#he is going for all of it and nothing is bringing him a modicum of comfort | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

holy-puckslibrary · 3 months

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━ 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐈𝐀𝐍.

main masterlist

pairing(s) — MITCH MARNER x reader (est. relationship) wc — 4.5k synopsis — think hilary duff’s balcony engagement circa 2007

note — this belongs to the i don't remember this bar collection

specific content warnings below the cut.

cw — profanity and other vulgar language, taking the lord’s name in vain + other religious-ish imagery, oral sex (m receiving), unprotected PIV intercourse (multiple) + creampie/breeding kink, discussion/thoughts of cum play, outdoor sex and mention of previous exhibitionism, mention of previous choking + breath play (f!reader receiving), pain kink situation (both), one line of blood play (f!reader receiving), justified violence (not directed at reader!!!), slight d/s dynamics, and possessive!mitch being a domestic little horndog

“Before we talk about that beautiful, game-tying goal in the tail-end of the second and your overall command of the offensive zone throughout tonight’s game, I first want to congratulate you on some major life news. A few weeks belated; my apologies.

For those who don’t know, you came back from the All-Star break with more than just a tan; you came back with—and as—a fiancé.”

Mitch does nothing to dim his megawatt smile or to dull the sparkle in his eyes. The mere mention of you coaxes out an impossibly giddier version of himself, unencumbered by the stress and pressure of a waning season. It’s always been that way.

It's difficult to remember a time before you. He doesn't want to.

Despite of meeting on arguably one of the worst nights of his life, somehow, all he feels when the memory rises to the surface of his mind is joy.

He remembers your laughter, warm and buoyant, and the way the low light painted flattering shadows across your kind face as you spoke animatedly about your passions and dreams. He remembers being treated like a person before anything else, not some character in a video game or a pawn in someone else’s fantasy league, and he recalls your fervent, genuine interest in his off-ice hobbies. Not once did you ask anything invasive or demand he share more than he was willing.

Nor did you fish for tickets.

For Mitch, privacy was paramount, and the sentiment echoed throughout your lengthy relationship. It was your through-line, and it should’ve blanketed the intimate proposal in safety.

He gets hot under the collar just thinking about it.

Mitch will entertain the host’s questions to an extent. Because, despite his insistence on privacy, he will never pass up an opportunity to sing your praises or brag about his luck.

“Did you bring anything else back? Any special souvenir to commemorate such a momentous occasion?”

Mitch is instantly hard, his pale cheeks ablaze, eternally grateful that the camera is filming from the chest up.

Carried in on a warm evening breeze, the evocation is so palpable he can taste the blue curaçao on his tongue and feel its muted burn in the back of his throat. The air smells of pineapple and your fragrant shampoo, a comforting scent that clings to him like a second skin. The phantom of your touch sends a shiver down the expanse of his sore, sweat-drenched back.

“—holy fuck.”

The crinkled, two-word curse tumbles from Mitch’s mouth with little effort.

Every modicum of tact was either battling against the warm rum coursing through his body or fighting to keep his guttural, damning moans at bay.

They are getting hot and heavy on a patio, after all.

Mitch knows this isn’t smart. He knows he should’ve moved the celebration indoors, that he should've waited until you were curtained in safety to give in to his desire and your wandering hands.

He knows, he knows, he knows.

The problem is he just doesn’t care.

Mitch wasn’t about to delay the appreciative mouth of the woman he was going to make his wife, not even for a second.

Even if she dropped to her knees with only a hedge to play look-out. A line of decorative foliage is their first and final defense, the leaves carelessly swaying between them and the rest of the luxury resort he booked for All-Star weekend.

It’s difficult to make sound decisions when the hand wrapped around your cock is newly weighed down by five carats.

The dazzling rock shines proudly in the concluding rays of a setting sun. Glittery and perfect, like the woman who wears it.

Mitch hisses when the tip taps the back of your throat for the first time that night. The sensitive skin melts into your tongue like an ice cube, the creamy droplets of anticipation swallowed greedily by your ravenous mouth. He sees stars in the cotton candy sky peeking through the palm trees.

It hasn’t been that long; his day began with your nose nuzzled against his pelvis, his head limp against the cool tile of the shower a few feet away.

When it comes to you, nothing is ever enough to curb his appetite.

Always needy, never satiated—a pair of perverted peas in a pod.

Your tongue repeats the delicious motion it had previously, too, lazily tracing along the underside of his length until he’s whimpering with no regard for anything besides spilling himself down your throat. He feels you smile around his thickness, pleased by the ease of his undoing. You were damn good; you deserved to be proud.

In all honesty, it took very little effort on your part to make him weak in both his knees and in his resolve.

However, there was a special kind of magic in your pretty face, now dusted by a salty sheen, nestled against his taut abdomen, his cock engulfed by the vice-grip of your throat.

Mitch is close already.

White-hot sparks descend through his quads and calves to zap his sandy toes. Electrified, his hips sputter of their own volition, but like the godsend you are, you accommodate every jolt and tilt in stride.

With one hand braced against his hip and the other gently massaging the heavy weight of his balls cradled in your palm, you peer up at him through a fan of fluttering lashes.

