly in the background.

You had to get away from him before you gave in, caving to every sick whim and desire he had. You took one deep breath, memorizing His scent one more time, and then ran.

Rhys laughed distantly in the background, giving chase to you and easily following every calculated twist and turn.

He caught you exactly where he knew he would, shutting the door to the completely glass greenhouse behind him and locking it.

You felt him grab your wrist, spinning you and walking you to one of the empty walls. His forehead found yours. Those star flecked eyes almost blown out with lust but still somehow sparkling.

The cold glass of the greenhouse met your back as Rhysand held your wrists above your head. "Why are you running from me, little spider lily? As much as I enjoy a game of cat and mouse, we both know my time here is limited."

The heat from Calanmai's magic had begun to spread over your skin, causing the need to be breed, to find some relief to surface. "Tamlin will kill you if he finds you here."

Rhys smirked, his face getting closer to yours, "Your brother was a little preoccupied with a pretty little dark-haired thing in the cave," Soft lips trailed your neck. "And now there's no one else here to save you from me."

He had leaned in so close each syllable was a soft brush of his lips on yours. “Amarantha-” you started softly.

“Will think I fucked you to irritate Tamlin. Nothing more. Nothing less.” Your eyes fluttered shut, relaxing as cool tendrils of darkness began to explore the high slits of your skirt.

Rhys began placing soft kisses along your jawline, hands moving down from your wrists to memorize each inch of skin. One hand stopped on your neck, holding there and squeezing gently. “You should be allowed to wear clothing like this more often. Makes you look like an actual female. Not some cupcake Tamlin had hand decorated.”

You blinked at the lack of clothing you were in. A dress that dipped low in the front with a non-existent back, two large slits that ran both legs up to your hipbones. The fabric was so light that a soft breeze would expose you easily.

“I enjoy my cupcake skirts sometimes. Easy to hide things in,” your mind immediately went to before the Bond between you two snapping, when Lucien had first come to Spring and used sex As a coping mechanism. He and Tamlin had an argument, and he had hidden the table and then under your many layered skirts and ate you out with Tamlin sitting right there.

Rhysand's eyes grew dark, his hand squeezing your throat harder. “You will never think of another male between those pretty thighs once I'm done with you.”

Rhysand brought your lips to him harshly this time. The kiss was a mess of teeth and tongue, leaving you breathless as he began ripping that now offensive dress off.

Without warning, Rhysand turned you, locking your hands behind your back with one hand and forcing your breasts and cheek against the cold glass.

You jumped, gasping loudly as a smack came against your ass. Then another and another leaving you wiggling and moaning. Rhys landed another hard smack, massaging the tender sore skin once he was done and just watched you drip.

You were soaked, and he only made it worse as he ripped your hair back, forcing your back to arch more. “Try to remember I love you, and this, instead of whatever happens when you are dragged under than damn mountain,” it was a soft plea followed by a kiss placed on your temple.

“Always,” you whispered.

“Get on your knees for me,” you could hear him untying his pants, the desperation in his tone. You turned, following his order and trailing your hands down his thighs.

Rhys was quick to collect your wrists, slamming them on the wall behind you and above your head. The position left you completely defenseless as his free hand positioned his cock in front of your lips. “Open.” An easy order to follow again, your eyes meeting his as he pushed in. You hummed at the weight of him on your tongue, the saltiness of his skin. You tried to bob your head, only to be forced to stay in place.

Rhysand just smirked before pulling your hair into a makeshift ponytail.

And now it was clear. He had no intentions of allowing you an ounce of control.

This was his therapy.

His needed release from the horrors he was suffering silently to earn her favor. To keep his court safe. To keep you safe.

Rhys was gentle at first, allowing you to keep up and breathe, tongue running the length of the vein and swirling the head when the opportunity came. That gentleness went out the window once Rhys saw an attor lurking the grounds, and he growled. “I love you,” he whispered one last time. You nodded, swallowing around him, and did the best you could to relax.

He began fucking your throat like you were no more than a doll to him, a lifeless object He could use and abuse. He smiled and moaned with each gag, cock feeling heavier on your tongue and twitching as more spit began to gather at the corners of your mouth. Mascara had begun to run down your face with your tears from the burn and lack of oxygen. "What a pretty mess," he moaned out.

Rhys threw his head back, groaning your name like a prayer as he continued using and abusing you.

You felt something cold running around your thighs and then something running the length of your core. You knew if you stood, there would be a damp spot on the floor. You were twitching and clenching around nothing, eyes locked on the absolute bliss etched into Rhysand's face each time you hallowed your cheeks or swallowed.

You moaned around him as one of those tendrils gently began to play with your clit, offering some relief as he held you with his cock all the way inside of your throat.

“Keep fucking looking at me,” his hand moved from your hair to your throat. Feeling his cock settled in there, feeling you swallowing and attempting to breath around him. “My perfect good girl,” he was breathless himself, pulling back out before going back to his ruthless onslaught of thrusts mixed with prolonged deep throating.

Between his pleasure steady humming down the bond, the snake like darkness dancing around your entrance and clit, and the visual display of Rhysand with his brows knit in pleasure and mouth opened softly, you felt that coil tightening inside of you more and more. “Almost fucking there, y/n,” he panted, your name rolling off his tongue like a deep purr. “Fuck!”

He came from you, whining as that coil began to teeter on a knife edge. Rhys spilled down your throat, “Don't fucking swallow yet. Don't you fucking dare.” He pulled out slightly, working his length with just the tip in your mouth to ensure every drop of him sat waiting.

He pulled out, breathing heavily, “Open your mouth.” Your obedience had his cock twitching, his mind wishing he had time to truly take you, to taste you. He smiled at the sight of his seed lingering in your mouth before leaning down and spitting on your tongue. He forced your jaw shut, kneeling down before you, a hand taking place between your thighs and two fingers entering you.

“Swallow,” he commanded as he began fucking you with his fingers. Scissoring them pressing them, pushing deeper and deeper until he found the spot that had your head thrown back, whining out his name as electricity and warmth shot through your body.

You heard him growl as a thumb found your bundle of nerves, moving in time with his thumb. Your hips began to unknowingly move, riding those two fingers inside of you and chasing your pleasure. “Rhys! Fuck! Please.” You began to beg, his name falling from your lips like a prayer, a mantra one would wake themselves to in the morning.

You couldn't respond, mouth set in a small o, whimpers and moans becoming all you knew as he played your body like his own personal harp. “Cum,” you screamed then, flowers in the greenhouse going from small buds to full blooms as you reached and fell over your peak.

You felt him leaning into your ear. “When I buy you under the mountain, I'm going to fuck you infront of every single fae there. Marking you as mine over and over.” He pulled his fingers out, landing a quick slap to your sensitive pussy before pushing his fingers back in. “You won't even remember your name when I'm done with you down there.”

He worked your core through it, praising you with soft kisses as he kept an eye on Amarantha's creature that had caught his scent. He pulled his fingers from you, holding them to your mouth and watching from his lashes as you eagerly cleaned them.

He released your wrists, pulling his fingers from your mouth, and held eye contact with you. “I have to go,” his voice broke as he said the 4 words you'd been dreading. “I love you. I know I've told you several times tonight, but I love you y/n Darling.”

You nodded, trying to blink the tears away, “I love you too.”

He nodded, kissing you deeply before pulling back and resting his forehead against yours. “I'll see you soon.”

It was a statement that filled you both with dread and a sick sense of joy. Dread for being trapped there, one more tool to use for Tamlin's torment. Joy at the idea of being with Rhys.

He sighed, leaving the greenhouse as you noticed the creature approaching and leaving with it after motioned towards the cave you knew Tamlin's maiden would likely be resting in.

You felt one last tug on the bond. One small ounce of sorrow of longing.

Then it fell silent and cold.

Just like it had been for 49 long years.

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readbycrow · 2 months

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What's the first step on your next adventure?

3-10-2024 - Pick A Card

The images are in order of the cards below. The images just help pick which card is your answer. Pick an image, find the card, receive your answer. Hope to give some senses of reassurance and direction. Life really is just a series of adventures, some more fun than others.

Citrus - In a strange twist of fate, your next step is to wait. It's so easy to jump on a bandwagon or give into FOMO. It's truly a test of patience to just let the world go by for a minute. You might be someone who dives head first into the deep end on everything, and, while sometimes that can serve you well, that's not the course of action you need here. The devil is in the details with your life right now. You need to sort out some of the finer points and come up with a solid plan on how to proceed forward. This will be frustrating, and you might try to push forward before you're ready. There will be push back if you do. This is a time to take your time.

Cherries - The next adventure awaits, you just have to figure out which one it is. There's plenty of opportunities afoot in your life, and you find yourself in a position to take one. It's a matter of deciding what. The choice is truly yours, but some outside motivators may pull you one way or the other. There are also more things available if you're willing to put in time and effort into learning something new. A few basics in a new skill or a whole deep dive might lead you right where you're being called. The world is truly your oyster right now, and there's very little to hold you back from making your dreams a reality.

Berries - Your first step to your next big adventure is to let go of some things. You're worried, scared, and feeling hopeless. Maybe it's getting hard to sleep at night. That's okay. These things happen to a lot of people. Whether a chemical imbalance, trauma, or long-term stress has put you here, you deserve care and recognition of your problems. The worst is over, and what's left is what's inside of you. Be kind to yourself while you figure this out. There's no rushing, and there's plenty of people willing to help you if you reach out. This will pass or become manageable. You will be back on track soon.

Hello! Welcome to the bottom of the post. This crow just wants to let you know that it will pull a free card for you if you send an ask to its blog! It does trades of unwanted things for a card. If you don’t specify a question, the card will be about what you’ve given up. Feel free to check the pinned post for more information. The crow also does more professional readings on ko-fi! Apologies for the absence, the Crow changed nests! It and it's companions are now settling into a new space, and it is a lovely one!

#tarotblr #witchblr #pick a pile #pick a card #tarot readings #tarot reading #free tarot reading #caws #readings

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witch-and-her-witcher · 2 months

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Little Tiger

feysand, feyre & nyx, rhys & nyx | G | angst, family, hurt/comfort, fluff

based off of this headcanon post. just a little sad, but ends with fluff.

thanks as ever to the support squad. 🥺❤️

ao3

~*~

“Should I take watch, darling?”

“No. This is my mess to clean up.”

“Maybe you should cool off —”

“No.” Feyre bites down on the inside of her cheek. Cool off? What else has she been doing, perched in this tree top — on out of practice, aching knees while rain drizzled down through the canopy? “Thank you,” she adds, because it really is her own mess and her husband doesn't deserve her venom.

That belongs solely to herself.

And maybe some as well for her —

Her thoughts cut off as the gentlest snap of a twig underfoot gives away a new presence.

Feyre hones her gaze on the forest floor beneath her ambush spot.

The smell of citrus and jasmine is just barely there: hidden under damp foliage, river mud caked fur, and hot breath scented with gristle stuck between teeth. An old meal, if the noxious odor is any tell.

An odd sensation runs through her: concurrent twisting of her gut in anxiety as well as the sharp bloom of anger heating her neck, cheeks, all the way to the point of her ears.

Feyre checks that her shields are in place, carefully masking every aspect of her presence. Forces every inch of her body to draw tight as a bow string.

Doesn’t risk breathing even as her prey draws out of the shadows of a Night monsoon drenched frond. Shoulder bones, drawn tight in a crouch, protrude out of an inky black pelt.

Closer, closer.

Feyre’s quarry is focused completely on the dazed fowl clucking and flapping in the narrow clearing.

The high altitude rainforest is alive this evening with bugs chirping, birds ducking to and fro in the tree tops, but even the bullfrogs stop their persistent calls as the juvenile tiger approaches with ill-practiced stealth.

No wonder the meal on the tiger’s breath is old.

Probably something that was sick or dying, easy pickings.

Somehow, Feyre tenses further as one paw draws in front of another, just moments away from triggering —

“Go easy on him,” Rhys sends his final plea.

And this is exactly why he isn’t here.

“You’ve grown soft in your old age.”

“In fatherhood, yes. I would like my son to return home in one piece.”

Those front paws press just the right amount of weight down.

The snare releases with a sharp twang.

The sound is nothing compared to the ferocious yeowling of the tiger.

Feyre drops into the clearing, lifting the spell from the brightly colored fowl and letting it squawk away in a flutter of feathers, and locks eyes with the tiger’s stormy blue gaze just as its jaws clamp shut.

“No promises.”

“Remember you love him, remember the picture hanging above the mantel he gifted you last Solstice —”

Feyre cuts off the tether between herself and her overprotective, doting to a fault, far too soft mate.

Anger courses through her veins.

“Nyx Archeron, you will shift back. Now.”

The might of the woman who faced down a Middengard Wyrm with nothing but sheer grit and a hand crafted bone speer speaks through her. There’s no warmth, no kindness, only the hardness that has seen her through battles, through loss, through condemning her citizens when necessary.

Her son stares back with all of the same, unearned defiance, through the grizzled face of the tiger he’s become so fond of in his pre-adolescence.

“Nyx. Now.”

Feyre throws in the weight of the High Lady behind her command. An overstep she will feel guilt over later — later, when anger isn’t riding every one of her nerve endings.

Nyx bares his unclean teeth at her.

But fortunately for his hide, it’s a dirty-faced fae child facing her a moment later.

Arms crossed over his bare chest that’s littered with scrapes and various burrs and pokers from the plants he’s been dragging his body across out in the forest miles outside of Velaris.

“You have one minute to explain yourself.”

Those lips, his father’s lips, press into a hard line. Nyx’s stubborn expression is only punctuated by the draw of those dark brows.

Another torrent of heat flares within Feyre at that look.

That damn look she’s become so familiar with in the last few months.

“Fifty seconds.”

“I know how to count,” he snaps, as if he just can’t help himself.

His mouth snaps closed with an audible clack.

A growl rips from Feyre’s throat.

Mother above, no one had prepared Feyre for this part of parenting.

She was ready for love so great, so overwhelming that she wouldn’t even hesitate at the thought of sacrificing her life for this child. Prepared for insurmountable joy at watching him experience the world, all of his first times. Pride over his growth and the almost greater sadness over every conquered milestone, every sign that he’s not that same baby she held so, so close. Anxiety over keeping him safe, providing for him, giving him the best youth to not only grow into himself, but into the court he will one day rule.

But the shift in emotions?

When the anxiety over his well-being morphed into fear and anger and devastation that her child would act against her, against all of the love and thought his parents poured into him?

And for what?

An act of rebellion?

To get attention?

“You will speak now!” Feyre roars.

Days. It's been days since her son ran away.

For the life of her, she couldn’t understand the joking nature Nyx’s uncles took the news with, the shit talking and arm punching that accompanied comments like, “Like father, like son, huh? Nothing like a prince sized temper tantrum.”

Her baby gone — by choice, none the less — and they all acted as if it were some rite of passage.

Feyre hasn’t slept. Hasn’t eaten. Hasn’t been able to function outside of pacing the halls, waiting for Nyx to give in and come back home like they all kept saying was inevitable.

The comfort of her and Rhys’s daemati powers feeling his presence still within their borders did little to ease her mind.

He’d accepted Rhys into his mind, had assured his father that he needed to do this, that Rhys wouldn’t understand, before shoving him out.

He hadn’t accepted Feyre’s attempts to contact him.

Nyx didn’t want his mother.

And that thought has been eating Feyre up from the inside out along with every other undulating pulse of fury, indignation, and anguish.

“Why are you even pretending you care?”

“Excuse me?” Feyre mirrors his arm crossed posture, ignoring the strain in her muscles from the long stake out. Her son had held out longer than she expected before giving in to his growling stomach and going for the too-easy trap.

“Go adopt one of those kids from the orphanage since you love them so much more —”

“Is that what this is about?” Feyre has to force herself to breathe against the new surge of insurmountable disappointment, disbelief. “You’re jealous I have been spending time with less fortunate children? You ran away, driving your family mad with worry, to throw a fit to get more attention because I am doing my duty as High Lady and a person with a beating heart by checking in on — I — Wow. Wow.”

“Please, you both knew where I was the whole time,” Nyx grumbles, eyes shifting down for the first time.

“That’s not the point, Nyx!”

Nyx’s wings jut even higher with his stiff posture.

“What were you thinking?” Feyre grounds out. “I can’t — I don’t even know the boy I’m looking at right now. To be so self-centered is beyond you.”

Hurt flashes in those big, blue eyes. “I did it because of you.”

“To get my attention? Well, here you go, Nyx, here’s my attention —”

“No!” Nyx cries out, the sharp bite of the tiger’s screams echoing still. “Because I overheard what you said to Aunt Nesta!”

Feyre screws up her face in confusion. “What are you talking about? What I said to Aunt Nesta? Nyx, there’s no excuse for behavior like this —”

“You were telling her what a spoiled brat I am! How entitled I’ve become! How I’ll never … I’ll never understand how you were raised, those lessons you learned.”

All of the emotions Feyre had been feeling gutter out.

Tears begin to line Nyx’s eyes in a silver limned underlining of the truth.

Nyx had overheard …

“I … That’s not what I meant,” Feyre croaks.

She reaches out her hand to touch her son’s shoulder, to try and convey the misunderstanding of the conversation, of her intent.

But Nyx steps back out of her reach. He locks his jaw tight again even as a few tears slip free.

“Nyx, I’m so sorry —”

“That’s what you said. I’m spoiled. You understand the younglings in the orphanage better than your own son.”

It hits her like a leaden weight.

The regret of her words being overheard and the inability to explain the complexity of it all. The heart wrenching understanding of just how Nyx would have taken those words.

A betrayal.

And a reminder that her little boy is more aware, every day understanding more and more about the significance of what is said around him, about him.

“I thought maybe if I lived rough for a while, you’d understand me more …” Nyx swipes the back of his hand beneath his nose to wipe where it’s begun running. “Love me, like those kids.”

Nyx had run away because of the pain she had caused. His own mother who should only love, support, guide —

“You didn’t mean it the way he’s taking it, darling.”

The shock of her son’s words must have lowered her shields.

Feyre bites back her own hot tears threatening to spill, the knot in her throat, because she doesn’t deserve the comforting caress along her mind, the thoughtful strum of the bond.

“Nyx —” Feyre clears her throat, clears away the broken sound. What can she say to make this right? “Nyx. What I said to Aunt Nesta is complicated.” Gods, she’s feeling her age. Unprepared. She doesn’t deserve her son, doesn’t deserve to inflict this inexperience on him. “I’m sorry you overheard it, I really am. But you have to know how much I love you?”