He whines—at the mischievous glint in your glassy eyes or the bite of your manicure as you sink your nails into his burnt skin, he can’t be sure.

Some of your fingers curl into the nasty bruise eating up his lower back, the by-product of a gruesome communion with the ice a few days prior. Sharp nails nip at the fragile skin. Mitch doesn’t know if the twinge of pain was intentional on your part, but he loves it either way. Perhaps a little too much, he thinks to himself as he twitches violently in your grasp.

And perhaps you aren't the only one with a masochistic streak. It's clear from the heaviness of your lids the converse applies to you.

His sweetheart's sick and sadistic. He's never been prouder.

“Get off,” he husks. Abruptly, he steps out from your embrace.

In retrospect, Mitch could’ve been nicer about it. At that moment, however, he was far too desperate for chivalry.

Staring down at your wide, despondent eyes—a pup deprived of her favorite bone—your fiancé amends, “Calm down, sweetheart. I’ll give it back soon. There’s no way in hell I’m wasting a load in your mouth when I know how good your pussy feels around my cock.”

Heat scales Mitch’s spine as he spreads you wide open against the chaise. Your folds glow brighter than the jewelry on your left hand.

With the tip of his finger, he tests the waters. Gingerly, at first, like he's still unsure you'll be able to take him. That charade hardly lasts, but tonight, it's barely a blip.

Your body eagerly welcomes the attention, mouthing at him before sucking the touch past the taut, elastic ring of your entrance. Your faint groans elicited by the intrusion harmonize so sweetly, so perfectly, that Mitch’s eyes fall shut in tranquil bliss.

When your hips rock against his palm, they snap open.

Blinking at him hard and fast, your teeth sink into your bottom lip, turning the plushness a sickly shade of pink—of desperation. Tears crowd your lash line but never cascade down your shiny cheeks; they, like you, are impatiently waiting for reprimand.

Mitch almost laughs. You did jump the gun, so he can't fault you for expecting the corresponding punishment. But it's a special occasion—you're celebrating, so it never manifests.

And Mitch wants to do more than just spank you silly. Plenty of time for that later. A lifetime's worth of it.

Instead, with the flick of his wrist, Mitch encourages you to take your pleasure.

The subtle, tantalizing movements, building in speed and ferocity with each pass, beckon him forward until his sunburnt skin is close enough to burn yours. Feeling you beneath him, feeling his weight rest against your body, feels better than heaven, and he’s barely started.

Like before, Mitch is painfully aware he won’t be able to last long. Judging by how silky-slick you are against his palm, you won’t be either.

With his free hand, he catches your jaw and, with little resistance, tilts your head to keep your gaze from straying. Your mouth falls open when he slips another finger inside. Mitch grins down at your lust-blown pupils and the feel of your hot breath against his lips. He leans down and licks into your idle mouth. A third finger causes your bottom lip to tremble between his and your forehead to ease, every little muscle going soft and pliant between the cushion and his chest.

“Atta girl,” Mitch praises. His lips press briefly to your cheek before beginning their descent along your throat. The touch is featherlight and sends a shiver down your spine, coaxing your chest further into his. “—love seeing you like this, all beautiful and open. And all fucking mine.”

Mitch wouldn't necessarily consider himself a territorial person, and he can't recall ever feeling possessive of a partner. Until he met you.

It had nothing to do with trust or a lack thereof; you were his the minute your eyes met through the crowd, and you reassured him of that fact constantly. It was never you that needed a reminder—it was everybody else.

The men who openly leer at you from every corner of Scotiabank Arena. The NHL hopefuls in your Instagram comments shamelessly flirting as if he didn’t exist or wasn’t in the photo, too. The unprofessional commentators who found ways to sneak in a lecherous comment or two under the guise of camaraderie whenever they spoke about his prowess.

You weren’t some object to be won or bought. You made a choice, and he’d make sure they knew and respected it.

Sure, the engagement ring will aid in this up-hill endeavor, but a little due diligence never hurt either.

“Tonight, it's gonna take. I’m making damn sure of that, sweetheart.”

Your walls squeeze his digits in recognition. Mitch chuckles, dark and dry, against your shoulder. You might like the implication more than he does.

You two weren’t trying, but you weren’t not trying either. Seeing you wearing his ring—the one he picked and purchased—kicked him down a perverted spiral. Flipped the last switch, cut the final cord. He wanted to complete the picture. He wanted to give those good-for-nothing losers one more reason to keep their mouths shut and their eyes to themselves.

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Love for me to fill you in a way that’ll last? C’mon, sweetheart, tell me what you want. Tell me how badly you want to be stuffed full of me, how much your pussy needs it—how badly you want to be heavy and swollen with my kid."

Mitch tends to your clit, keeping you borderline incoherent as he tickles your ears with more filth before you can reply to the first goading.

Your eventual responses are muffled by a long, primal whine.

When he has you swaying on the brink of collapse, he’s painfully hard against your inner thigh. There's an iridescent river pearling from the weeping head, freely flowing down to pool beneath your ass. It beams in the dim light like a beacon.

Transfixed and desperately in love, Mitch could cum right now. Just like this.

But staining a stupid fucking cushion would be more of a waste than shooting himself your throat. So, much to your chagrin, he, once again, retreats back onto his knees.

“C-come back,” you whimper with a loud hiccup. The choked sound is as pitiful as your attempts to reach for him. “Please, please, please—”

Satisfaction spreads over the bridge of his nose, leaving him rosy from one cheek to the other. He pins you with a heated, half-lid stare as he strokes himself.

His palm doesn’t feel as good as yours, but Mitch is grateful for that. He wants to drag this out. Instead of rutting into you like a teenager in the backseat of a car, or like himself after a long stint away.

That can’t—and won’t—happen if he keeps touching you. He has to back off before he loses his ever-loving mind.

“Stop being a tease,” you chide. Irritation weighs heavily on your voice. “Haven’t I waited long enough?”

“There’s something I want you to see first, you little brat,” he replies, adopting your sharp tone as he brings his open palm down on your inner thigh.

You shriek, but your eyes beg for another. Maybe he shouldn't have cut you any slack earlier...

He grants your silent wish with a matching blow to the other side before guiding his rigid cock to rest over your body.

And it was better than Mitch ever imagined.

He groans at the sight, “Can you see it? Can you, sweetheart?”

Mitch waits patiently for it to click in your mind, but the confusion that swiftly overtook your fucked-out features never dissipates. Eyes rolling, he shifts forward. Hand still wrapped around the base, Mitch leans over until the full length of him sits against your bare stomach.

Your body quivers over the contact, so he has to hold your hips down to keep you from wiggling and ruining everything.

“I know you can feel it, but I want you to see it. I want you to see how deep I get inside of you, sweetheart. All the way up…” Mitch trails off as his hands glide from your outer hips to the center of your abdomen.

His voice is so deep. So hungry. Your whole being—mind and body—goes weak at the foreign richness.

With tender thumbs, he applies pressure beneath his swollen tip. “—here.”

Mitch moves slowly at first, as if he'd just been sheathed inside of you. With each careful thrust, his stones caress your aching clit, all puffy and pouting.

It feels wonderful to be touched again, even if only in short bursts. But it's not enough friction or force to do much more than aggravate you further. Even when he picks up speed, it’s more hurtful than helpful.

Still, you cannot tear your eyes away from the angry, ruddy head dribbling out ropes of arousal or voice a shred of discontent. The opaque beads form a nonsensical pattern, but it's mesmerizing nonetheless.

If you were any less needy, you’d take your time running your fingers through the milky mess. Swirling around in the evidence of Mitch’s desire until you had enough to lick clean.

As if privy to your thoughts, he pins your wrists at your sides again.

Mitch isn’t faring much better than you. His eyes are trained on the shadow bisecting your middle. Locked, laser-focused. This little…exercise was as much for his amusement as it is for your education. He knows how far he can reach inside of you—knows how fucking fantastic it feels to be buried at the root, but seeing just how deeply he can fuck you is something else entirely.

It's enough to make him question why and how he ever stops fucking you. He’s an idiot for depriving himself. For neglecting you. An exercise in frustration as much as his fruitless effort to shun the rose-colored perversions dancing wild in his mind, Mitch has wasted so much time.

Fuck penance and fuck propriety—it would be a sin to do anything other than worship at your altar as a devoted acolyte. Cardinal, even.

His stomach tightens as he considers how empty you must feel in his absence—and how deliciously whole you must feel when he drives home. He wonders how forlorn your folds must look right now as he keeps what you covet just out of bounds. His body obstructs the view, but Mitch knows you’re open and fluttering around nothing, pleading for mercy.

If he were a cruel man, he’d ignore your begging and continue on like this until his balls were empty and your chest was covered in ivory threads. Lucky for you, your future husband is of the clement variety.

Before you can get another babble, his mouth is back on yours. He keeps your arms tight to your sides, so you’re incentivized to convey your fervent need for more—of anything, really—through your lips and tongue.

Mitch is greedy when he kisses you and needy while lapping up your fire—happily, and without pause. His head pounds like he finished a handle in a single sip, but he doesn’t want it to stop. Ever. It’s disorienting, and yet, he can’t seem to get enough no matter how much of you he drinks down. Mitch wants to spend the rest of his life drunk on your lips.

Begrudgingly, he tears his mouth from yours. Then, tanned chest heaving, he positions himself between your glistening southern lips. Mitch looks down at you, and when your vision finally focuses, his eyes have been shadowed in darkness by his hulking brow.

His prior impatience dwindles ever so slightly even though he's on the precipice of complete satisfaction. Mitch hasn’t gotten a good look at you since your nimble hands relieved him of his shorts some twenty minutes ago, and you are glorious. A celestial nymph with dominion over his heart, devastatingly beautiful and all-consuming in every conceivable way. The hold you have over him is dangerous, verging on obsession. There isn’t a thing he wouldn’t do or say if it appeased you so.

He isn’t fearful. He’s honored. The gratitude he feels knowing that you were, and remain, receptive to his devotion is overwhelming. And now, watching the lucid waters of lust ebb and flow in your glazed eyes, he’s never felt luckier.

Mitch thumbs the gem resting atop your finger, and you shudder as if it were the one tucked between your thighs.