Before he can answer, a low, guttural rumble from deep within Nyx’s belly cuts through the distance between them.

“Talk after he’s eaten.”

“I know how to care for our son,” Feyre snaps, the inadequacy riding out logic for a moment. But then she considers what she’s already done to one member of their family, and adds softly, “I know you mean well. But this is …”

“Nothing that will be solved right away,” Rhys says gently. “You are a good mother. I’m proud of you.”

“Is father mad?”

Feyre shakes her head. “I told you, we’ve been sick with worry, Nyx.” She steps forward more deliberately, extends her hands out with beseeching eyes. “Let me take you home. We’ll talk after food and a bath?”

No one had prepared Feyre for the ups and downs of emotions that later childhood brings in a parent, but also for the mourning.

Nyx hesitates, but another adamant groan from his stomach seems to make up his mind. He nods and accepts her outstretched hands.

Mourning for the loss of the unshakable faith of a child in their parent.

A soft sniffle is buried in her knees as Feyre fights back the swells of sadness.

Whatever she felt for Nyx in those moments before he’d revealed his true motives for running away is turned ten fold against herself.

The disappointment in herself for failing her child, letting Nyx be cut so deeply by her own careless words.

The bath water plips and trickles along as Nyx scrubs clean the filth of days spent in the rainforest.

Old enough to demand privacy in the bath, but not too old to forgo Feyre’s offer to sit with her back to the tub and simply work her magic to channel the warm stream of water from the faucet down his back, through Nyx’s hair to wash away suds. As she had done since he was small. Keeping him warm at all times, avoiding that stark chill from water damp skin exposed to the cool air above the tub.

That simple gesture of accepting her offer nearly had Feyre bawling after they’d finished a tense, quiet meal. Just the three of them and their clinking spoons and soup bowls, fresh and steaming buttered bread wafting between them.

“Mama?”

“Yes, Nyx?”

“I’m sorry.”

Feyre shakes her head. “Don’t be. I should have never —”

“It’s okay,” her son’s voice is gentle in the manner he’s picked up from Rhys and it squeezes Feyre’s heart that much more for it. “Father explained over dinner … He told me there’s a lot I’m not old enough to understand yet and … No matter what, I need to be responsible because it’s not just about me. I’m a future leader of this court and I … I can’t run away.”

“Oh, Nyx.”

What can she say to that? That she wishes he didn’t have the burden of his family’s position and title? That she wishes he didn’t have to be so grown up already? To have a mother who can’t relate to what he’s experiencing because her childhood was so vastly different?

“This is where you two went off to,” Rhys says by way of announcing his entrance as he slips into the bathing chamber.

Feyre tips her head back just enough to see her mate’s broad frame without cutting into the view of the tub. As if they aren't the High Lord and Lady, Rhys sits down beside her on the tiled floor, pressing his warm thigh against hers as he positions his legs crisscross.

“I’m hurt you’d let me miss out on this cozy scene,” he says, kissing the side of Feyre’s head.

“Ew.”

Feyre huffs a laugh. “Nyx might have requested you didn’t join for this exact reason.”

The sharp cut of Rhys’s jaw falls open as he looks back at his son in faux offense. That sharp jawline Feyre recognizes as her son’s future, the beautiful features he has inherited.

“Greedy. Trying to keep your mother all to yourself. As if witnessing your parents love is so mortifying.”

“It is,” Nyx admonishes, but it's for the bit more than anything. “You always have to kiss and hug and it’s so gross.”

“Gross?” Rhys’s brows raise to his hairline as he sends Feyre the next shocked expression of the back and forth. “Never in my centuries have my romantic overtures been described as gross until you gave birth to my harshest critic.”

Nyx makes gagging noises at the word ‘romantic.’

Another swell of emotion chokes Feyre.

‘I love you,’ she mouths to her mate and his glittering violet eyes.

Curling his strong arm around her shoulders, Rhys squeezes back his wordless response.

Feyre continues to weave the warm water through tendrils of inky black locks, feeling the current of the water through each strand, down the knobs of Nyx’s spine and into the tub water. She hopes the water can convey everything she can’t seem to find the words to express to her son.

“The talk can wait. It’s been a long couple of days.”

“It seems you already had the talk. Busybody.” But really, Feyre is almost relieved. She doesn’t even know where to begin with Nyx, with her upbringing, with the grief over the situation —

“Our schedules were already clear due to a certain tiger on the loose,” Rhys says, smiling gamely. “Why don’t we take advantage of the time and sneak off to the theater. I hear the performers have really outdone themselves.”

“Oh! We haven’t been in ages! Really, you have time?”

“For you two?” Rhys winks. “Absolutely. Let me sweep your mother away —” Without warning, Rhys has Feyre in his arms and lifting to stand as she yelps in surprise “— and you dress?”

“Alright!” Nyx calls cheerily to their departing backs. “Can we get treats?”

“I’ll think about it.”

Feyre curls into the hollow of Rhys’s neck, settling into the hold. The touch of her mate’s skin eases some of her internal turmoil. Soothes the worst of her self-deprecating thoughts.

“This isn’t going to get any easier, is it?” Feyre whispers, once they’re out of ear shot of their son’s bathing chamber.

“With him inheriting your magic? I wouldn’t imagine so. The shapeshifting began so early, I can only imagine what else we’re in store for.”

She clicks her tongue in disagreement, but she can’t be bothered to lift her head from the warmth of him.

“I don’t mean the magic.”

“I know.” Warm cedar and fresh linens meet her as they cross the threshold into their chambers. Rhys sets her lovingly on the bed before stepping back, gripping her hands. “But the rest of it is a tale as old as time. We won’t be the first to struggle through raising a youngling and we won’t be the last. I’m only lucky enough to have the best partner to face the challenge with.”

A blush settles across her cheeks. “Stop. I’ve made such a mess of things. Chased away our poor son —”

Rhys presses his fingers against her lips to still them. “Later, darling. For now, let's dress for the theater and enjoy an evening out with our son.”

Feyre smiles softly. “Maybe you are getting wiser and not just older.”

“That’s the second remark about my age today,” Rhys growls, eyes darkening with silken promise. “Perhaps I need to remind you just what these old bones are capable of.”

“Later,” she mimics, sticking her tongue out in a flash before he can catch it.

For now, she will cherish their time as a family. No matter her faults, no matter how things may shift in their dynamics, at least she can be certain that they can make it through together.

#nyx #feysand #nyx & feyre #nyx & rhys #acotar #acotar fanfic #my writing

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hamlets-ak · 11 months

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undress me ༊*·˚

༘♡ it's never over, my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder

after an event, you and timothée return to your hotel room where you don't lose any precious time *wink*

*18+, minors DNI, sexual themes & references, romantic dynamic, established relationship, consent

The sound of the hotel room door slammed shut as you stepped inside. Sandalwood and vanilla combined with mixed smells of citrus filled the air around you. Dim lights were coming from the ceiling fading in the darkness that dominated the room.

Your back was quickly crushed against the white flush door, a warm fire building up inside you as Timothée pressed his body on yours burying his face in your neck and making you gasp at his soft curls that brushed on your cheek and his starved kisses that turned into small bites. A faint giggle escaped your mouth at the feeling of his lips tracing the line of your collarbones. He smiled against your skin as you lightly pushed his shoulder to pass by inside the room, but he blocked your way by holding your hips tightly and pinning you on the door.

« Told you, » Timothée’s deep hushed voice spoke, lingering with lips agape. « I couldn’t wait to get back to the hotel and fuck you. »

« Yeah, » you grinned. « You were very unprofessional tonight. » Timothée was breathing out heavily in your skin, face fire red like a volcano ready to erupt any second. He lightly shook his head and looked away with a smile.

With that, you found the perfect opportunity to pass right under his arm and walk further into the living room. He pounded once his fist against the door for letting you get away so easily, making you chuckle as you turned your head to glance at his form that leaned against the surface, eyes piercing you as you took off your black coat.

« Couldn't help it, » he said. « When I saw you tonight… I just couldn't look away. »

Timothée pushed himself off the wall, approaching you to take his own jacket off. He stood so close to you, chests almost touching, that you couldn’t stop your craving and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, slowly caressing them all the way up until you reached his neck and then cupped his face.

You pressed your mouth on his giving him a deep kiss. His hands slowly slithered from your waist to your lower back, ending on your bum. The kiss was painfully slow, so he pressed his mouth on yours with animalistic force making you take one step back, tongue licking your lips and teeth playing with your soft edges.

His hips pressed on yours made you moan feeling the bulge growing between his legs. Your hand trailed down all the way to his crotch causing him to gasp and throw his head back before leaning back down to your neck, softly biting your exposed skin.

Timothée’s fingers moved to your shoulder tangling with the thin strap of your dress, gradually pulling it down. For only a moment he drew back to take off his top, letting it fall on the floor. His bare torso smashed on your silky dress that he so tenderly pulled down.

Arms like a rope were tied around your waist, the top of your dress falling, leaving you barechested, as his lips hungrily swallowed your silent whines.

His hands roamed down, shaping all the way from your breasts down to your belly before Timothée dropped to his knees in front of you. Your fingers twisted his curls, tugging them out of his face gently, as he gave soft kisses to your stomach, eyes threatening to swallow you.

Timothée pulled down the rest of your smooth dress that was balancing on your hips until it reached the beige floor carpet. Only then did he break eye contact to remove your heels, leaving a few kisses on your knees and calves.

You breathed out with difficulty, your white teeth shining viciously, as the fire inside you was only burning stronger every second, a feeling of slight dizziness overwhelming you, watching your man on his knees for you. Tim raised his impish stare to look at you.

« Don’t do this to me, » he whispered conspiratorial, as he let out a small chuckle, taking off the other shoe and throwing it behind his shoulder.

Your lips separated the moment his gaze met yours and his hands cupped your bum, fingers fumbling on the fabric of your velvety warm underwear. Affectionately, he placed kisses beneath your stomach getting lower and lower while taking off your panties and letting them slip between your legs. You were hypnotized by his burning eyes that were digging and clawing into your skin.

You stared at each other for a moment before he took both your hands in his, giving a kiss on each of your palms, and then stood up impossibly close, towering over you. Your lips pressed on his cheek tracing higher on the line of his jaw to his red hot ear.

« Wanna go to the bathroom? », you whispered with a lick of your tongue. Timothée didn’t reply but lightly nodded as he turned his head to bite your cheek followed by the sound of his lips forming a grin.

Your hands abandoned his warm palms and moved to his belt trying to unbuckle it. Tim looked down at his bulge, then at your small smile.

« I know, » he whispered making you freeze for a moment and look at his blushed face. Eagerly, he took off the pants himself, letting them touch the ground, quickly followed by his wet trunks.

A small mischievous smirk appeared on your face. Without saying a word, you slightly pointed with your head to the bathroom and passed by him, bare shoulders brushing each other.

Moody golden lights were reflecting on the polished gleaming marbles scattered at the walls surrounding you. Shadows mirrored your moves with shiny traces up the sink in your passage.

« Careful, » you told Timothée as he got into the glistering oval-shaped bathtub first. The porcelain hugged his naked skin as he let warm water run. Eyes searched up for you, bringing his hand out to help you get inside. An abyssal expression marked his face, as bodies knotted with one another.

You sat on top of his lap, mouth agape in a silent scream, legs folded around his hips, hands lingering at the back of his head, holding him close to you while he pulled you into him impatiently. An untempered growl echoed from the back of his throat, the sound of the running water falling from the glistening faucet fading in the background.

You moved unhurried, his grip tightening around your hips. Swirling shadows climbed up the wall, tinging the air with breathing and fire, leaving behind traces of oppressed moans and soft rumbles. Blazing desire belched from your tightly wrapped bodies.

His chest expanded and he rolled his head up, the flickering orange lights shining on his face, cheeks, and sharp chin. You cranked your neck and dived a soft pair of lips on his jaw breathing pure fire. Your eyes met for a moment, mouth brushing agape and wet, inhaling the other in, as he swooned deeper inside you. Delicate fingers pulled your fallen hair, watering its way behind your ears.

The atmosphere was filled with strained cries, Timothée’s hand blissfully lingering on his neck, Addam’s apple moving up and down, before catching your lips again and pressing longer kisses, gradually swimming lower to your neck and collarbones. You held the sides of his head for a moment pulling his hair back, as his hips clung to yours. Deep breaths were coming out of his agape mouth.

For a moment you didn’t move and Timothée, full of longing, close to the crest of his pleasure, sealed his eyes in a prayer for you to continue.

His hands floated from your neck to your chest, mouth falling wet between your ribcage, cupping your breasts with his water-dripping hands, touching you the way Marcello never touched Sylvia.

Fingers released you, tracing the line of your spine, until his fingertips buried on your hips, guiding your body in harmony with his frantic pelvis, letting you bounce on his lap.

It felt like a knife twisting inside you, but the pain was so sweet that tremors were spread between you and you wrapped your arms tightly around him, letting his head fall on top of your shoulder. Bodies stitched together lunged into the climax.

Stretched silence laid for a few seconds, both of you sunk into that ecstatic cramp, before Timothée started breathing against your skin, nuzzling his head on your shoulder. You had your arms wrapped around him in the tighter hug possible, not letting him go. Your fingers tangled the curls that were falling on his neck, caressing gently his shoulder and his back as you let a pair of warm lips touch his wet skin.

His fingers traced your hair back for a few moments before bringing his head up, palms cupping your face making your hands drop on his wrists. His forehead leaned to yours, tired love-sick eyes falling pleadingly on the other’s lips for a kiss to get strength. Your noses brushed as you brought your lips up to him for one last time before your separation.

You gasped, your body feeling cold as you sat across from him, legs close to your chest. Timothée was staring at you, a small smile plastered on his lips. Your eyes followed his body as he got out of the bathtub and opened a window above your heads.

The summer breeze burst inside the room, fanning your faces. It was dark outside. Colorful city lights mirrored on the marble walls, as honkings of cars and nightlife echoed from the world opening below your eighth-floor hotel room. Timothée got back inside taking his seat across from you.

The new day had already begun. In a few hours, it was going to be dawn and you were going to stay there to see the sunrise together.

#hamlets-ak #timothée chalamet #timothee chalamet #timothee chalamet fanfiction #timothée chalamet imagine #timothee x reader #timothée chalamet x reader #timothee fanfic #timothée chalamet smut #smut

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deepouterspacecandy · 1 month

Text

Our Sanctuary of Ruin: Part Two

18+ Only. Violence, graphic sexual content, gore, references to death.

The thought of Abby being a mother absolutely melts me. There are tough themes in this one, but there’s a whole lot of fluff and domestic bliss mixed in, too. I’m taking a brief break from writing because my training schedule is intense, but I’ll definitely check back regularly to respond to your comments and asks. Thank you a million. I appreciate you.

The corridors of the stadium are a disorienting maze of shadow and rot.

Dust-covered lenses bleed a florescent glow onto the dusty walls below, emergency bulbs buzzing eerily.

It’s hard to imagine that just a few hours ago, people were rushing to their rooms and plowing through the crowd toward the exit gates. Now, it seems only remnants of them remain to stumble upon.

The wailing sirens persisted until the generators sputtered their final breath, the deafening noise resonating across the city to beckon every infected from miles around.

If, by some stroke of luck, you were able to escape, you would have simply found yourself trapped in the brutal clutch of a slow and agonizing demise.

“Can you hold the baby for a second?” Abby asks.

The unsettling stillness in the air is haunting, and with every clumsy stumble of a reanimated corpse triggering the motion detector, it amplifies the chill seething under your skin.

A cascade of light flickers on just long enough to reveal the macabre sights scattered across the field.

Abby’s heavy hand landing on your shoulder startles you.

“I need you to take the baby, okay? I’ll be right back.”

“No,” you say. “You are not leaving.”

That she would even suggest it, given everything you’ve just experienced together, leaves you stammering. Fear, camouflaged as anger, lingers at the edge of your voice.

“Don’t you dare leave my sight,” you say. “Do you hear me?”

Her arm cradles the bundle of blankets, and you can’t help but marvel at how delicate the infant looks against her broad chest. It’s taken a small miracle to soothe the baby and bring an end to the incessant crying. You’re reluctant to interrupt the peace and risk another wave of violence.

Glass shards crunch beneath her boots while she sways to a lullaby only she can hear.

“I have always come back for you,” she says, gently cupping your jaw, tilting your chin to meet her gaze. “Haven’t I?”

“Abigail, don’t.”

“I can’t leave them like this,” she says.

Murky dread twists at the pit of your stomach as you shift your gaze beyond her and peer into Jordan’s apartment. From floor to ceiling, their windows are a shattered mosaic of broken dreams.

As you reach for the baby, their tiny body wriggles uncomfortably, until you find yourself naturally swaying back and forth, mirroring Abby’s movements.

Small eyelids flutter open, and in the absence of light, a luminous galaxy of guiding stars reveals itself.

“Hi, there,” you say, your voice a strained whisper. “You are so small. How are you this little, huh?”

“I can make this better,” Abby says, leaning in to press her lips to your forehead, snuffling to hold back her tears. “I’m going to make this better, okay?”

Despite the madness of an impossible world, Abby always keeps her promises.

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

The grassy, sweet notes of green tea drift down the hallway from the kitchen, where you can hear Abby humming a familiar tune.

You bury your face into the silk pillow beside you, its shape still molded by her presence. The fabric feels refreshingly cool against your skin, and as you take a deep breath, the subtle muskiness of moss and ferns blends harmoniously with the citrus notes of pine.

A small child clings to you like a little sloth, having snuck in at some point during the night. Despite the ache in your back, there’s a strange relief in already knowing where they are before your feet touch the floor.

“You awake back there, Caelus?” you whisper, your voice carrying a sleepy rasp.

When their only reaction is soft exhale, you allow it to be.

You still have a few precious moments to surrender to sleep, and the drowsiness pulls you back in. The sound of Abby packing up for work is a comforting ruckus, a reminder she will be waiting for you somewhere nearby when you wake up.

With each passing morning, as the sun makes its gradual climb into the sky, you and your child set off on your route to the schoolhouse, delighting in the energy that accompanies your journey.

“What’s this one?” Caelus asks.

In their state of fascination with insects, they eagerly point at a beetle, its iridescent shell catching the light. Abby always stays updated on topics like these, and you hate not knowing, so you make your best effort not to seem ignorant in front of your own child.

“It’s a Doodlebug,” you lie.