His other hand lingers around your right wrist, though not as tightly as before. With his pulsing head shallow in your heat, he knows you’ll behave. Disrupting him now would only prolong his teasing. A lesson you learned—and were often reminded of—the hard way.

As his fingers trace the metallic band, warmed by the tropical sun and his furnace-like touch, Mitch pushes his hips forward, slow and steady, until he’s fully enveloped by your wanting walls. With your snug, pillowy softness stretching and constricting to accommodate his generous blessing, his grip on reality slips.

“You’re a fucking dream,” your fiancé rasps.

His hands are now splayed wide on either side of your head, effectively caging you beneath him as he builds a faithful rhythm. Teeth clenched, he works diligently to fashion a tribute worthy of your ethereal beauty and power.

“—always so warm and wet for me, just begging to be split open on my thick fuckin' cock. How long have you been this needy, sweetheart? Since I bent you over on the boat? Right over the railing where anyone could’ve seen you?”

You nod, bruised bottom lip pinched between your teeth. Tears well in your eyes.

Your afternoon tryst had been as quick as it’d been rough. Sundress bunched high, the fragile fabric wrinkled between your hips and the cool metal railing as Mitch’s right hand wrapped around your throat. His talented fingers pressed firmly into your sun-kissed skin, relentless in their torment, as he pawed at the pathetic knot struggling to hold your bathing suit in place. His mouth curled into a smirk as it whispered a heady mix of degradation and praise. All while you preened for him, a large crowd just steps away.

That wasn't the first orgasm you were robbed of today.

The hem of the thin material that clung to your anguished body floated demurely above your ankles, landing just shy of the bone. The sullied garment hid the incriminating evidence that inched down your sore thighs with every step you took. The irony was not lost on you as you walked back to your room.

“D’you know how hard it was to stop myself from fucking you in front of all those people? To hold back like that—to not bend you over and take in broad daylight? Of course you do, you sweet, sadistic minx. You always know how to rile me up—and you always find a reason to.”

Mitch grins against your lips before his teeth momentarily replace yours. They nestle into the grooves as if that was the expressed purpose of the faint indentations.

“With the way you’ve been behaving, I’m willing to bet you want a better souvenir than a gift shop tchotchke, hm? Y'gotta be patient for me, though—good girls wait for their rewards. Jus' wait… Oh, I don’t know, nine months? Give or take? Think you can do that for me?"

He’s being cheeky on purpose. He likes the way gentle irritation plays out between your legs—always has and always will.

Mitch releases your lower lip again, but only after he’s nicked it with his canines. A dainty bead of crimson materializes. Covetous, his tongue laps it up without pause. Painted lips kiss from cheek to cheek.

Your back arches. Your hips lift to rock in time with his thrusts.

“God, I can’t wait till we get those fuckin’ keys,” Mitch mumbles, almost absentmindedly.

The lean muscles of his upper body ripple as he sits up to grab ahold of your jaw, a calloused hand on either side. He has an unimpeded view of your dazed, saccharine countenance. His hips slow until they match the thumbs stroking escaped tears into your cheeks.

“—m'gonna take you in every room, against every surface. That way, there won’t be a single thing in our home that—fuck—that doesn’t remind you of me and how well I take care of you—you and your tight cunt.”

With little fanfare, he threads his arms under your dewy legs. Mitch uses the newfound leverage to tug your body even closer.

A shriek rips through the firm seam of your lips as his length traverses an unexplored depth. Your knees snuggle against the pit of his elbows, pleased to be so close in spite of the pain.

Mitch holds your gaze, reveling in your silent screams. He winks, then slowly lowers himself down until your body is folded squarely beneath his. Your muscles burn with the fury of budding resentment, which you’ll surely feel towards him in the morning after this unprompted foray into acrobatics, but the new angle is too good to do more than just... take it.

His hands are glad to have been relieved of their duty and, eager to take advantage of their newfound freedom, palm your chest as his mouth descends on your poor neck. The delicate skin is utterly defenseless against the desire thumping deep within his chest and spilling over his ribs.

Mitch wants to stake his claim—to mark his territory. A stammer of expletives accompanies the vulgar jut of your hips when he rolls your sensitive nipples, swollen and begging for attention, between thumb and forefinger. Bracketed by his forearms, you surrender completely.

Mitch hums at the lewd, sucking sound made by your arousal. Wet squelches ricochet off the adjacent wall with each and every thrust.

“I’ve really made a mess out of you, haven’t I?”

You nod, eyes pinched in concentration.

You’re close. He can feel your body trying to milk him dry. Fortunately, Mitch isn’t far behind. You feel too fucking good to prolong the inevitable.

He brings a hand to your clit, and it moves in messsy circles as he speaks, “Not done yet, though. Gonna flood this pretty cunt—gonna leave you all sticky and hot. I know you want it, but I need you to cum for me first. Go on, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”

You unravel on command, your chin falling to the side in ecstasy. Mitch’s firm hand is quick to wrench it back; he needs to watch your face contort as you crumble like he needs air to breathe. Mitch won't be able to think straight until he reaps the rewards of fucking and rubbing you through it.