“Oh!”

“It’s kind of pretty, isn’t it?” you ask.

Caelus shakes their head and wrinkles their nose, mirroring Abby’s notorious expression of uncertainty.

“His feet are too prickly,” they say.

The child kneels to get a closer look, but when the beetle abruptly flies away, causing them to scream in surprise, it’s confirmation that Caelus dislikes Doodlebugs completely.

Moving through the thoroughfare, the sharp aroma of charred wood fills your nose, while colourful murals bring life to the buildings lining the path.

Scattered throughout the streets, small flower gardens bloom, greeting the season.

While the settlement operates with the guidance of a small committee and the active participation of all its inhabitants, the community holds your family with Abby in high esteem as the town’s original founders.

The diligent work put into making the residents feel safe and cared for is clear in the warm greetings you receive wherever you go.

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

The moment your child catches sight of Abby in the distance, their eyes become saucers. They yank on your arm before jumping up and down, flailing their hands to get her attention.

Piecing together salvaged metal sheets and reclaimed materials, Abby and her crew work together to repair a section of the wall damaged by recent storms. At intervals along the perimeter, guard towers stand tall, manned by residents who are ardent about defending their home.

Under the morning sun, Abby’s powerful body glistens with sweat, showcasing her unwavering dedication to removing the sleeves from all her shirts. The sight of her muscles flexing makes you want to take a pair of scissors to every piece of clothing she owns.

Your little one races towards Abby with great speed, their shoes pounding across the pavement.

Amidst the crowd of early risers, laughter erupts, adding a bright ambiance to the atmosphere as they admire Caelus before going about their daily tasks. The thing that really stands out to you is how thrilled Abby looks when she spots the people she loves approaching.

“Found you, Mama!” Caelus shouts.

Abby skillfully grabs hold of the human cannon hurtling towards her, twirling around until they both become too disoriented to remain on their feet. Joyfully, they roll together to the ground. When your child crashes into Abby once more, she lands flat on her back and bursts into rumbling laughter, summoning you to join in the merriment.

“When did you get so strong?” she asks.

“Today!” your child exclaims, their eyes shining with triumph. “Look at my guns!”

You give Abby a playful scolding, your hands firmly planted on your hips.

“What are you teaching our child?”

“How to be cool and awesome, obviously,” she retorts. With Caelus sprawled across her chest, Abby gently digs her fingers into their tiny ribs, causing their cackles to bubble up like an overflowing brook. “Right, Cae? Or are you just ticklish?”

Your child gasps for air and pins Abby with a serious look when the giggle attack subsides.

“How come you’re not ticklish?” they ask.

“Oh, I am,” Abby says. “But only mommy knows all my secret spots.”

“That’s not fair,” Caelus grumbles.

Manny hobbles over on his crutches, curiosity piqued by the commotion. Despite his arduous path to recovery, he never hesitates to contribute, continuing to be the finest marksman you’ve ever encountered.

Caught up in the moment, your little one forgets about Manny’s injuries and impulsively jumps on him.

In a reflexive action, you shout, propelling yourself forward to intervene and prevent what’s unfolding. Manny’s response is a calm smile and a dismissive shake of his hand, as he brushes off your unease.

“Sorry, Uncle Manny,” Caelus says.

“I am not made of glass,” Manny snorts, tousling the child’s hair. “No worries.”

As you watch them venture along the newly repaired wall, chatting amongst themselves, a wave of guilt washes over you for raising your voice.

With a dirt-streaked forearm shielding her eyes, Abby looks up at you, her gaze a mix of empathy and unmistakable hunger.

“You know this is my favourite outfit, right?” she says.

“I think you’ve mentioned it.”

Lost in thought, you stand there, arms crossed over your chest, gaze fixed unseeingly on your sneakers.

Abby tugs on your shoelace, untying them and compelling you to join her on the soft grass. You take a seat beside her, and as Abby’s crew guides your child through the art of hammering a nail, you’re captivated by their precise instructions and animated gestures.

When Abby strokes your thigh, you’re tethered to the earth, setting free your deepest worries.

“I really suck at this parenting thing.”

“Stop that,” she says. “You’re an incredible mom. Caelus is lucky to have you—we both are.”

“I never want to scare them,” you say.

The weight of Abby’s grief is palpable, mourning a mother she has no memories of.

“You panicked, it happens,” Abby says, planting a kiss on the palm of your hand. “Baby, look at me.”

Abby has a reputation for being blunt, so if she had any issues with your parenting, she wouldn’t hesitate to express it. Sometimes it’s tough to break free from your thoughts, even when you know they’re lying to you.

“Raising a kid with you is the best. I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she says.

Her lips curve into a lopsided grin as her hand sneaks under your shirt, tickling your abdomen.

“Uh oh. What is that look?” you ask.

“I never really thought about it before this—having kids, you know? But watching you with Caelus kind of makes my ovaries hurt,” she says with a chuckle. “You’d look real good with my baby in you.”

“Oh my god,” you blurt. “You better cut it out right now, Anderson.”

You brush away her hand and she’s radiating happiness.

“I’m just saying,” she giggles.

“Well, why is it my center of gravity that has to change—what about you, huh?” you ask.

“What about me?” Abby snorts.

“I think you’d look pretty delicious sporting a baby bump, just saying.”

A blush rises from her chest, painting her entire body a delicate shade of pink. Bathed in the sun’s warm glow, she becomes an ethereal vision of beauty, exuding an aura of calmness and security.

With a cocky brow raised, Abby brushes her fingertips against the exposed skin beneath your shirt.

“You’d miss my abs too much,” she teases.

“I already do,” you groan. “Don’t even get me started.”

Manny limps back to you, leaving your kid to assist with reconstructing the fences. His bond with Caelus goes beyond being Abby’s closest friend - it is reinforced by the fact that he was also Jordan’s friend and comrade.

The night your child was born, Manny was there.

The crisp hiss of beer cans being opened as Manny raised a toast to the birth of a new wolf cub and to Jordan’s brave proposal of marriage sifts to the forefront of your memory.

“He’d be proud,” Manny says with furrowed brows, his fingers absentmindedly picking at a small scab on his elbow. “Jordan couldn’t swing a hammer to save his life.”

The double meaning hits you square in the chest, causing your breath to catch, and you observe Abby being struck by the same brutal force.

You reach out your hand and find she’s already clinging to it.

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

Each week brings fresh growth and expansion to the greenhouses, as they continue to thrive.

This is the first year your town has made substantial trades with other communities, and it has brought about a remarkable transformation.

Unlike Isaac, Abby’s approach involves placing equal weight on both forming treaties and nurturing long-lasting relationships.

Prior to the stadium’s collapse, most had already observed this trait in her, so it came as no surprise when many of the survivors and soldiers distanced themselves from the WLF and instead opted to follow Abby.

In the beginning, the situation was grim, and you were anxious that they might betray her, but their shared difficulties only fueled their determination to remain a cohesive unit.

Humanity continues to surprise you with its remarkable ability to inspire hope.

“Carrots or beets?” you mumble to yourself, perusing the lush aisles.

It is thanks to the bravery and endurance of your people that you have the luxury of thinking about what you will prepare for your family’s dinner.

Abby has a fondness for tomatoes that are crunchy and seasoned with a sprinkle of salt. Once they become squishy in the middle, she doesn’t hesitate to toss them into the pigpen. You pull a few from the vine with a satisfying tug, their deep red skin firm and smooth.

While she’s a total snap pea enthusiast, obsessed with their juicy pods, her favourite pastime has become flicking the peas across the kitchen with her spoon. It creates playful chaos that your child eagerly joins in on, but you’ve caught one in the eye a time or two.

You drop only a few handfuls into your basket, as you prefer to see the nutrients being consumed rather than flung across your linoleum floor.

It’s no great loss as potatoes are Abby’s true obsession, anyway—so much so that she keeps a clandestine garden dedicated solely to their cultivation in the backyard.

Abby’s meticulous care of the vegetable crops, ingeniously built out of rubber tires, keeps you going when you’re drowning in your thoughts by the kitchen sink. Your heart spills over with a bittersweet ache as you witness her skill in teaching valuable lessons to your child, always with a touch of fun.

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

Upon returning home from the greenhouse, the unexpected sight of two leather boots greets you, their muddy soles peeking out from the end of the couch. Inching forward on silent tiptoes, you notice Abby is indulging in a rare afternoon nap.

Her work ethic hasn’t changed in the slightest, her muscular hands calloused from keeping the community in one piece, but she no longer embarks on any overnight journeys—a blessing you value every morning as you wake up beside her.

Leaning against the bench of your breakfast nook, you watch her chest rise and fall with each breath, grateful that she is finding serenity through rest. It has taken years to convince her it’s okay to take a break.

“You’re welcome to join me,” Abby murmurs, voice muffled by the couch cushion. “Whenever you’re done being a creep.”

“Damn it, Abby,” you huff. “How long have you been awake?”

“Since you walked through the door.”

“Great,” you say, bending over to collect a pile of wooden blocks spilling from the back of a toy truck. Before shuffling across the carpet to put them away, you can’t resist tossing a block at Abby’s backside, laughing as she grunts in protest. “I’ll get you one day, mark my words.”

“You almost had me,” she says.

Her drowsy gaze lingers on your body, tracing every curve and contour. While you run your fingers through your hair, suddenly aware of your appearance, she adjusts herself to make space for you.

“How long before our rug rat gets home?” Abby asks.

Your stomach flutters as you hear the subtle shift in her tone.

“Any minute now,” you say.

She nibbles at the dry skin on her finger, deep in thought about her next course of action.

Though you’re always together, it’s challenging to find moments of intimacy with a five-year-old running around wanting to play airplanes with Abby every twenty minutes and crawling into bed between you in the middle of the night.

“If you’re in the mood,” Abby says, moistening her lips with a slow lick. “I think I can get you there in under a minute.”

Her cunning smile stirs up a flash of desire, heat thrumming deep inside you as the temptation draws you to her like a magnet. It’s been such a long time that you suspect her forecast on your ETA is right on the money.

“Here?” you ask.

“Well, I can take you to bed,” she says. “But you won’t be leaving it.”

Sitting up on the couch, she gestures for you to park yourself on her lap.

You rush to close the curtains in the dining room and check that you’ve locked the front door. On your way back to her, your shirt hits the floor, causing her blue eyes to widen, struck by the pleasant view.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Abby murmurs.

“Takes one to know one, my love.”

Without warning, Abby pounces forward, taking your wrist and guiding you to straddle her. Sparks spread for miles in every direction as her calloused hands become reacquainted with your body. She moves slowly, painfully so, stopping to trace the dip and swell of each scar she lands on. Just when you’re certain she’s missed a spot, her fingers flex and the smooth bed of her nails backtrack to cover the ground she neglected.

“I’m so in love with you,” she whispers.

With tenderness, you cup her face in your palms and take a moment to appreciate the new freckles that have surfaced on her cheeks.

“Show me,” you say.

Abby sets a match to every cell in your body as her slick tongue darts out to taste your lips before trailing down the column of your neck to your collarbone. Looking up at you through her long lashes, you see that she’s already panting as you drag your fingers across her sculpted shoulders.

You help her undress, slipping her shirt over her head. She’s breathtaking, every edge of her swollen and defined, but she’s so soft when she looks into your eyes.

“You’re perfect,” you say.

Your arms tingle with goosebumps as she teases the sensitive parts of you that make you writhe, pausing to whimper against the shell of your ear.

“You’re perfect,” she murmurs. “I want to fuck you forever.”

“Can I try it like this?” you ask.

She hisses with anticipation as you gingerly push her knees apart, heat pooling below your navel.

“I’d fucking love that,” she says.

She helps you settle with one leg on either side of her thigh, before sliding her hands to your hips with delicious pressure. The friction from the seam of your pants intensifies as she encourages you to grind against her.

Her lips graze yours with a gentle, electrifying touch, leaving you moaning into her mouth, welcoming the stimulation.

“You’re down bad, baby,” she says.

“Watch it,” you say, relishing how swiftly your warning turns her on. “You’re down just as bad.”

“Fuckin’ rights I am—look at you,” she growls.

Gently unraveling her braid, you marvel at how it has grown in length since you last untangled it. Abby’s hair is incredibly soft, even softer than the fuzz of an orchard peach, and when her fingertips dance up your back, you know she’ll taste sweeter.

“Close your eyes,” Abby whispers.

The wild friction spreads as you grind your hips in rhythm with hers. Each searing kiss across your jaw tightens your spine like a bowstring as your busy mind fades, building a hot coil inside you, matching the increasing greediness of her mouth.

“That’s it,” Abby says. “Take what you need.”

Rocking yourself harder against her, the frenzied motion shoots all the way to your toes. She whines, her breath against your neck making you shiver.

“Please don’t stop,” Abby begs.

When a sudden, jarring knock at the door leaves you both frozen in absolute shock, the feeling of devastation hits you instantly, dousing you in a bucket of icy water.

“Are you kidding me?” you mutter.

Abby lets out a frustrated, breathless laugh before her head falls onto the back of the couch. Unable to resist, you join her, resting your forehead against hers.

“We should do this more often,” you say.

She lifts you up to place a tender kiss on your bare stomach before helping you to your feet.

“You’re hilarious,” she says.

Abby hollers over her shoulder, disappearing down the hall to splash cold water on her face.

“I’m making this happen. I don’t care if we have to climb up to the roof.”

The pounding on the door gets louder, this time coming from four different hands as far as you can tell. You quickly slip your shirt back on, giving it a once-over to ensure it’s not inside out.

“Yes, you do. You’re terrified of heights, remember?” you say.

“I dangled out of a helicopter for you. I think I can figure out how to rock your world ten feet off the ground.”

As soon as the door opens, Manny’s beaming smile suggests he didn’t miss much of your conversation. With a cheerful squeal, your tiny human launches themselves at you, their little arms wrapped around you in a tight hug.

Abby sneaks by to grab a bottle of water from the kitchen, while Manny shoulders his way past you to antagonize her.

“Should we come back later?” Manny razzes. “It looks like you haven’t finished your reps.”

“You’re about a day late and a dollar short, fucker,” Abby groans. “You have the worst timing, ever.”

“Bad word, Mama!”

“Yeah, you better watch your mouth around the little one, Abs,” Manny says. “You need to set a good example.”

Squatting in front of Caelus, she apologizes for her foul language and reaches for the folded piece of paper in their hands. It’s a picture of a helicopter and she’s captivated by it, studying every intricate detail.

“You made this all by yourself?” she asks.

“Miss Dina helped me with the udders,” Caelus says.

“Do you mean the rotors?” Abby asks, her face twisting into the sweetest smile. “That’s what these great big blades are called.”

“That’s what I said, Mama.”

With a smirk on her face, Abby lifts the little one up to the fridge, basking in their excited chatter as they debate the perfect spot to place it.

Your refrigerator is a gallery of imagination. Most of the artwork consists of random doodles and images that Caelus has reconstructed by colouring enthusiastically outside of the lines with thick stripes of crayon.

“Do you two need a little alone time?” Manny asks, giving you a rowdy shoulder check and making you stumble.

You reach into the basket on the counter and toss a pea at his head. Turns out it’s fun.

“That depends,” you say. “Are you offering?”

You watch with delight as Abby and Caelus chase each other around the house.

Abby’s dedication to your family has taken your love for her to an otherworldly level. Her capacity for protecting others knows no bounds, especially with your child. She would move mountains for them, and you’d be right there beside her.

One night without little ears around couldn’t hurt, though.

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When the raiders come, it’s in the dead of night.

Jolted from your sleep, a bad feeling in your gut unsettles you. The bedroom you share with Abby is calm, save for the long, sheer curtains, which flutter softly in response to the gentle wind slipping through the bedroom window.

With Abby’s arm draped across your stomach, her grasp on you unyielding, you’re loathed to disturb her slumber based on a mere hunch.

You do it anyway because if you’ve learned anything, it’s that your instincts on these matters are rarely mistaken.

“Abby, wake up,” you say.

Pulling you tighter to her body, she nestles into the crook of your neck with a sleepy sigh. The untamed strands of her tussled hair stroke your face, tempting you to succumb to her embrace and drift back to sleep.

You nudge her awake slowly, not wanting to startle her, just in case your worries are unwarranted. Her soft hums vibrate against your throat while her hand glides to the side of your thigh.

“Again?” she chuckles hazily. “I don’t know if I’ve got another one left in me.”

“It’s not that,” you say. “Something feels off.”

Abby’s head tilts upwards, her curious gaze fixated on your face, trying to gauge your expression. After the trauma you’ve all endured, it’s only natural for complicated feelings to come and go from time to time.

“It’s our first night without the kid. It’s okay to be a little on edge,” Abby explains. “Want me to help with that?”

Sated and achingly sweet, Abby lies naked and pliant in your bed after spending hours pleasuring each other. To turn her down, knowing what you’d be missing, seems like a criminal act.

“Can we do a sweep?” you ask. “I know it’s late.”

“Of course,” Abby says.

You understand that’s not what she had in mind, but when your head is swimming with quandaries, it’s hard to let go. Tracing your bottom lip with her thumb, she plants a tender kiss on the tip of your nose before showering your face and chest with a thousand more obnoxiously loud, undeniably passionate ones.

They’re wet and messy, and she persists until you’re giggling like a lunatic.

Hair disheveled, her skin dappled with sweat, she catches her breath.

“I’d follow you anywhere,” you confess.

When a disturbance erupts outside, Abby is on her feet in an instant, rummaging through the closet for her clothes and gear.

“Grab Caelus,” Abby commands. “I need Manny at the wall.”

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Sometimes, despite a tempestuous start, everything falls into place.

Through her kindness and willingness to forgive, Abby has welcomed several people into the fold you’d otherwise expect her to shoot on sight. Back when she was still donning the WLF patch on her coat, it was highly likely that she would have.

All the weary wanderers have found redemption to be well worth the time and effort so far.

But on occasion, no matter how hard Abby tries, she’s forced to make the bitter decision to eradicate the threat to protect what she has built. You wager it’s one of those times as the distinctive crack-pop of her hunting pistol booms through the forest, and she returns to you spattered in blood.

The townspeople bear no grudge against her for the measures she takes to ensure their safety. While returning to their residences for the night, their gratitude is evident as Abby makes her way home with her head hung low.

You want to ease all her suffering, but the only thing you can do is support her with time and an abundance of love.

Following a scalding hot shower, she requests to face alone—her priority is to make sure you’re both safe before reading her little one a bedtime story.

Caelus fiddles with Abby’s knuckles, bruises already forming on the fragile skin.

“Did you hurt someone, Mama?” they ask.

With a sharp inhale, Abby’s nostrils flare and her eyes glaze over before she continues to turn the page.

Nothing is more devastating than seeing the woman you love overcome with shame.

“Yes, I did,” Abby says.

“It’s bad to hurted people, Mama.”

“You’re right,” she whispers.

Her eyes follow closely as Caelus tugs on her fingers, carefully examining the various scars that adorn them. Every mark on her body represents a chapter of both injury and growth, a living map of her experiences.

“Mommy doesn’t,” Caelus says.

It feels as though they’re verbalizing their thoughts, seeking understanding amid the ever-changing dynamics. Abby could recount dozens of hair-raising stories of similar situations you’ve faced, lives you’ve forever changed, but she simply nods in agreement.

“Why?” they ask.

“Well, you know how Mommy makes the pretty flowers grow and helps the sun make our food, yeah?” Abby says, attempting to make the most complex thing in the world more straightforward. “And how her hands work hard every day to turn the soil into the things we get to eat?”

With a nod, Caelus gazes up at her, their big brown eyes full of wonder.

“And you know how we need to have the scarecrow outside to keep the animals away?”

“Mr. Scarecrow protects the apples!” Caelus says.

Abby’s smile is so incredibly sincere that it tugs at your heartstrings. It brings to mind all the parenting hurdles she faces with her heart on her sleeve.

“Yes, he does,” Abby says as your little one uses their fingertip to trace the cartoon animals in their book. “And if we take Mr. Scarecrow away, the people we love might lose all their apples, and I just can’t stand for that to happen. It would hurt Mama’s heart so badly. Do you understand?”

Nodding, they furrow their brows, grappling with the influx of new information and attempting to make sense of how it relates to their own life.

“Are you Mr. Scarecrow, Mama?”

“Sometimes,” Abby says. “And you and Mommy are my apples. It’s my job to protect you.”

Caelus snaps the book shut in favour of cuddling her.

“Do you get scared?” they ask.

Abby’s gaze shifts to the ceiling, and as she holds your child, you’re reminded of how they still seem so small in her arms.

“All the time,” Abby admits. “Do you?”

“I’m really scared of Doodlebugs!”

“What the heck is a Doodlebug?” she asks.

Perplexed, Abby turns to you for answers.

When you give her a shrug, she knows what you’ve done without saying a word.

#abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby x fem!reader #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby #lesbian

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 8 months

Text

TALK TO THE DOVES (IX)

|| COV MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER X ||

PAIRING: Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 4.7k

WARNINGS: Angst, strained familial relationships, crying, mentions of suicide, I can finally I can say we have fluff & hurt/comfort y'all, etc.

A/N: Surprise, the MC finally gets her nickname

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

“Tell me about the,” your mother pauses, looking at you as you sit at the dinner table for supper. She’d made a hearty meal—stacks and food piled high on the long, polished wood. Her throat clears. “The years. How is school? Keeping up with classes?”

“Yeah,” you mutter, your plate holding all the items it had started with. Alex was drying the dishes, of his own volition, you have to add, across the room while Gaz took a long sip of water from his cup. The Sergeant leans against the island and tries to look like he’s not listening, tapping his foot on the floor in steady intervals. “It’s good. You?”

Your mom frowns, setting down her utensils with a clink. Alex hums a song under his breath and sets a dry pan on the counter.

Eyes darting to the open patio curtains, you stare out across the estate, your estate, before your mother brings you back in with a strained sigh. She’s watching you—gaze hard on your face but not once do you look into her with anything other than a brief glance.

“I’ve been talking with Mr. Ramsey,” she says like she’s reading the newspaper.

Kyle and you both go rigid at the name.

It’s only after you get over the slap to your face that you take a shallow breath, blinking quickly. “My…professor?”

“Mhm.” Clearing her throat, she takes the glass of water from the table and sips slowly. The scent of her perfume—citrus and wool—invades your nostrils even if she’s a good few feet away on the opposite end. Horrible, and evoking memories like no other. It suddenly makes you sick to be in the same room as her. “I asked him to keep up on you while I was away at work.” A pause. “Hector too.”

A sharp gasp is twisting in your throat. You think you stop breathing entirely.

“Now, before you go and act like you usually do,” hands clench and start to shake. “I really need you to understand—you’re my daughter, and you’ve lost your father; I lost a husband. Without all of,” her hands shrug, “this going on, I still wanted you to be looked after while I…tried to fix myself. I needed my work, but I needed my girl to be safe too.”

Inside of your sockets, your eyes twitch, staring blankly into her neck and the expensive jewelry she wears as if the glimmering will give you an answer as to what had brought this along. Her logic wasn’t what bothered you—caring about your child is natural.

But yours was a special case. Because by her logic…she knew about…You make a small wheezing noise in your chest involuntarily.

Alex has stopped drying; Gaz widely side-eyes the interaction, fancy glass stalled at his lips.

“Now,” your mom smiles easily, body burning with pride. “With that out of the way, back to you—let's maybe get some wine from the cellar? We can sit in the library and talk like old times. I remember your father’s bottle of—”

“Cellar’s empty,” you push back from the table and stalk off. “Enjoy your supper.”

“Erm,” she stares after in shock, face pulling in while her neck’s vein pops. “Sweetheart? Please, let’s not fight. I just want to know what you’ve been up to—I’m worried, you seem exactly the same as when I first left...”

You walk and disappear out the back door, not leaving the estate, no, just…going. Gaz makes a small huff of air from his nose and lightly jogs after you; exiting the house just as the door’s about to slip back closed.

Walking a short while, you push through the willow trees near the back pond and plop to the long grassy ground.

Gaz sighs into the dark area, scanning the shadows. He wants to tell you that you both shouldn’t be here, but you’re already reclining back on your hands with your legs popping out ahead of you; the water ripples in the moonlight.

A small silence echoes like mute steel.

“Should have known,” you end up muttering under your breath. “Figures.”

Hec had been your mother’s bug, Mr. Rasmey, that ass of a professor, too. Why did it have to be Hector? The one…the one damn person it would hurt to have it be.

You can’t even find the energy to cry, you just fold your arms and lay back, scalp grinding away plush greenery as it digs into the earth.

“She seems to only have good intentions, yeah?” Gaz coughs, unable to stay completely silent in this instance. His anger still simmered, but…well…it wouldn’t be fair to keep you isolated if you insisted on pulling away from everyone else. That wasn’t who he was.

He supposed he was the only one able to get any sort of reaction now. “Just because there were extra tasks didn’t make Hector’s feelings any less fake, Ma’am.”

“Back to ‘Ma’am’ now?” You huff, brows loose and sullen.

Kyle stares before his browns begin to soften on the edges. He looks to the ground before sighing and walking a few steps forward, easily stooping down and sitting beside you—a good few feet away. The Sergeant takes off his hat and places it on the ground beside him, running a hand over his hair and rubbing the back of his head.

“Well, what else would I call you?”

“I don’t know,” you stare at the wisps of the willows. “Idiot?” You say lower, “Mental?”

The man’s eyes lightly flinch at that.

“That wasn’t…” he begins, clenching his jaw in guilt. “I said some things I shouldn't have and I—”

“I’m sorry.”

The world sills and a gentle breeze makes the trees speak for you as the shock lays waste to the sinews of your throats.

It’s as if the words had taken what little resolve you had and shattered it entirely. The back of your eyes burns.

“I’m sorry, Kyle.” You say it again and fold your elbow over your mouth as it quivers. “M’sorry.” Again, again, again, until a small break in your voice makes you go quiet again—you shove your flesh over your face, eyes narrowed with tears you refuse to let fall.

Gaz’s face is open with delicate concern, chest tight and fingers so frozen he could pull the trigger on a rifle and nail a shot with little effort. Did he even have a heartbeat?

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you hiccup, not able to stop now that it’s started. “And everything hurts. I-It’s all spinning so fast I don’t know who I am, but I know that you’re right and it burns.”

He’s taking you by the shoulders and grappling you into his arms.

His touch has the same feeling as when he’d panicked at seeing your blood in your father’s office, pulled you in, and set you down on the couch. A tight and firm hold of skin and fabric; of a care that goes bone-deep and calls to this man’s nature—a gentle love for the protection of all innocent people.

Your face finds the dip of his neck, hands wrapping his waist. It had been so long since you’d wanted to hug someone. Your mother didn’t count, no, right now you needed someone you hate to fix this.

And there was no one better.

You hang off of Gaz’s shirt and he places a hand on the back of your head, lightly keeping you to him as you shake and lean into his chest. He curves over you slightly, as if shielding you as he did at the park—but there were no bullets here, no great boom of guns being fired, or rapid footsteps at your heels.

There was no deteriorating room with peeling wallpaper; chairs and the scrape of a bag over your head.

It was just the willows, the pond, and the two enemies.

“It hurts,” you sob into Kyles's neck, and his lips thin as he pulls you to him tighter. “God, it always hurts, and I’m so tired of it. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat; I don’t feel good anymore. I don’t even remember what it’s like t-to wake up and feel happy that I did.”

“It’s okay,” Gaz mumbles. “Hey, it’s going to be alright, yeah? Just breathe with me.”

Your words are garbled and wet, you breathe in shuddering gasps. It’s ugly, your crying, it gives you a headache, but not once do those hands leave from around you.

“I don’t want to keep feeling like this, Gaz.” Fingers digging into his shirt, you have to wonder if he’s repulsed by you—you’d been so rude to him, so uncaring and blunt.

But how else were you supposed to act?

The Sergeant may not have pulled the trigger, but he was there. He was there…and he had apologized for his part.

This was not forgiveness, but it was the only thing you could offer anymore.

You nuzzle your face deeper into Kyle’s neck, limp and still feeling tears being expelled from your eye sockets; lids firmly closed. It’s in a brief second of the still-air between another sob that you hear him speak again.

Gaz’s eyes stare off at the mansion behind you as he breathes in silent puffs, heart beating quickly and his pulse hammering. This was beyond what he had expected from you, but that didn’t change the fact that what you were saying made his mouth tight and his face crease.

He knew it was bad, but…

“You’re afraid of me.” The thought hadn’t left him since the blow-up in the hallway. It’s said in a whisper, finally bringing to light the fact he already knew. The sarcasm as a defense, the biting comments, sneaking away and not trusting him. He already understood it on the second day you’d officially met.

Your tears wet his clothes, sticking them to his heated skin as your breath creates condensation. You shake so bad that it becomes apparent it’s not only from your mind breaking.

It’s because you’re close to him.

Brown eyes widen, and he glances down at your head in pain, yet even so your hands keep him to you like a bear, panting and near hysterical.

“I just want,” you confess, his fingers heavy across your spine as the willows rustle. “I just want it all to stop.”

You shouldn’t be here—not like this. Not with him.

But, dammit, being anywhere else is even worse.

“Easy, Sweetheart,” Kyle speaks quickly, accent deep on his smooth tone. “I’m going to get you through this. It’ll end, I promise you. Nothing that’s goin’ on is permanent.”

He’s hesitant to do more, not wanting to step any boundaries, but you’re still not calming down; three years of heartbreak spilling out like a broken vase. Kyle’s head finds the side of yours, and while you involuntarily flinch, you don’t pull away.

You sniffle and suck down tiny, quick breaths.

“Listen to my pulse, Love. C’mon, now.” His hand on the back of your skull twitches its fingers into small circles, the other pulling you farther up. “I know you like me being quiet,” he jokes, but still serious. “So I’ll save you the trouble of focusing on my voice. Right there in my neck…you feel it?”

You shiver, face on fire. Silently, you do as he says.

You listen for it, his pulse, searching as you focus on just that. Not the man and his arms, not the squish of his chest or how you feel so warm by the strength in his biceps, but by the way it calms you. Searching. Being in control of yourself.

You find those rapid beats after a moment, eyes tight closed and lungs heaving. The grass sways around your forms and Gaz swallows the saliva in his throat to ease himself further. His eyes close, taking a deep breath that you missed in your study of his blood.

The stubble on his cheeks itches your scalp.

“That’s it,” Kyle whispers, sensing your breath slowing. The tension gradually slipped away. “There we are, you’re doing great.”

When all is said and done, you’re limp in his grip, forehead on his shoulder, and Kyle’s chin atop your head. The breeze is slow like a sigh and overhead the sounds of kingfishers and the swans that live near the pond gradually return in the silence broken only by far-separated inhales.

You blaze with a special type of shame for this, but you’re too tired to try and move. So, so, tired. Staying there, you let his grip keep you up, eyes stuck in the dark grip of his compression shirt as you don’t think—don’t fight it.

It pained you to realize, but your mother’s hug dulled in comparison to this.

Kyle confines you to his body, his lungs pushing his chest into yours, hands unyielding and steady; with that pulse still in your ear you sense the way he really feels, heart fluttering still rapid. Atop your head the chin, not digging into your scalp but instead turning in such a way as to follow the curve of your skull as if an eagle’s beak pulling at her mate’s form.

His nose releases a slow sigh.

“I’ll be here as long as you need me,” Gaz mutters. “Just say the word, yeah?”

The comments bring a bitter bite to your eye—another sting—but you keep it at bay. You have to. The hitch in your breath gives enough away, though.

“You can cry, Spitfire.” You shake once more, a deadly shiver running the length of your spine which the man rubs up and down. “You can cry in front of me. Hell, bloody cry whenever you want.” Kyle hums in his throat. “You’ve earned it. Fuck, you’ve earned it.”

The second round of tears is far more subdued than the first—quiet gasps and weak limbs. It only makes your head pound worse, the onset headache promising to be a big one. This one was reactionary; instinctual.

It just…had to happen.

And Gaz is there through all of it. He doesn’t pack up a bag and leave the country, he doesn’t pretend like it’s not happening—he stays. It is both something that makes you grow a new sense of him, and ends up pushing the knife deeper.

Out of everyone, it just had to be him, didn’t it?

Voice raspy, crackling more than dry bark, you speak as your grip on his shirt lessons.

“Spitfire?” Kyle stills, releasing a tiny breath of relief that you seemed to be calming down for good this time.

“Yeah,” he clears his throat lightly, glancing down at you under him. “Guessed it would fit…Ma’am doesn't have quite the ring to it, eh?”

Against the current situation, you force out a soft chuff.

“...You good with it, then?” Your brain is mush, and Gaz seems to pick up on it. “We’ll, uh, we’ll get back to it, Love. Let’s get you inside.”

He makes a motion to pull away but in a display that no one foresaw, your arms constrict like a vice around him.

Gaz freezes, feeling the hidden strength in your quivering limbs and how your face is hiding itself away even more fervently. You’re too embarrassed to look, to say anything.

But he was so warm, and his hands felt nice; just like they had room, or even when they had pressed to your mouth in the back alley when this all started.

Kind.

God, his hands were kind.

Kyle blinks in the darkness, the encompassing willow trees acting as a silent sentinel to this phenomenon. “Okay,” he says, low-like. When your grip doesn’t ease, he reassures, “I’m staying, Spitfire.”

You go limp once more, a shuddering sigh ripping out of your mouth. Gaz has to stay a twitch of his lips, a soft look spreading into his eyes as he huffs. Inside, he grasps for that small string of hope and pulls on it, wondering if this was when he walks back from the knife edge and can truly fix things.

A relationship can only be mended by the two people involved in it. If you could call this anything more than a dependency, that is.

“I should never have said what I did,” Kyle relays, knowing it was his time to reach out. You listen silently, drained. “A…at least not the way I said it. You didn’t deserve that, and I’m sorry, too. Lost my temper.” He chuckles after a moment. “Didn’t think you’d be able to do that to me, honestly.”

In a second of contemplation, Gaz moves his head back and brings his hands up to your cheeks, shifting your face back from his shoulder entirely soaked and soggy.

“I’m sorry.” He says it with no intention of making you look into his eyes, but the action itself makes it seem sincere and honest. Your red-veined eyes stay at his neck, gazing at his bobbing Adam’s apple. “I need you to know that I mean it.”

Kyle’s thumbs go and swipe the tear tracks, spreading them away with firm attention. He spares a small chuckle.

“I’ll be honest, I felt like a proper arse after all of that. I don’t like yelling when I don’t have to.” He sighs. “Certainly not at you. Not after everything.”

You let him grab at his shirt sleeve and mutter a small, “Here,” pressing the fabric along your chin to catch the last drops. Silent, you just blink.

Kyle’s concern peeks back in.

“...Nothing to say, Spitfire? Makin’ me nervous.” Face only holding blood and no longer tears, you shrug blankly after a moment.

“Don’t have anything to tell,” you utter weakly, licking your lips as Gaz’s hands fall lightly away—one on the other side of your hip and the other near his. You itch at your neck slowly. “M’tired.”

“No shame in it,” the Sergeant whispers, eyelids half-tilted. “You want to go in now, Love?”

Again, you only shrug, looking into Gaz’s chest with eyes far away. Already the internal walls were trying to build themselves back up; capitalize on the silence to spread poison-coated oil in the moat—light an angry fire with flame-coated arrows.

You feel utterly alone.

Kyle stays silent as you close your eyes and listen to the trees speak to each other, those little birds on the breeze dancing with wingbeats. Your father would take you out here often, not to impart his unending wisdom like some old man, but just to listen. Listen to nature; the simple parts of everyday life removed from the expectations and pressure.

Water, the ruffling of feathers, and the trees.

My Little Love.

But he wasn’t a good man.

“I found a USB,” you open your eyes, locking eyes with Gaz and telling yourself not to flinch backward. He blinks at you twice in surprise, body stilling as he looks back.

Those browns and ambers melt into a concoction of memory—flecks of green tiny and barely noticeable from a large distance; but you two were relatively close at the moment. Your lungs go tight, fingers twitching as you wrap the limbs around your waist loosely. Kyle watches with apprehension, eyes flicking away for a moment at the weight behind this.

“Say again?” He asks, gaze traveling back slowly only to see you still waiting to meet his eyes. The man holds it this time, clearing his throat against the hitch in his breath. “Are you sure you’re alright—”

“I kept it in my jacket pocket when you took the journal and the laptop.” You interrupt, eyes darting away quickly to look over his shoulder before the panic you feel in your gut spreads to your brain. “I don’t care, I can’t figure out the password—I’ll…I’ll just give it to you when I get back inside.”