The sob that wrecks your body is high-pitched and perforated by little gasps, and the rush of wetness is more pathetic than any noise you could and would make in your lifetime. More than you ever thought your body was capable of, more than your new fiancé expected, more than either of you anticipated.

He's soaked in a matter of seconds—as are you and the cushion dripping onto the concrete.

Mitch's climax comes in quick succession but, unlike yours, without warning. Undoubtedly, his peak was triggered by the gush of your undeniable satisfaction.

Drained dry, Mitch hunches over to capture your lips once more, determined to distract you from the inevitable bodily ache on the come-down. Delicately, he places your trembling legs onto the chaise and nestles into the space they vacated. He feels every little muscle twitch and spasm when he hugs you tightly to his body.

The world is muted, fuzzy around the edges, and drowned out by the aftershocks, so you miss most of his sweet-nothing rambling, but the relief and contentment that flood your spent body is reply enough.

He isn’t sure how long you stay like that—tangled together in paradise. You doze off, dipping in and out of consciousness, and wake just after the buttery sun slips entirely behind the horizon. Through the darkness surrounding your bare bodies, silvery moonlight replaces the golden rays of sunshine, but you—and your ring—shine as if nothing's changed.

You keep up a quiet conversation. Nothing of importance is spoken; it's carried on purely for the enjoyment of one another’s voice. Mitch peppers your skin, sticky from humidity and exertion, with tender lips, and you return the favor tenfold. You’re both smiling so wide, so happily.

And you keep grinning into the night, even when your cheeks begin to ache. It’s only when the light breeze ghosts over your bare skin that either of you consider relocating. In no rush and reluctant to leave your deep warmth, he’s leisurely about moving into the dim suite.

Mitch freezes abruptly. His stomach splatters at his feet when his mind catches up to his instincts. Murmuring. He hears murmuring. Terror races down his spine like an ice-cold chill. It's quiet at first. Almost as if the evening wind picked up a distant conversation yards away and softly settled it in his paranoid eardrums. He can’t make out any particular words—except his last name.

His mood sours beyond repair with the realization that the juvenile whispering is much too close, the giggles muffled only by the permeable wall of greenery bordering the suite’s ground-floor patio.

“We just wanted to be the first to say congratulations!” A teenage voice devoid of tact and respect calls out above a chorus of snorts and giggles.

Mortified, you bury your head into the crook of his neck. His chain is cold in comparison to your shame.

Mitch growls and reaches beside the chaise. He shouts something that would’ve made even the most shameless of shit-talkers blush, then sends a half-empty bottle of Dom Pérignon clear through the leaves. It shatters, and the crisp bubbles spill out on the concrete, sending the herd of inconsiderate assholes scattering like mice.

“I’ll go pick up the glass,” he sighs, knowing you’ll chastise him for the mess. "—later."

Mitch couldn’t be honest with the journalist.

He wouldn’t even if he could.

He shares so much of himself and his life with the world already—a hazard of the flashy, public-facing occupation he chose—and you’ve offered up far more of your world than he’d ever ask of you. He doesn’t mind a photo here or a video there, sometimes a press junket or two in a philanthropic context, but Mitch won’t bring the media into your private moments beyond where they’ve already encroached.

Especially not for a leading question intended to bait him into saying something stupid. Or to prematurely announce the impending arrival of your first child.

So, instead, he simply says, “Towels. But if the Four Seasons—or my future wife—asks, I’m totally joking, and I definitely put them all back.”

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catt-leya · 1 year

Text

07/05

rick grimes x fem!reader

warnings: angsty (reader getting stabbed), blood, handjob, age gap, dirty talk, crying Rick and smutty stuff

💗 This fic is a second part but it's not "necessary" to know the first one. That's why it's called Thoughts and not mainly Dirty Pt.2 (together it would be Dirty Thoughts hihi)💗

request, part I

Before you can even say a word, you notice how he closes up again. You notice him stiffening between your legs before he takes a big step backwards.

Without his body heat, the room is far too cold and you stare at him with huge eyes, "Rick?"

Stripped bare, you sit in front of him and ice chills run down his spine.

Fucking hell, he can't bring himself to do that.

Fucking you is one thing, admittedly completely morally reprehensible, but still explainable. But falling in love with you a completely different.

An old guy who likes to be in a 22 year old pussy is sick, but maybe still understandable.

But loving a 22 year old completely inappropriate.

He shouldn't have done that. He's the older one and should have brought you to your senses and not given in to your first touch.

You would never let a guy like him screw you if you had a choice.

He's sure of that.

And now he's standing here, staring at his cum slowly dripping out of you, knowing he's going to hell for this.

Rick takes another step back and he feels like he hit you.

Like he rammed his fist right into your face.

He bends over and yanks his pants up over his ass like the little room is on fire.

Almost in a panic, he yanks the door open behind him, leaving you exposed and vulnerable in the room.

Alone.

The feeling of being abandoned in this way is beyond description.

For a few minutes you are not even able to move an inch.

Stunned, you sit there thinking about what just happened.

Sure, you kind of seduced him, but he wanted you.

Again and again his words flit through your mind and you wonder at what point he had decided to leave you lying there like a piece of used meat.

"Spread your legs for me."

"That's good. Your pussy is so wet and all this just for me."