There’s a black flash across the pond and as you lock onto the stray cat’s form, those silent paws padding to the water’s edge, Kyle gapes at you; jaw loose as he misses it. Yet the animal doesn't get water, doesn't even stoop down. It watches.

Silent, no hissing.

Eyes like forests blink, a tail flicks, its head tilted, and then it turns and disappears back into the bushes like it was never there in the first place.

Kyle gets over his shocked confusion at your sudden willingness to confess to him.

“I…I’ll look into that,” he itches at his scarred cheek. “Thank you.”

You scoff tinily, without venom. If you were a snake, he’d have said you had your fangs cut out. It’s pathetic, you know, how eagerly you want to get this off your chest—all of it. So you don’t stop.

“Hector was just about the only person who was there for me after Dad…” You lick your lips. “You know. He…he made it better, or, at least, he tried to. I know you think that I’m overreacting to this, but—”

“Negative,” Kyle whispered, body loose and giving you his full attention. “I wouldn’t say that. Wouldn’t even think it.”

“Then I guess you’d be the only one.” Your hand runs up and down your face, rubbing away the invisible blood. You mumble through flesh. “I shouldn’t be talking to you, Kyle.”

He huffs and tilts his head. “I’m not a bad listener, y’know? Talk all you want, if it bothered me, I’d tell you.”

“It’s not about it bothering you.” Falling back into the usual bickering, you have to internally reel yourself back in.

His body heat grounds you—latches on like hands. So starved for affection, all it had taken was one damn hug to entirely break you open like a cardboard castle; tears shed, and whispered words.

How weak were you?

Kyle hums, seeing the inner conflict. He could taste it on his tongue.

“Go on,” he utters, accent lacing the words with patience. You shiver and drop your hands.

Very.

“He,” your throat closes. “After the first year, I needed something to latch onto—some semblance of normal life. Hector was a constant face, one that was open and kind to me. Hell,” you look to the side, gritting your teeth weakly. “He gave me free food for weeks when he realized I wasn’t even eating anymore. Distracted me from falling back into a hole again. And to find out that after everything, he wasn’t not only doing it because he wanted to….but that my mother knew the entire time and…and,” you strangle down a whimper, the next sentence breathless with utter pain.

“She didn’t even come back?”

Kyle’s eyes break, lips pulling tight, before looking down. How many people were going to fail you, he asked himself. Him included.

The soldier thinks back to that small room and your terrified eyes—the blood and the boom of the rifle fired by Row from the corner. No definitive answers, a suicide, and names that led to nowhere.

Everyone who had ever claimed to love you had stabbed you in the heart over and over again, and in that act, you’d decided to rip those blades out yourself and wield them like a shield.

“When’s the last time you had a break, Love?” He speaks softly, gazing over your face and strangling down his anger at the people in your life—at the mansion itself; an entire metaphor for everything down to the closed curtains and the dusty corners.

You blink back to the Brit’s neck, clenching and unclenching your fingers, eyes unfocused.

“I mean a real one. Took off of Uni, just…forgot about all of it?”

“If I didn't have college to focus on,” you confess, shaking your head. “I don’t even think I’d be…”

As you trail, Kyle takes in a sharp breath with his heart jerking to a halt inside of his chest.

After a moment of his digging eyes, he whispers, strained, “It’s okay. I understand.”

“Yeah,” your body shifts, pushing past the topic quickly. “Yeah. Good.”

The silence falls again, but there’s a different air to this one. Kyle doesn’t look away, not for a long, long time.

“Why did you do it?” The words sneak out of your lips, face twisted up. “Please, Kyle.” You lightly shake your head from side to side, defeated down to your marrow. “All I’m asking you is why.”

The Brit grits his teeth, glaring at the ground at his side.

Why? How could he answer that? Nothing he says would bring you comfort—make this make sense. None of this made sense.

But he can’t not answer you.

Call him weak for that, not as durable as he thought he was, but you’re suffering—mind a mess of barbed wire and dark phantoms. There’s a weight on your shoulders that he can feel, had been feeling. For all of his opinions on your attitude, you didn’t deserve to live like this—that much was obvious.

It was not in his nature to be needlessly cruel.

Kyle stares at your shoulder as he answers, you, in turn, let your eyes slip the tightness of his face; near to one another in a way you’d both never believed you’d experience.

“I don’t know,” Gaz admits with a single tilt of his chin your way as if to apologize. “Pressure. Duty. That’s all shite, I know, but…but I thought I was going down the only path available. It’s not a bloody excuse.” The man speaks earnestly, without faltering. “He was never supposed to die, Love. Never. That doesn’t make it better, but it’s the truth. You were never supposed to see that, and everything that’s gone on, I share the blame in. And that’s something I’ll take to my damn grave regretting every chance I’m able.” He closes his mouth for a moment, and carefully he shifts to grasp your arm. When you don’t move away, he ends with utter conviction. “None of this is your fault. None.”

You take a large shaky breath, mind a mess of information. But you feel lighter than you had in ages. Glancing quickly down at Kyle’s hand, you blink at it. The Sergeant squeezes once and lets go without a word. His cheeks heat before he clears his throat, going to rub a hand at the base of his neck and spare an awkward chuckle.

“But, uh,” two pairs of eyes flitter away from each other's bodies. “Regardless, Love, you really do have a habit of making a man regret his actions.”

That gets a thin smirk flicking your lips. “It’s a lifestyle, Garrick.”

Flexing your still bandaged hand, you lightly flinch at the ripped stitches; the old wrappings at this point entirely soiled. Gaz notices from his side-eye, fully looking down to make a noise in the back of his throat as the willows sway.

“Let me see, then.” You huff, trying to shimmy away.

“It’s fine.” He deadpans at you, hand by your hip not letting up.

“You think I haven’t noticed you haven’t spoken to me about re-binding it? C’mon, Spitfire, I just thought you were taking care of it.” He smirks. “Then I remembered you’re more stubborn than a damn mule.”

You glare at his chest and half-heartedly roll your eyes, unwilling to argue. That thought alone is like a strike of lightning.

“Only one mule?”

“Hm,” Gaz reaches and lightly grabs your hand, turning it over and picking at the binding. It unravels easily. “You’re right. Make that three, actually. Throw in a nasty habit of being selectively deaf and it’ll be you to a point.”

You slap his shoulder with your free hand and he slightly banks away, chuckling, with his spine hunching in.

“Easy now, Girl!” You slap him two more times for good measure, a tiny giggle slipping past your lips as he jostles away with a wide smile.

But it’s natural, surprising, how simply the laugh comes out right after. Maybe it’s the utter exhaustion that finally lets it out from the cages you’d kept it in—a sleeping jailor at the iron door.

You bend carefully forward, as Gaz’s hand holds yours, lungs pushing through the fog of the forest that was once sprouting in them to release little laughs into the air.

“I hate you, Kyle Garrick,” your lips utter as he pulls back the last of the wrappings and looks at the damage you’d caused to yourself, taking the skin and swiping a finger over the old blood to watch it flick away.

He chuckles and smirks, raising a brow. “I know, Spitfire.”

“That nickname staying?”

“Bet your bloody arse it is.” He’s smiling. You’re smiling. Or maybe he’s only doing it because you are. “No one fits it better.”

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14thgalerie · 8 months

Text

welcome to the library!

author's notes

any similarities with other works are purely coincidental, and not intended.

this is purely fictional. any name, institution, and other things mentioned in the story is fictional.

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25 - part 2 | [A]

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25 - part 3/alternate ending | [A, slight F]

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notes:

- some of my fics are unedited, hence there will be some slight error. if you notice any of them, please feel free to let me know so i could everyone’s reading experience better!

- i am horrible at writing synopsis', so i'm sorry already

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cvlutos · 1 year

Text

TWISTED WONDERLAND: MOULIN ROUGE

═ PROLOGUE ═

DEAREST ARISTOTLE FAMILY,

Hello Aristotle Family, I have received word that your father, James Aristotle, has passed, truly a sad day and I give you time to grieve. Yet time is money and I fear that a certain family, your family to be exact, is still quite indebted to me. I do send my condolences. Though fear not, it is not much I desire from you, dear Aristotle family.

I ask for your eldest child to be sent to NRC and aid me. You needn’t know why, but they will indeed be safe. All that the eldest needs to bring are whatever they desire. Shelter and all other needs will be provided. Within this envelope contains a special boating ticket and I do hope you do not lose this. I expect the eldest child to arrive before the end of fall.

I’ll Be Waiting,

DIRE CROWLEY

Pulling the fabric of your thick coat closer to your form, your luggage trapped between your legs as your sit on the deck of the large ship. It’s crowded, all eager to board off the boat and onto what one would consider paradise island. It’s dark and unseeable. Yet the anticipation is tastable, like fresh oranges, and you can already taste the citrus without having to bite it. We all sit in the dark, for the inside of the boat is only for the rich, nobles, and royalty. Not poor underdressed commoners. With little to their name. We are forced to be outside like dogs. The sun set hours ago, and the moon missing as if stolen from the sky. The only thing illuminating the path is the ship lights at shine onto the fog-covered ink of the ocean.

Consider yourself lucky.

A letter was sent from none other than Dire Crowley, owner of NRC. Night Raven Club or Night Raven Coterie. It rests heavy within the inside of your coat, as do the thoughts of worry and fear in what you have to do for Dire Crowley. NRC is a notoriously dangerous, yet lavish place, having been around for generations. It’s also known for draining the very pockets of men and women alike, leaving those same men and women begging for scraps along the island, begging to be able to get back into the club, like drug addicts going through withdrawals. Until the next boat arrives to take them home. Though most go kicking and screaming, dragged onto the ship. Yet the boat itself is unpredictable and unreliable. Once you’re on the island, you can’t get off, at least not easily.

People have gambled away all they have and all they are. Truly a dangerous place.

Consider yourself one in a million.

Crowley had sent you a special invitation, promising a beautiful bedroom for your stay, for as long as you carried out whatever he needed to be done. Though, this letter wasn’t for you directly, but for your family. Due to your father, a man who so desperately sold off almost everything to NRC, leaving his wife and children in ruins, and went crawling to Crowley for it all back. Your father believes Dire Crowley to be a kind man. A very kind, gracious man, that understands and is oh so forgiving. So Dire Crowley did what your father asked, gave back all that your father foolishly lost. Though not without something in exchange. Your family would forever be indebted to the man named Dire Crowley, and would do all he needed to be done when he asked. A deal could last generations if Dire Crowley so wished.

Your father has passed. Escaped the consequences of his actions, so you, as the eldest, must do what your father can’t.

Night Raven Coterie.

The Club of Twisted Imagination.

It’s a name everyone knows. A name that you either despise or worship. Like a whiskey that burns your throat when you drink it, so painful, but so good. It’s a name that lulls you into eternal sleep. That burns your skin worse than that of the bluest flames. That poisons you and kills you. That leaves you stranded in the desert with nothing but the clothes on your back. That drags you into the deepest parts of the ocean or lures you into the hungry den of lions. Or a heavy collar that restricts who you are.

With its great seven-standing beauties and the poor souls trapped within its confines. Unable to escape. Unable to ever be free.

══════ ♡ ══════

Heartslabyul.

Strictness.

Order. Order. Order. Rules. Rules. Rules. Nothing more. Nothing less. This club room is almost as twisted as the island. With 810 rules, written and posted on the walls before you enter the room that rests beyond the crimson-red door. Tables and chairs were all placed orderly, with red painted roses in the center. It’s almost like a never-ending tea party. All were directed towards a stage of checkered patterns of red and white, with heavy velvet curtains hiding the stage. Til the exact moment, exactly with the clock, do the curtains open.

The Queen’s Arrival.

Riddle Rosehearts, The Red Rose Tyrant.

Short in stature but large in presence. A boyish, arrogant look as he entertains and dances across the stage before strutting down the catwalk and onto a smaller circular stage. Closer to you. Closer to the rich and desperate people. Begging to be hit by his leather riding crop, begging for him to look down on them with a sneer. He’s alluring, sweeter than the sweetest tart, and scolding like freshly brewed tea. He’s merciless. Unforgiving. Bad-Tempered. Selfish. Spoiled. A sadist that ties sinful men and women to their chairs and punishes them. He’s cruel and all things within that room, behind that door, the door in the color of blood-painted roses, must be orderly.

══════ ♡ ══════

SavannaClaw.

Perseverance.

Wild and Free. Bathing in the coolness of the Savanna freshwater springs. It’s loud and in constant motion. It’s rowdy and not for that of fate of heart. A more hands-on experience, with colors of browns and yellows. With floral from the savanna decorating the hot and steaming room, it’s the perfect place for fights. For arguments. With no tables or chairs, most men and women find themselves staring up at the stage, bodies close and compact. Like an herd a suspecting prey. Until a sudden roar sends everyone into a frenzy.

The Roar of a King.

Leona Kingscholar, The King of Beasts.

With a cocky smirk and emerald eyes, he stalks onto the stage. Displaying nothing but power. Nothing but strength. Barely dressed with anything, yet leaves you begging for more. Pleading for the lion beastman to drag you onto stage and ravish you. He dances feverishly and leaves you stubbing out the door, or passing out amongst a wall, drenched in sweat. He’s confident, so cocky in his position as Prince. Ordering you to follow and listen, and you do. He’s the bad boy, a predator to prey. The lion hiding within the tall grass. There are no rules in the savanna. There are no rules. Once you open the burnt yellow-colored door, any and all could happen. Only pray that you survive.

══════ ♡ ══════

Octavinelle.

Benevolence.

Deep and cool within the darkest depths of the ocean. Of smooth jazz and a nightclub atmosphere. Soft lighting and candles. Many call this the Mostro Lounge, though the clubroom has its special performances. Most times, it has an average audience. A break from the other rooms of NRC’s the Great Seven, a place of twisted relaxation that comes with a price. Soft cushioned seats, all well dressed, well behaved, till the siren sound begins and comes the beauty of the depth.

The Emergence of the Sea Witch.

Azul Ashengrotto, The Deep-Sea Merchant.

Seduction at its finest. An alluring smile and charming voice, as if had eight arms that pulled you onto the stage. His moves hypnotizing as he gracefully moves across, like a fish in water. Simple, soft, seductive. Drowning in the embellishments of his voice, till you, his chosen one makes it onto stage and he dances around you. Constricts you in the tentacles in this voice, luring you into false, calm waters before the climax. A loud symphony of instruments and heat. Like the arrival of a new storm. The only thing that can save lies within a golden contract, one in which you only have to sign your name. All this lies within the deep, lies behind the lilac purple door.

══════ ♡ ══════

Scarabia.

Mindfulness.

Energetic. A party all day, every day. A truly freeing place that makes you want to do nothing but dance and jive. But to dance and spin around several unique dance partners. Or sing and listen to the various instruments, from the thrumming of drums to the strings of guitars. The smell of the sun and the taste of spice, the sound of jewelry being thrown and forgotten, till you dance and find yourself naked. Your clothing and all your money gone from you. Til none other than the diamond in the rough appears.

Like the sound of sand in an hourglass,

Kalim Al-Asim, The Cave of Wonder’s Diamond

All that is left behind disappears into the sand of the fourth room. As the sway of energetic hands and hips brings you into a hypnotizing stare, as he moves across the room, with a smile on his face. He has an innocent aura, but aside from the overly friendly touches, he doesn’t seem all that innocent. He gives you all you desire; all that you want and beg for. You’ll forgive him for all that’s stolen. With desperate hands and desperate voices, begging him to do this and to dance this way, he obeys. Like a mouse, ready to be swallowed by the snake. Greed to appease you all. All awaits you within the land of sands, behind the door of orange.

══════ ♡ ══════

Pomefiore

Tenacity.

The room of pure perfection and poison. Of dark violets and bold red. With nothing, the smell of intoxicating perfume and caramel apples that were to die for. Everything within this room is beautiful. So perfect. With little room for sitting, but all the room for an enormous stage and a special performance for those who could afford it. Not just anyone can waltz into the room of beauty, it’s come with a deadly cost, and the beauty will get what is owed.

A Poisonous smoke that chokes you.

Vil Schoenheit, The Fairest Queen.

Slow. Seductive. Like aphrodisiacs had been pumped straight into your veins as he sings. It’s hot, as have you squirm in your seat, gasping for air, for relief at any movement he makes. Any roll of his hips, the dragging of his hands, the deepness of his voice. Yet you feel tied to your sit, unable to move as he poisons your very blood. Mirrors placed all across the room, showing you your own patheticness as you watch him dance. As you lean into his tempting touch only for him to pull away and the intoxicating show to end and you must leave the room behind the door of dark purple and deep red.

══════ ♡ ══════

Ignihyde.

Diligence.

A room of technology. Yet never the main show. Don’t expect much when arriving, for the main show never seems to appear. It’s a dead room most nights, with only a few there to sit and relax in silence. Now don’t be mistaken. An audience waits on his beck and call, waiting souls for the moment he announces he desires to perform. On the nights he does, it’s packed, people upon people, pushing and shoving to get a glimpse of him.

The Cries of the Dead.

Idia Shroud, The King of the Underworld

Like cries and mourning of the King of the Dead, begging for just a small feeling of his leather boots, just to slightly touch. As he degrades his audience for being so desperate for him. Deep and brooding, hot and heavy. It’s loud and last hours before it dies down and he once again retreats. Spending most of his time entertaining his fans with calls and private appearances. Truly a costly performance. One that you will pay with your life behind the door of blue.

══════ ♡ ══════

Lastly, Diasomnia.

Nobility.

Truly a hard room to find. Only those that are deemed worthy can find the door of green and watch what happens beyond. With candles of green flames and music that feed on you, leave you drowsy. Slumping in seats, allowing whomever to do what they please with you. Though the room is classy, truly the place of nobility, as the sound of trumpets brings your attention to the stage.

The Royalty of a Dragon.

Malleus Draconia, The King of Briar Valley.

It’s stranger than most. Whether he chooses to do an alluring dance or to sing into a mic. Maybe he’ll choose to play the violin, or simply read a book. Anything he chooses to do with being done gracefully. And be completely unforgettable. Treating each of his guests like royalty, treating each of them like prized treasure in his cave. He’s loving, yet so fierce. Yet not a sight for just anyone. You must be lucky. Special. One in a Million to find the door of green and push past painful thorns.

══════ ♡ ══════

Prepare yourself, [Name] [Surname] of the Aristotle Family.