"I want you to cum on my cock. That's why I stopped."

"Do you realize how deep I am inside you. I'd love to stay right there forever."

Tears well up in your eyes.

It's not like you were expecting a declaration of love or anything like that. You're sure that for Rick, it was nothing more than physical attraction that led him to fuck you in the end.

But you expected a modicum of respect.

At least to be treated with respect to the extent that he doesn't run away from you while his cum is still leaking out of you and you're sitting trembling in front of him.

Slowly, you stand on your feet and reach for your clothes.

You move as if in a trance and as you open the door and blink, looking into the sun, the only evidence that the whole thing with Rick really happened is your sticky legs.

Used and discarded.

That's how you feel and that feeling isn't going away anytime soon, especially since you really like Rick.

Yes, crushing on him.

Two weeks go by in which you hardly get to see Rick.

In which he avoids you at every opportunity.

If anyone around you notices, no one brings it up and you don't say a word about it either.

It's weird because you guys have always been relatively close and now he can't even look at you.

You should be mad and wish him the worst, but every time you catch a glimpse of his dark curls, your heart stops for a brief moment and you have to restrain yourself from running after him.

Even now, you scan the place for him, even though you should already be sitting in the car next to Glenn.

From the second floor window of the jail, Rick watches you walk around the car and get in on the passenger side.

One last time, you lift your head and look straight up at him.

It's as if you've felt his gaze on you.

Hectically, he takes a step back and leans his back against the wall.

With closed eyes he stands there and doesn't get your gorgeous face out of his eyes.

Your face that was still beautiful even when you looked at him with tears in your eyes as he forcibly pulled up his pants.

If he was a good man, he would tell you the truth.

Oh fuck, if he was a good man, he wouldn't have fucked you in the first place.

But he's scared, way too scared of what might happen and some stupid part in his heart might have that little bit of hope that you might want him as much as he wants you.

He's acting ridiculous and he knows it, but he's not a good man.

As planned, you and your people search the small abandoned town you just discovered the other day and find a surprising amount of stuff, considering the town was looted long ago.

You wander from house to house and in a small room overlooking the surrounding forest you stop.

The house is gorgeous and you can imagine how a small family must have lived in this pretty place.

Maybe they are still alive too, who knows.

You run the flat of your hand over the dusty windowsill and stare at the little specks of dust that you swirl into the air, not noticing at all that you are no longer alone in the house.

Your people are a few houses away and you have remained alone in the house, as you assumed, but when you suddenly hear strange voices downstairs, you flinch.

You quickly look around.

You can't get out of the window without breaking every bone in your body, and the only other way out is blocked by the people downstairs.

So it's a choice between broken bones and possible direct death.

You choose the broken bones.

As quietly as you can, you pry open the window and hear a deep male voice from below, "I'll check upstairs."

Now you're getting frantic, you may only have a few seconds before the guy comes up the stairs and looks straight into the room where you're standing.

You shoulder your backpack and there's the guy standing in the room, "Hey, guys. Here's a chick."

He wants to reach for you, but you're already hanging on the other side of the window with one leg.

But before you can swing the other leg to the other side as well, he grabs your lower leg and you stagger your upper body further out the window.

Pure will to survive shoots through your veins as he hisses, "Come on, kid. I'm not going to hurt you."

You kick at him, not caring that you'd land head first on the ground, but the guy doesn't let go and pulls a knife from his pants with his free hand.

You scream out as a second guy appears in the room and you kick again.

You're lucky he lets go of you this time, but with his other hand, he tries to grab you again and rams the knife into your thigh.

Blood splatters your face and the guy's hand slips off.

You don't even have the chance to scream, because you already fall.

You are lucky that you landed in a bush and only got a few scratches from the fall.

Limping you get up and hear the men shouting something, you run as fast as you can in the direction of your companions.

The fall has ripped the knife out of your thigh and now the blood is running unhindered down your leg, praying that the guy didn't nick any major artery.

You're not fast, but fast enough to reach your group and you gasp, "Another group...two men...knife."

Arm dragging, the others pull you to your car and all you hear is, "It's going to be okay," before you black out.

Rick is helping with the new posts for the fence when he sees your car.

Even from a distance he can see that something is wrong.

You're speeding toward the fence way too fast.

"Maggie! Open the gate!", Rick's voice echoes across the yard and Maggie, standing closest to the gate, does as he asks.

With screeching tires, the car comes to a stop and the driver gets out, panicked and covered in blood.

Immediately Rick thinks the worst, "What happened? Where is she?"

'She' could have been anyone, but everyone knows who Rick means.

The door to the back seat opens and Rick hears your faint voice, "I'm fine. I just need to get some sleep."

The whole car smells of the iron in your blood and in his whole life he has never had such a panic as the moment he gets to see your pale face.

Immediately he pushes everyone aside and somehow squeezes his big body into the car without hurting you.

"Baby?", pure panic drips from that single word and you smile weakly at him, "Oh, so I have to be stabbed first for you to talk to me again?"

You lazily close your eyes and immediately his rough hand is on your cheek, "Don't fall asleep, yes? You have to stay awake."

"I'm so tired though," you don't even realize how weak your voice is, but Rick is almost cracking up, "Baby, look at me. I know you're tired, but please look at me."

It's exhausting to keep your eyes open, but you oblige, whereupon he reaches under your legs and mutters, "Just look at me, okay? We'll patch you up."

Slowly he lifts you out of the car and you mumble, "Are you going to stay with me this time or are you going to leave me alone again?"

A twinge of guilty conscience presses against his heart and he whispers softly, "I'll never leave you alone again," and he is completely serious.

He expects an answer, but nothing more comes from you and when he gets out of the car with you in his arms, your eyes are closed.

"Baby?" his voice whips up to unimagined heights and his heart threatens to leap out of his chest.

No.

Oh no.

Please don't.

He has no idea if you're even still breathing.

If he looked closely he would see your chest rising and falling but naked panic and fear pumps through his veins and he runs to jail with you in his arms, "Hershel!"

The older man is on the spot and with just a glance at the nearly motionless figure in Rick's arms he shouts, "Put her on your bed!"

The blood from your leg soaks his shirt and as he places you on his bed, his shirt sticks to him like a second skin.

As Hershel comes rushing into the small room, Rick makes as much room for him as the older man needs without leaving your side.

At the head of the bed, Rick kneels down and brushes a few sweaty strands from your face.

"Is she dead?", Rick's voice breaks and Hershel growls, "Calm down, son. She's just passed out."

Immediately Rick fixes his gaze on your chest and for the first time he doesn't look at it suggestively, but waits for the faint breath that lifts your pretty boobs.

When he sees with his own eyes that you're actually breathing, he rests his forehead against yours, gasping, and murmurs, "Oh my God. You're alive. You're alive and you're with me. You're alive."

He would never have forgiven himself if you died and your last memory of him was that he left you alone and vulnerable.

He never would have forgiven himself if he never told you the truth.

Rick presses his face against your neck so that his nose presses against your pulse and murmurs in a choked voice, "Baby, I love you. I'm sorry I've been such an ass. I promise I'll never leave you again. I love you so much. I love you."

"Rick?", Hershel's voice is soft, "You should tell her that when she regains consciousness."

Face still buried in your neck, he can't hold back the tears and while Hershel saves your life, Rick cries like he never has before.

Groaning softly, you open your eyes and try to adjust to the light conditions.

You're in prison but don't remember how you got here.

Darkly you remember Rick begging you to look at him and the rest is completely gone.

Lazily, you try to turn onto your side, but bump into something.

Confused, you turn your eyes to your hip and blink several times, thinking it's a dream.

Completely drenched in blood, Rick is sitting on the floor next to the bed you're lying in, his head resting on the mattress next to your hip.

His soft snores fill the small room and you wonder how long you've been unconscious.

"Rick?" your voice is raspy, but immediately Rick startles out of his sleep and stares at you, "You're awake."

Groaning, you frown, "Obviously, or I wouldn't have woken you up after all."

Sliding up to you on his knees, he murmurs softly, "Doesn't have to mean anything. You kept calling my name all night, but you were never awake."

Grumbling, you close your eyes and Rick reaches for your hand, "How are you?"

It's strange to see Rick so interested in you, and the way he clings to your hand feels like he's expecting you to get up and just disappear at any second.

"I feel like my leg was put through a meat grinder, but other than that, everything's top notch," you lazily open your eyes and Rick nods, "Okay, I'll get Hershel."

He stands up, but you squeeze his hand so tightly that he stops beside you, "Wait a bit. I want to be...alone with you."

Slowly, he kneels back down beside you and murmurs, "That can wait."

You roll your eyes and mumble, "No, it can't, because I don't know if you'll slip away and I'll never get to see you again."

Under his lashes, he looks at you, "I'm not leaving. Ever again."

Surprised, your eyebrows twitch up, "Oh yeah? Where'd that change of heart come from? Do I have to almost bleed to death for you to realize it was shitty of you to just leave me sitting there after you had your dick up to your balls in me?"

Rick winces like you hit him and in a perverse way it feels good.

It feels good that you can hurt him, too.

He doesn't even dare look you in the face as he whispers, "I'm sorry. There were so many different ways to handle the situation and I chose the asshole version."

Now you have his apology, but you still feel so hollow.

Not expecting anything more, you let go of his hand and nod, "Okay, thanks."

He wanted your young body, you're sure of it, and he got it.

That's all it is, and that's all it will ever be.

"Go get Hershel," at your words he looks up and stares at you like you asked for the moon.

You don't care that he admits to being with you all night.

You don't care that he called you baby at one point, and you don't care that you'll never be anything more than a nice pussy to fuck.

At least that's what you tell yourself.

A few seconds pass with no one stirring until Rick murmurs, "If you think it's disgusting or perverted, tell me and I'll shut up and never speak of it again."

"What?" you have no idea what he's talking about, but he slumps down and whispers, "I love you."

The silence is oppressive.

You're not even breathing anymore.