#t.manor.au #moulin rouge AU #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #t.manor.horror.stories #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twst #yandere scarabia #yandere heartslabyul #yandere savannaclaw #yandere octavinelle #yandere pomefiore #yandere ignihyde #yandere diasomnia #yandere dire crowley #dire crowley #dire crowley x reader

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auroratumbles · 4 months

Text

(please excuse the horrendous background i didn’t find a suitable coloured premade one)

first of all, thank you so much for 100 followers!! it has only been a few short months since i posted my first fic, and ive made so many friends here <3 i am eternally thankful for all of your support and if it weren’t for you all i wouldn’t have continued having the motivation to write and post fics for you guys <3

once again, thank you. i love you so much.

event masterlist

AURORA’S JUICE STAND!

love letters attached to the drink ❤️

FLAVOURS TODAY!

apple juice [fluff]

orange juice [angst]

pomegranate juice [platonic]

you can mix another flavour with pomegranate juice if you want to!

ANY EXTRA INGREDIENTS? [OPTIONAL - choose two at maximum]

sugar [extra fluffy]

cinnamon [a love letter, not drabble]

citrus [add your own twist to the prompt]

CHOOSE A SIDE [OPTIONAL]

carrots [modern!au]

PROMPTS [honestly couldn’t find a creative name lmao]

1. can… we kiss?

2. let’s dance!

3. may i borrow your clothes? [specify who asks]

4. YOU are resting. I will do the work! [specify who asks]

5. a bouquet of flowers for you! [specify who gives]

6. i… i’m sorry. [specify who says this]

7. we don’t work anymore. [specify who says this]

8. i didn’t want it to end this way. [specify who says this]

9. i cant lose you. [specify who says this]

10. please come back to me! [specify who says this]

AND LASTLY… WHO ARE YOU GIFTING THIS SPECIAL DRINK TO?

don’t be silly. you didn’t think you would be keeping the juice, did you?

EXTRA INFORMATION

all is gn!reader

request limit is 3 per person.

these will all be short <3

no prompts for a love letter <3

be patient with me!!

rbs are appreciated

EXAMPLE OF ORDERS FOR THIS EVENT

ANONYMOUS/USERNAME

hey! i would like an apple juice mixed with pomegranate! add some sugar and i would like some prompt 2! this is for my dear friend diona!

OR..

ANONYMOUS/USERNAME

hello! i would like to order apple juice, please. add some extra sugar! ill also have a side of carrots. this is for my beloved kazuha.

FOR LOVE LETTERS (CINNAMON)

ANONYMOUS/USERNAME

hi there! may i order an orange juice with cinnamon? this is for my beloved scaramouche!

WELL THEN, TRAVELLER. WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? ORDER FROM AURORA’S JUICE STAND!

yes this means requests are open SOLELY FOR THIS EVENT!

#AURORA’S 100 FOLLOWERS!#genshin impact #genshin fanfic #genshin #genshin x reader #tumblr milestone #genshin event

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capricornlevi · 29 days

Text

bokuto x reader // sfw, gratuitous fluff, established relationship // wc 1.6k

planning birthdays is just one of bo's many talents <3

an: this is a little birthday present for my favourite bo stan in the entire world @brainrot329 ! she is a ray of sunshine and one of the best people i know and it is an honour to write a bo fic dedicated to this wonderful human !!!

you had never figured bokuto for much of a chef. you've been together for four years, lived together for two, and so you feel you know him pretty well by now -- the man has multitudes of talents, but preparing food is not one of them.

he has no trouble with eating, obviously, since pretty much every team barbeque ends with him being physically dragged away by a teammate or long-suffering coach, begging for someone else to be allowed their pick of the steaks.

but his appreciation for food does not extend to cooking or baking, shopping for ingredients or meal planning. his lack of culinary proficiency is not from any form of uselessness or incompetence -- he's good at pretty much anything he turns his hand to, plus the msby nutrition team supplies most of his meals anyway -- he just doesn't have much of an interest. which is more than fair; nobody can be expected to be good at everything.

but this is also why you find it to be very shocking that today, your birthday, he has offered to prepare you a four-course meal to mark the special occasion.

he had informed you of his plan this morning over pancakes at your favourite diner while you were mid-sip of coffee. as you smiled and expressed gratitude, you had to put in a copious amount of effort to prevent your jaw from dropping open and accidentally spitting coffee everywhere.

again, it's not that he's incapable of achieving this task. he’d likely be very capable should he puts his mind to it, but it's just ... this is his first time cooking. you don't attempt the tour de france before learning how to ride a bike, and you can't imagine that a four-course meal (with accompanying wines, he informs you) is the easiest introduction to the culinary arts.

but he seems certain, and the last thing you want to do is discourage this newfound enthusiasm.

the rest of the day was spent out with friends and family as bo headed home to get everything ready. he didn't give many hints as to what the rest of the evening would entail, but he did say that he knew you'd love it.

(and you will; regardless of the final product, you can see how much effort he's put in. you just hope you won't arrive home to the scent of singed hair and an eyebrow-less bokuto standing forlorn in the kitchen.)

when your college friends took you out for cocktails in the early hours of the evening, you stuck to just two margaritas so as not to take away from the rest of the night. they dropped you back home with gifts in hand and plans to meet up again next week to get your nails done – a strange suggestion since you haven’t gone to the salon as a group in years, but you wave it off.

now, standing at your doorstep, you take a deep breath before twisting the handle and letting yourself in.

the place smells ... nice. really nice. it's a medley of scents from multiple dishes but they all come together to paint a very positive picture; hints of citrus, the buttery aroma of your favourite pasta sauce, something sweet you vaguely recognise as being your grandmother's french vanilla cake recipe.

suddenly overcome with a sense of awe and burning anticipation, you make a beeline for the kitchen.

you find everything in it to be clean, perfectly presented, except for bokuto himself. he stands by the countertop, spatula in hand, covered with a light dusting of flour and with a scorch mark on his light-blue shirt.

"never promised it'd go completely without a hitch, did i?" he grins, expression as close to bashful as you've seen it. setting down the utensils and dusting himself off with a kitchen towel, he closes the distance to take your hand, guiding you to your seat at the table. with a professional flourish he pours you a glass of sparkling wine, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head once you've sat down.

"you enjoy that while i go change," he mumbles against your hair, "and i’ll also make sure I'm not still smouldering."

you laugh as he walks away, heart swelling in your chest as you survey the space around you.

he's bought a bouquet of your favourite flowers from that little old florist who lives three doors down from your apartment, the one whose displays you always admire when you head out to work in the mornings. he has your favourite album playing on vinyl, the low reverberations of the music filling the candle-lit kitchen.

distantly, you wonder if bo's fire incident came from the cooking or the decoration.

but before you have much time to consider, he's arrived back in the kitchen with a fresh shirt and almost-tamed hair, paired with that signature bo smile that lights up all of his features.

"ready for course number one?" he exclaims, clapping his hands together as he heads over to the counter space. once you voice your assent he produces two dishes as if from nowhere, heading over to the table and setting yours down in front of you.

you find yourself looking down at a perfectly presented salad, crisp leaves and a citrus dressing that reminds you exactly of the one you had --

"on our first date!" you burst out before even taking a bite. "this is the salad from that bistro by college!"

the bistro where he had taken you after finally mustering up the courage to ask, waiting until after you both had graduated to make his move. you're still not sure why he was so anxious since your class had no qualms about intra-departmental fraternisation, but you're just glad he went for it eventually.

he nods, clearly relieved you picked up on the connection.

the salad is wonderful, a light and refreshing starter for the evening, and you inform him as much.

your response clearly encourages him. he gets up again to start heating the next dish, pouring you a glass of wine beforehand for you to nurse while he gets things ready.

this time, he presents you with a bowl of soup. the same type of soup ...

"that you made for me that time i got the flu!" he informs you this time, voice achingly fond as he watches for your reaction. "and no word of a lie -- it cured me."

his earnestness draws another laugh from you, the soothing smell of herbs and vegetables bringing you back to that afternoon.

you had never seen bo so sick before and you haven't seen it since. with the combination of his healthy approach to life and sheer stubbornness to remain top of his game, he ends up avoiding most illnesses, and so when he called his coach to inform him he wouldn't be making 8am practice, you knew things were serious.

he ran a temperature, cheeks flushing an adorable shade of pink that you would have appreciated more were he not suffering, and had started shivering by noon.

"you need to keep your strength up," you had whispered softly to him, setting a glass of water down at his bedside and perching yourself on the edge, watching as he slowly started eating the soup. it was difficult with a sore throat but he managed to polish the whole thing off.

that soup was the only thing he could stomach for forty-eight hours, eating it for every meal until his shivering subsided and his muscles stopped aching.

it's one of the few dishes he knew how to prepare before tonight, since he insists on making it with you whenever either one of you starts to show any signs of impending sniffles.

once the soup has been finished and cleared away, the third course is presented with another glass of wine and near-giddy smile from bo. just as you had guessed from the hallway, he serves up your favourite pasta dish, the recipe having been scribbled down on a napkin after the chef from the aforementioned first-date bistro was kind enough to let you have it.

bo managed to replicate it perfectly, albeit not without slightly singeing the accompanying garlic bread (explaining the scorch mark on his shirt).

as you take your first bite, you realise that he was right earlier when he promised that you'd love this.

it wasn't that the food was michelin quality (though it was undoubtedly delicious, especially for a first-timer) -- it was the thought that went into every dish, every ingredient, every element. the effort that went into telling a story with each course.

you've never felt as loved as you do in this moment.

that is, until he brings out dessert in the form of your grandmother's french vanilla cake. it’s been frosted to the best of bokuto's ability, with 'happy birthday my love!' edged in pink font and surrounded by flickering candles.

there's also a design under the words. a little shape, something you can't see without squinting.

he carries it over to you proudly, though with a slight tremble in his hands you can't quite understand ...

after blowing out the candles, you lean in to examine the cake closer.

it takes a few seconds for it to land, to determine what bo attempted to draw in icing format, but once it hits you ...

"is that a ring?"

your heart pounds in your chest, each word leaving your lips in a flurry as you try to gauge whether or not your exhilaration is merited.

and in lieu of an answer, bo sets the cake on the table before getting down on one knee, producing a velvet-bound ring box from the pocket of his new shirt.

#bokuto x reader #bokuto koutarou x reader #bokuto kotaro x reader #timeskip bokuto x reader #bokuto x you #fluff #may tries to write

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himbocoups · 2 years

Text

˗ˋˏ Impressions ˎˊ˗ | 18+ Only

synopsis: as impressionable as the scent he wears, he is the standout in a crowd of many. and you can't help but to inhale him deeply before the night fades away.

pairing: csc x reader

genre: smut, pwp

tags: alcohol, food & drinks, nightclub, diner | dirty talk, betting, bathroom sex, public sex, unprotected sex, creampie

wc: 2.2k

message from nu: ... -nu

lipglossjun's masterlist

If colognes come with an impressionability meant to outlast their wear time, then the person who wears the fragrance must be as impressionable as the scent, if not more.

Vanilla-scented fog machine haze, alcohol on one’s breath, rancid body odor mixed with humidity, and puffs of fruity vape smoke settle in the club’s atmosphere. There are more bills on the ground than in people’s wallets, and people dance dangerously close with no thoughts of tomorrow – neon paper wristbands strapped around right wrists that clash terribly with meticulously planned club outfits. Shoes pound against the sticky dark hardwood floors within the command of the beat of the music. Each passing hour spent in the club is more suffocating than the last – that is, if you’re having an awful time.

Unmistakably attractive, with an allure that could cause sirens to stare, Choi Seungcheol wears himself proudly – at times a little too proudly – disparate from the foul mélange of scents lingering in the air at the nightclub. His physical impressionability causes onlookers to notice his presence before they recognize the scent that follows him. He is the one who makes the scent a signature, never letting the scent overshadow him, refusing to be passive.

Long fingers daintily cover the opening of his cold Old Fashioned, the citrus twist sinking to the bottom of the glass cup as he leans in to listen to your agreement. And when his left ear appears before your lips, you breathe him in – traces of Angostura mixed with whiskey against your skin, and the intoxicating, sultry, musky oakmoss and patchouli lingering in the space where he moves.

When your answer touches his ear, he nods his head and knocks back the remaining of his semi-diluted cocktail in a fluid motion. He swallows the liquid without taking a breath, feeling the liquid rush down his throat in a fiery sprint that blossoms and erupts in his chest. Pausing for a moment, he plucks the orange peel from the bottom of his cup and holds it up to your parted lips, teasing you, testing you under the flashing strobe lights.

He watches you with a heavy film of lust as you slowly swirl the peel with your tongue, sucking the remaining alcohol from the rough and dimpled skin. The action leaves his mouth dry, not a single syllable able to fall out of his mouth. And all he can do is to drop the peel back into the empty glass and tilt his head towards the exit as you cling onto him – an acquaintance-turned-lover for the night.

If you weren’t already intoxicated enough, you watch him smirk while he pulls you closer to him in the backseat of the yellow cab, oversized silk satin shirt against your sheer black top, overwhelming your senses. Kisses plant along your jawline and soft finger pads graze your open skin. Street lights flash onto your lap through the window in a steady tempo as the car continues its journey to the edge of nowhere. The cacophony of downtown nightlife on a typical Friday night fades behind you before the night can even begin to end.

Near the entrance of the diner, an elderly couple sits facing each other. One of them sips from a small mug of hot black coffee, slurping instead of blowing to dissipate the heat. The other pokes at a cold plate of grits, judgmental eyes squinting at the clothes you wear, the silver chains layered around his neck.

It’s a booth at the far end of the diner, sectioned off and without any view of what’s outside. But the two of you don’t care – within the vicinity of the diner, there’s nothing but a national chain gas station on the other side of the street and miles of highways. The wooden table wobbles and feels sticky to the touch. Customers have to pry the laminated menus from the table’s surface in order to flip to the Extras section in the back. Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks hangs on the alabaster wall behind Seungcheol, trapped in the wrong era while pop music from the 2010s plays softly through the speakers, making the diner more of a liminal space than it should be.

The waitress swats at a tiny fruit fly while taking your order, telling you it’ll take a while before your food gets out – only one chef is working the night shift today. It’s a bit odd of her to let her customers know about the wait time before asking for their orders, but she seems kind. Compliment her acrylics that clack against her ballpoint pen, and she’ll beam, fanning out her fingers to look at the iridescent stones that sit on top of every other finger – tells you her little sister is going to be so happy to hear your compliment. People unknowingly reveal too much about themselves to strangers. She likes his menu choice – asks how he would like his eggs.

“Sunny side up,” he answers her. His brown eyes briefly flick towards you, skin in full view under a source of light – sheer black fabric, crisp box pleats in straight lines down your chest, and the giant satin bow he desperately wants to untie with his teeth.

Sitting opposite of you, with plump incarnadine lips made visible under the dark, yellow, and flickering lights, he shifts uncomfortably on the plastic-covered foam cushions that feel too firm to his touch. There’s something surprisingly soft about him: how he politely folds his hands on the table even though the silk he wears looks like it amounts to your biweekly pay and how you can see his eyes widen in concern when he sees you shrug off his jacket and take everything out of your pockets. The waitress is taking her break in the staff room.

You push yourself up and side-step out of the booth, leaving your phone face-up on the table.

“Restroom?” you ask him.

He nods once and opens both palms, flicking them both to the side, “You go first.”

A few minutes later, his lips are attached to your neck – wasting no time sucking, swirling, and ravishing your skin with his tongue. He has you pinned against the interior of the black plastic stall, a firm grip on your thigh that he plants against his hip, his arousal pushed against your core.

“So soft,” he murmurs against your skin, open hand trailing through the dangling ends of your satin bow, thinking it’s tied a little too tightly around your neck.

The scent of his cologne mixes with and overpowers the lingering scent of multipurpose cleaner and disinfectant spray in the bright diner restroom. The scent is an odd combo, but you don’t care. His thick fingers work you to dizzying heights, going back to dip into your open core once he’s had his fun with your ribbon, massaging your tender flesh as he watches your eyes lazily roll to the back of your head. Obscene squelches fill the silence as he continues to finger you, thoughts clouded with desire and lust.

“Hmm? If your eyes can speak what you cannot say, then I wonder what dirty words could be interpreted when I’m in you…that is, if they stay open.”

Truthfully, this beats having a quickie in a club’s restroom where there are always people waiting in line, people hogging the mirrors, and messy people sitting on the grimy restroom floors. However, if grinding against Seungcheol on the dance floor, ass up while he holds your head below your knees could lead to this moment, then you think you should start agreeing to go out more with your friends.

“Depends,” you purr while lifting your pointer finger to tilt his chin upwards. This briefly puts you in a position of command, allowing you to gloat over his willingness to bend for you. “How fast can you make me come?”

“Count to twenty for me,” he whispers while leaning in to kiss your collarbone. It’s an assertion, some sort of personal conquest, that he can make you come undone before the chef can even begin to plate the food.

“Fifteen,” you challenge, trailing your hands down his open chest without breaking eye contact, feeling skin transition into silk and then jeans when you stop at the edge of his pants. “Loser pays for the meal.”

Teeth are quick to latch onto a tail, yanking the bow loose with a growl, the man waiting to do so the entire night. He’s impulsive, and quick to act how he wants because he knows how to get his way. But even those who have free reign have their limitations. So he lines himself at your entrance, right eyebrow cocked, waiting for your signal.

“One.”

Candidly speaking, he would never forgive himself if he forgot the feeling of pushing himself into you in one fluid motion after the first number echoed into the empty restroom, feeling you squeeze around his thick and throbbing cock as he bottoms out, filling you up. And the way your arms flail, blindly reaching for the top of the stall to grab onto as he pauses to let you adjust, it just turns him on even more. He doesn’t mind if he takes his time – just one number and you seem to have forgotten how to count.

“Two. Three. Four,” you manage to hiss as he slowly pulls back with a smirk.

He keeps a steady pace, gyrating his hips upwards to make sure you feel every agonizing stroke.

“Five. Six. Se- fu-fuck,” you gasp.

Realizing how you’re able to keep up with him, he switches. The grip on your thigh tightens, almost bruising your skin as he pulls your leg higher, arching your back to give himself a better angle to ram into you deeply, fucking you numb. You hiccup with every thrust, feeling your thighs tremble, struggling to keep yourself standing upright. But he doesn’t care, he relentlessly ruts into you like every fiber of his being depends on him winning that bet.

“What? Are your legs going to give in before you give up?,” he grunts while watching you cling onto him, burying your face in the space in the crook of his neck. A sly smile forms. Hearing you choke on each word, stumbling through the number ten, feeling you clench and tremble around him – it only feeds his ego, makes him delirious even. “Just give up, baby.”

The large industrial stalls shake from the force he fucks himself into you, the sound of his bare skin hitting yours echoing throughout the restroom. Pressure builds up in your core, and you feel yourself squeezing yourself tightly around his cock, legs giving up underneath you. You feel him catch you without interrupting his pace, arm muscles contracting as he nips at your neck.

He hisses when he feels you squeeze him harder, knowing your orgasm is at the tip of your tongue. And he wonders how he was able to restrain himself for so long.

“Thirteen. F-ah. Ahh. Fuck fuck, oh my god Seungcheol I can’t. I’m coming.”

His free hand around the hair on the top of your head, he watches you ride out your high, yanking harder when he realizes how your back arches erotically when someone pulls your hair. You continue to convulse around him, now a blubbering mess, even more so with your head pulled back and your neck exposed towards the ceiling. He wastes no time flipping you around, pressing you against the wall while he lines himself behind you, giving you no time to prepare as he slams into you from behind, building up his own high almost punishingly. Dimples in his cheeks deepen as he hears you mewl his name pathetically, ass up and squeezing him while you ride out your second high – if the two of you were anywhere else, he would linger in the moment, take his time to properly fulfill your desire. Spasming, he praises you for taking him so well while spilling his warmth inside you. Slowly pulling out with a sigh, he observes how his cum sits inside you, stopping at the edge of your entrance. But he gently pulls you upright, sitting you on the toilet, planting a soft peck on the edge of your lips.

“By the way,” he tells you while passing you tissues from the dispenser attached to the side of the stall. “I was never going to let you pay.”

You watch him leave the stall with a small but kind smile on his face, gently closing the door shut. The scent he wears still lingers - citrus, fine leather, and a woody musk that barely masks the unspoken promise that this wouldn't be the only night you'll be seeing him.

#svthub #svt smut #seventeen smut #seventeen imagines #scoups smut #seungcheol smut #seungcheol x reader #scoups imagines #seungcheol imagines #svt imagines #svt one shot #seventeen one shot #✏️ ━ himbocoups

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leeluvschannie · 5 months

Text

| author's note: Probably the angstiest thing I've written in a while, and let me tell ya'll writing this HURT.

♡ wk: 1.4k

♡ genre: hurt no comfort, angst, fluff. briefly based on the conceptuality of skzflix, multiverses & dimensions with/ my own twist

♡ warnings: black!reader, brief mention of pregnancy, major character death.

This by no means is associated with nor based on reality and is heavily fictional.

♡ playlist

His lips sealed over your own, aligning like the ends of a folded letter, pressing together before unfurling. Your eyes fluttered awake, lashes curling up to the heavens, greeting the smokey brown of his irises. Your lungs caved in, holding the air within them captive. A phenomenon that seemed to occur every time your gaze locked on Felix’s doe eyes.

His cotton candy lips left behind traces of stardust on your mouth. Oh, how you loved the taste of his delicate pink cupid’s bow. How your fingers relished every freckle that danced along his cheeks like constellations breathed into existence by aphrodite. The way his teeth, glistened like sharp pearly stones when he smiled, unraveling a million butterflies in your stomach. The distinct scent clung to his skin whenever he held you tight in his embrace—reminding you vaguely of freshly washed linen and a tinge of citrus, something lemony and sweet. You swore even in darkness, your fingers would map through his features, entwining into his gracefully swept golden treses, and mold your lips to his own.

Felix’s voice rings like a Tibetan bell, a deep sound that pleasantly echos through your ears.“Wakey, wakey!” his knuckles, gently brush your cheek. His words collide with the whirling waves and salty breeze. “Where’d that pretty little head go?” He hums, softly squishing your cheeks between his fingertips. Your response comes out muffled as he laughs, softly squeezing your warm skin. “What’s that? Didn’t hear you.” You’d only frown, your hand grasping onto his arm, and trying to pry him away.

He doesn’t budge. He never does, always teasing you in ways that seem almost cruel. Sweet but cruel.

Felix’s fingers are soft, lacing through your own like soft yarn on a canvas, capturing the darker skin of your knuckles, the baby blue glossed over your nails, complimenting the ocean that seemed to admire you both from the distance. You’d study his long pale fingers, dusted with fine pink. Silence lingered between the two of you. You fell in love with the things he would never notice about himself. Secrets tethered into your soul, embroidered with a thousand locks.

Felix can’t help but wonder what spending the rest of his life with you would resemble. He always loved admiring you. The way your plush curves accented the frilly white sundress you put on display for his eyes alone. The way your dark skin glistened like honey beneath the warm afternoon sun. Your coiled bangs occasionally swayed every time a light breeze caressed your face. He knew he couldn’t stay for long; he never did. Out of 365 days every year, time would only grant him the opportunity to spend 91 with you. He could never stay too long, or else he would bend the very pillars of the multiverse. He fell in love with someone in a dimension that he had mistakingly found himself in. He found his home in a place that had never belonged to him.

Felix’s ears pick up the warm sound of your voice, the way your hand softly wraps around his milky wrist, pressing it over your clothed stomach. He’s mildly confused at first, but realization hits him and he swears your smile and hopeful eyes tear his chest open like a scythe summoning upon death. A strong metallic taste fills his tongue as he chokes on the crimson filling his lungs. His eyes are frozen, loving doe brown turned petrified and distant. Your hand begins to shake, assuming the worst, that joy that blooms in your heart fills with wilted sorrow. “Felix…” Your soft voice begins, drowned out by the crashing of waves against the sand. “I…I thought you would…” Your pause, reality falls over you like a thousand bricks, crushing you and the unborn child in your womb.

“Oh God.” Your voice breaks. A million faulty syllables bleeding you dry.

Felix instantly takes your hand, holding them against his chest. His pulse thumping beneath your palms. His eyes frantically searched your own, for anything but that terrible despair that filled them. You watched the soft blonde strands tousle as he wordlessly shook his head. “No, no love.” His rich voice thins, you can see he’s desperately trying not to worry you.

But how could you not worry when everything you built together would fade to ashes?

Felix’s lips plant kisses on your face, his fingers bound to your wrists as you shiver, your mind caught somewhere between denial and grief. “Felix…” Your voice quivers, his name almost unrecognizable when it passes through the air. “N-no…this can’t be…” You shrink, pressing your face into his chest, your breathing falling in short gasps. He’s hardly able to hold it together himself, his entire world swallowed by a current. “It’s okay darling…I’ll-I’ll stay.” You freeze, your fingers trembling as they clutch onto the cotton of his shirt. He stares into your bloodshot eyes and trembling lips, your head urgently shaking. “No. No Felix you know what happens…” You whisper, pleading with him. “Please, anything but this. You can’t stay Felix.” You both knew that you had to follow the rules and that the risk was not worth the consequences.

Felix smiles it’s strained like the frayed ends of two ropes, hardly bound together. He’s always been too strong for his own good, always carrying more than his arms could hold. “It’ll be okay…sometimes risks have to be taken…I’ll be here with you and the baby for two whole years. Two years and I’ll fade.”

He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer into his lithe frame. A crushed wail forces past your lips. You turn your head, ignoring the prospect. That was not an option. “No…” Hot tears cracked your face open, burning your skin in their descent. “Please Felix don’t do this–please…”

“No. Listen to me.” His voice was small. Your sunshine turned red and orange splotching like a badly healed bruise and tainting the atmosphere’s skin. “Shh…” His fingers brushed away the salty streaks on your cheeks. “Being with our child for two whole years, and watching them grow up. Is better than seeing them every 3 months. They would never understand, and I would never live with myself knowing that the rules cannot be bent. I’m risking the consequences.” His wide palm soothingly rubs your back, easing your unsteady breaths. “I’d rather fade to ashes than live a life without the both of you.”

Felix wishes he could spend an eternity with you and the baby, he wishes he could’ve broken every law in the universe without any punishments. He knew that if he did not return to his dimension after 91 days, then he would already be considered non-existent, granting him only 730 days of existence before he dissolves to nothingness. He wished he could watch your child grow older, he wished he could meet their friends and pick them up from school. He wished he could match outfits with them and attend every school event.

But he couldn’t, special relativity would simply falter in ways physics could never demonstrate.

You heard your child’s cries echo down the hallway of your flat. It didn’t sound like the cry she usually gave out when she was hungry or sleepy. She was screaming at the top her her lungs, shrilly watery sobs tore you out of your bed. Felix was a light sleeper, he would’ve heard her crying and rushed to his child. He would’ve held her in his arms and cooed at her, made her some oatmeal, or changed her diaper. This caused panic to rise in your throat, as you grabbed your fluffy robe curling it around your body.

You rushed into her room. Your heart cracked at the sight of your baby withering her arms. “Mama! M-muma!” You pick her up, as she hiccuped, clinging onto you. “Dada go.” Her words were muffled, against your robe, and her dark brown curls brushed against the nape of your neck. Elise looked so much like her father, from her big brown doe eyes to the soft freckles that spotted her caramel-brown skin. She really was a mini-yongbook.

“Dada gone?” You turned your head to face Elise, who was clutching onto you. “Elise…where did Dada go…?” Your voice was soft, and your heart was thrashing against your chest, practically threatening to tear a gaping hole right through your ribcage. Elise pointed a small finger to the floor right by her crib. “Dada gone.” She sniffled, her bottom rip quivering. Her eyes were confused.

“Oh my God….” You sputter out, tears disfiguring your sight.

There it was an open paper with Felix’s shaky handwriting and a pen placed over it.

Hope you enjoyed it! Please leave a like & reblog if you enjoyed it :)

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starstruckwillows · 1 year

Text

you feel right so stay a sec — sirius black ♡

requested by no one <3

sirius black x fem!reader, hurt/comfort, post hogwarts, swearing&fighting, mention of sirius’ trauma, happy ending + healing

sirius doesn’t want to confront the things preventing him from healing, but he’ll try for you or ‘hostage’ by billie eilish

any situation with freshly washed, citrus scented bedsheets, was not supposed to be tense.

sirius could only think of the things that were not supposed to be happening.

like the tears pushing on your lower lashline that he caused, and the dent between your brows. the brief crumple that had caught your face at his scathing remark that he hadn’t meant a word of. it felt like a physical wound. he held the knife and no plaster.

“i’m not doing this with you sirius, it’s late.” you whispered, trying to sound composed and mature, but your voice held so much hurt that all sirius felt was the rough touch of regret sewing itself to his heart.

why he continued to bite like a cornered animal, he wasn’t sure. he cooly dismissed your unspoken plea for a ceasefire and turned from you.

he heard your trembling sigh, “i hope the things you can’t talk about will stop hurting you, sirius. but i love you, anyway.”

he heard your acceptance. you were moving and then you were laid down, facing the wall with a chilling distance that sent you both shivering.

you never went to sleep without saying i love you. sirius knew you were waiting for his reply, however it may have sounded, but he couldn’t bring himself to give you one. not because it wasn’t true. merlin, it was true, more than you’d ever know. but the words, they were sticking all wrong.

i love you, i’m sorry, i need you, i want you, you’re right. all true. all silent.

this was relatively new for sirius. usually, when he wanted to break down, he wanted to be alone. a state he feared most of the time, all of the time, but simultaneously sought out. comforting. awful.

alone with you. that was something else, fresh. the safety in isolation, without the terrifying loneliness that pierced his heart. you were safe.

and he’d attacked you, like his house had attacked him. there was a tautness in your relationship that he’d just caused with his volatile comments, and it made him sick.

tentatively, with all the gentleness of someone softer than sirius black, he reached for your arm. the skin there was cold.

“can i?”

you were tense. cautious. but you permitted his touch.

with his girl now close to his chest, your hair spread across it, he wanted to feel better, wanted you to feel better.

“i’m sorry.”

you closed your eyes, “i know, my love.”

the apology wasn’t empty, but it didn’t promise change, sirius could feel that. he tried again, “i’m going to be better. for you.”

“not me, sirius. you’re going to be better, for you.”

he wasn’t sure, but he agreed. he craved your peace now.

“can you look at me? if you want.”

you twisted in his loosening hold so your head was resting in the divot of his neck and shoulder. this was your peace too, in the midst of his tempest.

sirius bent to rest his chin nearer your face, letting his eyelids sink as you pressed a feathery kiss to the dark lines of the tattoo marking his throat.

hope — safety. when had he started to feel those things again? the first time he held you, the first time you kissed? or even earlier, when you locked eyes and sirius felt a pull of his soul to yours.

“i love you.” it was thick, honey, weak, rough. it was sirius black and he was yours.

“i love you too, sirius. you know i’m staying.” your voice low with sleep as you curled your hand into the fake-gold chain he wore. a gift from james.

he breathed unevenly for a moment, lungs stuttered by your pure sincerity, and the true realisation that your promises were to be kept, “yeah. i know.”

you feel right to me.

🏷️ — @faeriieblush @poppet05 @ariyabella @it-be-me-ella @goodoldfashionedluvergirl @sw34terw34ther @ell0ra-br3kk3r @meredarling

#starstruckwillows #marauders #marauders era #sirius black #sirius black x reader #fluff #hurt/comfort #sirius black hurt/comfort #sirius black htc #sirius black hurt to comfort #sirius black fluff #sirius black x fem!reader #marauders hurt/comfort

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keulixeutin · 2 years

Text

A Soft October Night

a/n: i have a thing for citrus scents—and an inability to describe perfumes and colognes—so leave me alone asidlfhad. i felt sad and wanted to write something sad, but i hate writing sad things bc i’m delicate and sensitive, so this is as close as i’ll get. this was supposed to be like 1k. and then???? idk. also, this is noted as a drabble but it's the length of a dang fic lmaoo but the vibe is drabble, u feel??? anyways, i hope u enjoy!!!!!

summary: after receiving a heartbreaking rejection, you find comfort in the arms of someone you least expect. bakugou x fem!reader (if you squint). one-sided shindou x reader, or more like nakagame x shindou x reader.

cw: she/her pronouns, fem!reader. swearing, angst, heartbreak, hurt and comfort, reader feeling super insecure, shindou kind of leading reader on (implications), alcohol, drunk reader, bakugou being comfort, some fluff and cuteness at the end.

word count: 4,696.

You stared at the side of Yo’s chiseled face as he pulled out his phone and responded to a text message. You knew better than to look; you knew you’d simply be twisting the knife in your side, confirming what you already knew. Your eyes flickered down to the smiling face of a cutely sweet blond: Nakagame Tatami. It was embarrassing and humiliating to call her your rival in love, but there wasn’t any other way to say it.

And, actually, it wasn’t much of a rivalry. She was in the lead, if she hadn’t already won. The evidence was right in front of you—there you were, drunk and upset, and Yo was still messaging her.

When the two of you got to his car, he pocketed his phone and opened the driver’s door. You opened the passenger side—but then you stopped, heart throbbing like it was being squeezed in someone’s apathetic hand.

“Yo,” you began, “do you like me?”

He looked to you, brows furrowing. “Babe, you know the answer to that,” he said, and the pet-name that once had you shuddering in elation now had you trembling in grief.

“Yo—”

“Of course I like you.”

It wasn’t an answer though. You knew him well enough to know that what he said wasn’t what he meant; what he said wasn’t a real answer to your question. He was only trying to placate you for another day, say what you wanted to hear to keep you quiet for another week, say anything to avoid admitting a decision that he had already made.

“I’m really tired,” you said suddenly.

“I know, babe,” he said. “Get in the car, and I’ll drive you home.”

“I’m exhausted, Yo,” you continued. “Fucking exhausted.”

He didn’t say anything, realizing then that you weren’t referencing your physical fatigue. You held tightly onto the passenger door, grinding your teeth to keep the tears from falling, to keep from screaming.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you whispered. “If you like me, then you’re mine; and if you’re mine, then you’re mine.”

“…Let’s talk about this later.” His voice had softened, but it was because he could see the breaking on your face, and not because he wanted the talk to be later so that he could be sweet.

He wasn’t sweet to you. He’d never be, not in the way you wanted, not in the way you asked.

You pressed your hand over your eyes, as if you could force the tears back.

“It’s okay if it’s fucking Nakagame,” you said, your voice cracking. “But if it is, then you need to leave me alone.”

He hesitated. “It’s not like that. I’m not saying that it’s Tatami—”

“Then who is it?” you asked, hearing the high and hissing desperation in your voice. It had been months like this, long weeks of secret laughter and tender touches and quiet kisses in the corners—and yet there was nothing to show for it in the light of the day. Everything that had happened under the cover of darkness stayed there, and you were always left waking with questions and confusions.

“It’s—it’s not anyone,” he said. “I care about you—I care about the both of you. Why is that a crime? You’re both important to me. I can’t choose because you matter to me in—in different ways.”

That was enough for the dam to break. You leaned your forehead against your forearm, still gripping the door for support as you tried to swallow the gasping sobs breaking through.

You both mattered to him in different ways. Of course, you thought. It was always like this with every person you had ever loved.

“Why can’t you say that it’s me?” you asked. “That you pick me?”

“[Name]—”

“Is that so bad?” You let out a pained and incredulous laugh. “Is it so hard to say, ‘It’s you, and it’s only you?'”

He stepped around the car to you. When you felt his hand touch your arm, you jerked away, face stained with heartbreak and tears.

“You’re drunk,” he said gently. “Let me get you home and we can talk about this tomorrow. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds like bullshit,” you spat. “Sounds like another way for you to avoid the hard conversation. Sounds like another way for you to keep me on the side and Nakagame in your bed.”

Hurt flashed across his face, and it only made you angrier. How could it be that he felt hurt? How was that fair that his feelings got to be hurt when he was the one stringing you along? How was it that he could look so goddamn handsome with pain coloring his brows while you, the actual victim, had ugly snot and tears and smeared eyeliner and frizzy hair?

“Babe, that’s not what I’m saying—”

“I hear what you’re saying,” you interrupted bitterly, “loud and clear, Yo. It’s not me—and that’s fucking fine—but this—whatever this is—this is not fucking fine.”

“[Name], wait—”

Yo tried to grab your arm, but you quickly side-stepped him, storming back toward the bar. The car doors closed behind you; then, after a brief moment’s hesitation, you heard him quickly follow after you. Picking up your speed, you entered through the back door and shuffled through the crowd on unsteady feet, rubbing at your face to try to wipe away any evidence that this had hurt. You paused, quickly looking around, trying to recall where the bathroom was; you figured you could hide in the women’s bathroom before leaving, or maybe even climb through the window and call for an Uber.

Abruptly, someone grabbed onto your wrist.

“Hey, what the hell?” It was a familiar, gruff voice.

You turned, meeting bright red eyes: Bakugou.

He took in your blotchy face and disheveled hair, concerned etched into his normal scowl.

“You alright there, doc?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” you said tightly, trying to pull your wrist out of his hold, but he held on, frowning. “Just need to get to the bathroom.”

You thought you heard Yo calling for your name above the buzz of the music and the crowd, but you weren’t sure if it was simply part of your imagination. You couldn’t lie; you had a moment of weakness where you hoped he would catch up to you, grab you by the waist, and then profess his love and apologize for his stupidity, but even in your drunken and despondent state, you knew how ridiculous that dream was. Him calling you hadn’t been in your head, though, as Bakugou had heard him as well; the both of you turned to look back in the same direction.

“I can’t talk to him right now,” you said, and he finally let go of your hand.

“Hold on,” Bakugou said. “Come here—that dumbass would be stubborn enough to follow you even into the women’s bathroom.”

He walked you backwards to the bar a few feet from you, shoving others aside to make space for the two of you. Bakugou blocked you in against the countertop and his chest; one hand gripped the counter, covering you from sight with his arm and shoulder, and the free hand looped loosely around your waist. He tilted his head down toward your ear. The position was intimate; to anyone looking, they’d see a man murmuring sweetly into someone’s ear. The stance perfectly obstructed views; he hid you from wandering gazes with his large back as he pressed you into his hard chest, into his earth and citrus cologne.

You didn’t know if Yo passed by. You were enveloped by Bakugou’s scent and warmth, and as he pulled you in closer, or as you leaned in further, you suddenly released the heartbreak that you had been trying to wipe from your face, a weight you had been trying to hold onto until you reached the safety of the bathroom stalls. In Bakugou’s arms—in his surprisingly warm and tender embrace, in his arms that encircled you like you were the softest and most delicate thing he ever had to hold—you cried. Your shoulders shook as you sobbed into his chest, unable to help yourself.

You thought he’d tense, thought he’d push you away in sneering disgust. It wasn’t as if you had a particularly volatile relationship with him, but he wasn’t known to be the most compassionate person. But, defying your expectations, Bakugou pulled you closer and wrapped his arms around you fully. He pressed his cheek against the top of your head—and you felt him sway slowly.

“Hey, hey,” he murmured against your hair, and for some reason, that made you cry harder.

You felt so pathetic, crying over someone you knew would never pick you, crying over something that had happened to you over and over again already.

You must’ve been so pathetic that Bakugou—the explosive, hot-headed, roughest-around-the-edges Bakugou Katsuki—was trying to comfort you. You had asked—begged—pleaded—Yo to give you a little bit of anything, shamefully crying for scraps for so long, and here was Bakugou, giving you what he could, turning down his fire, his heat, to give you a little bit of warmth that wouldn’t burn.

How was this fair?

“You’re fine,” Bakugou whispered. “You’re okay.”

You gripped his shirt, not caring that you were potentially ruining it with the tight clamping of your nails and your tears seeping through the fabric.

“Fuck that guy,” he muttered. “I never fuckin’ liked him or his fuckin’ ugly face anyways.”

The sudden shift made you laugh, hiccuping against the cries fighting for dominance in your throat. It didn’t provide any lasting relief, though, but you were grateful even for the second of reprieve.

Once you got a handle on your breath, you pulled back, saying, “Thanks—for hiding me.” You didn’t want to stand here and keep crying in Bakugou’s chest; you were drunk, but you were aware enough to know you’d regret it embarrassingly in the morning. “I’m, um, gonna sneak out before he comes back around.”

—But he didn’t respond like you had expected.

“I’ll walk you out,” he offered. He smoothed out your hair, detangling some strands, a gesture that was tenderhearted, something you never would’ve thought to attach to the hero voted most likely to attack journalists and paparazzi.

“I’ll be fine.”

He rolled his eyes. “Shut up and walk.”

With a huff, you looked over his arms and shoulders. When you didn’t see Yo, Bakugou released you from his hold and followed you as you pushed through club crowd, heading for the entrance. When you finally made it out onto the street, you took in a deep but shaky breath of the cool night air.

Just another night, you thought. Just another second place trophy to add to the shelf.

Nothing new, you told yourself. Nothing new.

Bakugou gently touched your hand, getting your attention. When you looked at him, he jerked a thumb toward the parking lot.

“Over here,” he said.

It took a while to piece it together, due to the fog of alcohol and heartache, but when you realized what he was offering, you shook your head. “Seriously,” you said, “you’ve done enough. You don’t need to drive me home; I’ll just call a taxi or Uber or something…”

“Why the hell would you spend money when I’m telling you I’ve got a fuckin’ car?”

“Because I want to wallow alone.”

He stopped, staring at you. “Do you?” he asked.

It seemed like, if you said yes, he’d leave you alone; it seemed like he was giving you an option to be honest and he’d respect your answer—but, truthfully, you didn’t know yourself. This was the only way you knew how to deal with your feelings toward Yo. This was the only way you had ever dealt with feelings such as this, alone in the dark. You didn’t know if you wanted company. You didn’t know if it would make it better or easier, or if you’d just feel stupid and humiliated in the presence of others.

“Doc?” he asked. It wasn’t a creative nickname. He—and many others—called you doc because you had a PhD in bio-engineering with quirk applications—but there was something sincere about the way he said it, something softer and more intimate than Yo’s frequent usage of babe.

You shrugged, feeling your eyes sting with unshed tears again. You didn’t know you had so much in you to give, so much to lose, so much already lost.

“Come on,” he said.

Bakugou didn’t grab onto you, letting you decide, but you ultimately followed him as he wove through parked cars. He led you to the other side of the lot where the metal barrier stopped cars from driving off the hill and down into traffic. Past it was a expansive and beautiful view of the sea, sparkling underneath a bright crescent moon.

He motioned for you to go to toward the back of his car; he helped you up to sit on the trunk. Then, he reached into the back passenger’s seat for an unopened water bottle.

“Drink,” he said, putting it into your hands. “You hungry?”

You shrugged again.

“Stay here,” he ordered, and you irrationally found it so goddamn hilarious that he thought there was somewhere you could go.

While he was gone, you stared at the passing cars below and the soft shimmering of the ocean. From so high up, you could see the stars reflected back in some of the calmer waters before gentle waves rippled the view. You drank from the bottle slowly, sniffling and wiping your nose with the back of your hand every few minutes as you mentally tortured yourself with every little bit of Yo that had made you fall in love—his stupidly soft smile in the glow of the morning light, his bark of laughter whenever you unwittingly bumped your shoulder into corners, his nimble fingers braiding your hair as you were bent over costume and gear schematics in the early dawn, him having just finished his patrol and you still having yet gone to sleep.

You wondered if he did the same with Nakagame on the days he didn’t visit you.

—No, you knew he did.

He probably did more.

In the morning light, he probably kissed her. If she bumped into walls, he probably checked for any injuries. After late night patrols, he probably pulled her into the bed, skin-to-skin underneath the sheets because that was the best way to sleep.

You gripped the water bottle tightly.

Bakugou came back then; he had a plate of chicken karaage and two beers. He handed you the warm plate and drink before hopping onto the back of his car, settling down right beside you. His body emitted heat constantly. You wondered if that was how he was or if it had to do with his quirk; maybe a mixture of both. It was welcoming in the cool night.

“Doesn’t this defeat the purpose of my water?” you asked, replacing the water bottle with the beer when he popped it open for you.

“Who fuckin’ eats chicken karaage without beer?” Bakugou snorted.

The two of you clinked the glass bottles and took a swig, picking at the food in your lap. You turned to stare at the shifting ocean under the silver light.

“Shouldn’t you go back in with your friends?” you asked suddenly, masochistically trying to push him away so you could be miserable alone.

“They’re fine,” he answered. “Eijirou’s been slowly sobering up ever since Dunce Face started hitting on the dancers.”

You cracked a wry grin. “The dancers that are dating the bouncers?”

“The dancers dating the fucking bouncers.”

He took another swig of his drink. You followed suit. It was quiet. You thought it would stay like that, just an hour of complete silence while you wallowed and moped; it’d probably be easier for the number two explosive hero. He wasn’t one for small talk, much less sentimental ones—but he continued to surprise you, and you found yourself secretly grateful.

“…You wanna talk about it?” he asked.

You glanced at him, sniffling without meaning to. “I’m surprised you wanna hear about it.”

“I don’t,” he retorted. “But—feels like something you might like. Or need. Or whatever.” Under the dim light of the night, the harsh lines on his face made from his training, his anger, his life, seemed to soften.

“That’s sweet,” you remarked. “I think. Well, it is sweet for you, I guess.”

He didn’t respond, letting the silence fill until you felt ready to say something.

You didn’t think you were. You didn’t think you’d ever be. Even with your past blunders in love, you never truly felt comfortable enough to talk about them with anyone, not even your closest friends. You never felt okay enough. It was difficult to move on when you were consistently trapped in these situations. Everyone who had wrapped their arms around you under the cover of night disappeared as soon as the sun kissed your eyelids. Even worse, they disappeared and fell into someone else’s arms.

“There’s nothing to say,” you finally said, voice low as though you were afraid that, any louder, and you’d burst into tears. “I stupidly…waited around, and—and he didn’t pick me.” You scratched at your cheek, attempting nonchalance in your tone and movement, even though you were staring pointedly at your heels to keep the stinging in your eyes from morphing into anything else. “To be fair,” you continued, “he didn’t pick either of us—me or Nakagame. Turtle Neck, if you remember. But, anyways, I know what that means.”

“What does it mean?”

“That I am, once again, not good enough to be chosen.” You smiled bitterly. “Always the bridesmaid and never the bride, is what they say.” You tried to laugh, but it came out hollow.

You could feel him staring at you, the heat of his gaze warming the side of your face.

“I know you’re not interested in a pity-party,” you said, “but I just need it for the night and then it’ll be over. Back to being the doc tomorrow.”

“You—”

“Is it okay that I’m sitting on your car?”

He was taken aback by the abrupt shift in conversation, blinking and frowning in confusion. “What?”

“I lathered a shit ton of glitter lotion on myself before I left,” you explained.

Bakugou looked down to your legs, glistening under the moonlight, an entire galaxy dotting every part of your legs. You lifted your thigh and saw the sparkly smear on his car.

“What the fuck.”

“Sorry,” you said.

“Whatever, it’s fine,” he grumbled. “I’ll take it into the carwash tomorrow.”

“I’ll pay,” you offered.

“I said it’s fuckin’ fine, Jesus.”

“Why are you being so nice?” you asked suddenly.

He glowered at you, looking annoyed by the question. “Why kind of asshole do you think I am?”

“The asshole kind,” you deadpanned.

“Well, I’m not that kind,” he muttered.

You peered at his expression, seeing something on his face that you hadn’t ever seen before, something sentimental, or soft, or delicate. “What kind are you then?” you prodded.

He sipped his beer, glancing at you. “The kind that gets fuckin’ annoyed,” he replied, “but not the kind that would fuckin’ leave you while you’re crying.” He was glaring at you from the corner of his eyes, but he looked sincere, and if Bakugou had shown you anything from his shouting and his scowling, it was that he was earnest in his worst—and best—of moods.

“Oh.” You didn’t have anything else to say, looking down at your hands. You picked another piece of chicken, a small and crispy one, and popped it into your mouth, chewing absentmindedly. It was more for the alcohol than hunger.

You suppose there was a lot you didn’t know—about the people around you. About anything. You hadn’t been sure that Yo would've picked you over Tatami, but you hadn’t been sure that he wouldn’t have, either. You had been sure that you could wait, could hold off long enough until he found his way back to you, but you were wrong. And you hadn’t expected Bakugou to be the one to swoop in and help you, but he had—he did—he was.

You wondered what else you would get wrong tonight, or for the rest of your life, and you thought this feeling should perhaps leave you hopeful and excited, but, instead, your chest felt empty and aching.

You looked from the fried chicken in your lap to Bakugou leaning forward, resting his elbows onto his knees, to the gentle ripples of the ocean water, the reflective night sky unexpectedly cut by a pod of jumping dolphins. The chilly night was backdropped by the music blaring from the clubs all around and the stars all above, and there were goddamn dolphins playing in the gleaming waters—it was so romantic, so dreamy, so perfect, the entire fucking thing. You couldn’t do anything but curl into yourself and cry, thinking, stupidly, that you wanted Yo to be here beside you, sharing this meal and this beer and this soft October night.

The chicken fell out of your lap, and you had just enough sense to tighten your hold on the bottle, or maybe you just wanted something to hold onto.

You felt a hand on your back, rubbing lightly.

“…Do you want a hug?” Bakugou asked, his voice low and gruff and the sweetest thing you had heard all night.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, please.”

He gently pried the bottle from your hand and placed it aside, and then he opened his arms to you. You climbed into his lap, burying your face into his neck as you sobbed, seeking a warmth that you weren’t going to get from anyone else.

You cried about Yo. You cried about the mean things you had thought about Nakagame in moments of cruel jealousy. You cried about all the boys that had picked smiles more beloved than yours.

Just once, you’d like to hear it.

Just once, you’d like to be someone’s first choice.

Just once, you’d like someone to touch your face, and cup your cheeks, and sigh against your mouth—it’s you—it’s you—it’s always been you—it’ll only ever be you.

And as if he could hear it in your cries, Bakugou murmured kindly into your hair. “One day. It’ll be you one day.”

You didn’t quite believe it. Logically, you knew you couldn’t say it was impossible, but it was the same way you approached ghosts or miracles—they were there, but they weren’t. You couldn’t say never, but you couldn’t say for certain either, and wasn’t that answer enough? That you couldn’t confidently say yes? That you couldn’t look at something and say it was a miracle, but it was so easy to say it only a trick of the light?

You cried harder, tightening your hold around him. In response, Bakugou held onto you all the tighter, unaffected by your dress riding up or your legs straddling him or the glitter that was surely getting smeared onto his black pants. He held you as fiercely as you wanted, loosening his hold when you loosened yours, contracting when you did.

After a while, you lost the energy to cry. There was nothing left to give or heave. The next breath you took, though shaky and unstable, didn’t devolve into bawling, and then, soon, with more exhales that didn’t trigger tears, you began to slowly calm. Eventually, it was just your occasional sniffle and the heavy beating of Bakugou’s heart. You felt him untangle your hair, shifting you closer on his lap.

“I’d pick you,” he said softly.

“Not Uraraka? Utsushimi?” It was supposed to be a dry joke, but your cracking voice and your sniffling made it sound pessimistic and sad, like you believed that, in the grand scheme of things, you’d always be in someone’s shadow.

“Nah. You.”

There was a finality there that soothed you. A brusqueness that refused questioning. It was nice. Reassuring.

You closed your eyes, breathed in his scent—sweet and citrusy in the heated dark. As your body relaxed, Bakugou tightened his hold on you.

Tired by the night’s events, you fell asleep for a moment. You jerked awake when you felt drool pooling at the edge of your lips. You didn’t know how long you had fallen asleep; it didn’t feel long, but you couldn’t be sure. Bakugou was laying against the back window of his car with you still in his arms, his hand slowly running up and down your back in soft strokes as he stared at the stars with half-lidded eyes.

You sat up, disentangling yourself from his hold. “Sorry,” you said, wiping your mouth. “I—I think I drooled on you.” With the alcohol fading and the cries subsiding, you immediately felt an embarrassment creep into your chest.

“It’s fine.” He had one careful hand on your hip to keep you steady as he lifted himself up with his other hand. “You ready to go?”

“Bakugou—really, I—I’ll just Uber…”

“Shut up,” he grunted. He helped you down and then gathered the trash to dump into a nearby trashcan. Before you could open the door, he opened the passenger side for you. “Get in, crybaby,” he said, gruff voice ending in a lilting tease.

“Too soon, asshole,” you grumbled. You looked up at him and rubbed at your runny nose with the back of your hand. His shirt had some wet spots on it, but he looked impeccable; you, on the other hand, must've looked like an absolutely disgusting mess.

“I feel really gross,” you said, attempting to laugh as though that would ease the embarrassment.

You expected him to agree, but he only looked down at you. His left brow was raised, trying for something hard and stony, but there was half a smile curling at the corner of his lips. Emboldened, you sent a hesitant smile his way—and then you caught sight of a familiar dark head of hair across the parking lot.

Yo stood at the club entrance, staring at you and Bakugou.

Bakugou, seeing you avert your eyes to somewhere behind him, turned around and saw Yo as well. He looked back to you.

There was a silent question in the air—would you go to Yo? Would you go back? You had told him that what he was doing wasn’t fair—but what if he changed his mind? What if he finally picked you? What if—

You looked from dark brown eyes to bright vermillion ones.

Then, wiping at your sniffling nose, you sat inside the car, and Bakugou, after checking that both your legs were in, closed the passenger door. He ignored Yo as he walked around the car and got into the driver’s side, something you thought was wildly mature.

“Text me your address,” Bakugou said as he closed the door.

“What’s your number?” you asked.

“You never saved it?” he asked, nose flaring. “I fuckin’ texted you last week about my gear.”

“You rarely hire my company to adjust your tech,” you said, scrolling through your messages until you found the unknown number with the choppy messages lacking any type of normal human etiquette.

“What does that fuckin’ matter?” he muttered. “Fuckin’ save it this time. And hand sanitizer’s in the compartment; don’t think I didn’t fucking notice you wiping at your snot the entire night.”

“Shut up,” you muttered.

As mature as he had seemed earlier with not yelling at Yo, you should’ve known that it wouldn’t have lasted for long. Bakugou couldn’t help but give in to his hotheaded instinct, to his mean streak. As he pulled out of his spot, he pressed his middle finger against the window at Yo’s furious face. The car sped off with you clutching your side in the passenger seat, laughing and gasping for air bittersweetly, wrapped still in his citrus scent and tenderhearted whispers.

#╰【 FILED UNDER … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ novae writes 」#╰【 TAGGED AS … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ fandom「 bnha 」#╰【 TAGGED AS … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ character「 bakugou 」#╰【 TAGGED AS … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ reader「 she/her 」#╰【 TAGGED AS … 】❖ ━━━━━ ❛ titled「 a soft october night 」#bakugou fluff #bakugou katsuki fluff #bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #dynamight x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha fanfic #mha fanfic #reader insert #bnha reader insert

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