Apologetically, he looks at you with his pretty blue eyes, "I love you. I know it's sick and I'm sorry. You don't have much choice when it comes to sex and probably between all the others, I'm the best choice because you've known me the longest. I don't know. But I do know that I shouldn't have fallen in love with you. I mean, I've been thinking about fucking you forever. Way before that incident two weeks ago and even then I had a little crush on you. But finally holding you in my arms was…I was cracking up because I realized that I love you. With all my heart. And I felt like a pervert and then I acted like an ass. Then I held you bleeding in my arms and thought you were going to die thinking that I treated you like shit and not knowing how I felt about you, so I'm telling you now. I love you."

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then you lean forward, and Rick flinches as you place your lips on his.

For a brief moment, he stiffens again before leaning in toward you to put more pressure into the kiss.

You can practically taste the fear he had for you on his tongue and move a little closer to him.

Half erect, your torso brushes his and immediately he releases the kiss, "You should rest, baby."

The endearment, makes your cheeks warm and your lips brush his graying beard, "Hmhm."

Even dirty and sweaty, he smells so incredibly good that you press your nose against his neck and your heart does a somersault because he doesn't pull away from you and instead murmurs, "Baby, please."

Your leg screaming in pain completely fades into the background as you start sucking on his neck.

Rick flinches and digs his fingers into the edge of the mattress you're lying on.

Damn, you know exactly what you're doing and you should take it easy, especially since you weren't even conscious a few minutes ago.

As you bite into his neck, he squints his eyes and tries one more time, "Baby-"

"You know, I haven't been completely honest with you either," your voice is muffled and he only manages a soft "Huh?".

You press your mouth to his jaw, "I told you I was attracted to you because you're so manly."

He tilts his head to the side a little so you have better access.

"Were you just trying to boost my ego and actually think I'm a wimp?" his voice has dropped an octave and you suppress a whimper at the harsh tone in it.

How can it be that he doesn't know the impact he has on you?

How easily he can make you drool.

Gently, you lick over the new glowing spot on his neck, then whisper, "No, that was the truth. But it's not the only reason I'm so attracted to you."

You move away from him a bit and blink up at him, "You're good. You're a good man and your heart is in the right place. I don't care how old you are, and in a way, maybe your age turns me on a little bit, if I'm being honest. But I didn't want you just for sex and certainly you weren't one choice out of many. In fact, you have no competition at all because you were all I ever wanted. Always."

You bite your lower lip, "You know, I've had a head over heels crush on you forever. I...well I didn't think you could even like me like that."

He stares at you like you've grown a second head and you smile shyly at him, "Well, what I'm saying is that I love you too, Rick."

Blush stains your cheeks and only makes you more gorgeous.

You love him.

You.

Love.

Him.

Without thinking, he presses his lips to yours again and you moan in surprise into the kiss.

Gently, he straightens up a bit and presses you back into your pillow this way.

His beard scratches over your soft skin and you lift your hands to his cheeks to stroke the stubble.

He runs his tongue over your lower lip, "Should I shave my beard?"

He always had to do it with Lori because she had hated the way the stubble felt on her skin.

After that stopped being an issue, though, he let it grow.

But if you asked him to, he would still get a razor today just so he could keep kissing you.

What he didn't count on, though, is your soft laugh, "It doesn't bother me, Rick."

You tug on his beard, "Besides, it suits you."

Somehow you like the way the stubble feels against your skin.

Especially at the thought of how they would feel between your legs.

Rick's gaze softens and he leans further over you, nudging your leg a little, and you wince.

"Sorry, baby. I'll get Hersehl right now," chuckling, you stop him, "Relax. If I don't move it, it'll be fine."

Skeptically, he looks at you and you slide a hand to his belt, murmuring softly, "If you don't touch me, we'll be fine."

"You don't have to do this," he says, but in his eyes you see once again how much he wants to.

That's the interesting thing about Rick.

He can make his voice sound cold and impassive and look like he's about to rip your head off, but his eyes give him away.

Every time.

Because they're so bright, they also stand out so incredibly and it's playfully easy to read him in them.

Slowly you undo his belt and he doesn't budge an inch as you breathe, "I want to."

Hectically, his gaze slides to your bandaged leg and you purr, "Just relax. Think of it as a reward for taking such good care of me."

"Okay," his voice is soft and uncertain.

Frantically, you try to suppress a grin because it's so unlike him, "Stand up."

Immediately he looks you in the face again, sure you've changed your mind and want him to go get Hershel after all, but you whisper hoarsely, "If you stand, I can get to your cock better lying down."

He swallows a whimper.

When did he become such a wimp?

But your wide eyes and soft hand stroking his lower belly make him tremble and he nods.

With soft knees he straightens up to his full height and immediately you pull his pants down enough to get at his cock.

This innocent touch makes him moan harshly and he clings to the bed frame of the bunk bed.

Your eyes are glued to his upper arms, where his biceps now bulge strongly, and you whisper, "Say it again."

Rick looks first to your hand around his cock and then back to your face, "I love you."

You stroke his hardening cock and he moans, "Oh God, I love you so much."

He thrusts his hips at you and you just can't take your eyes off his face, not when he opens his blue eyes and looks at you like you're everything to him.

Maybe you even are, "I love you so much."

When he fucked you, you were so distracted by your pulsing pussy that you barely paid attention to how gorgeous Rick looks as his whole body shakes and he squints his eyes as if by willpower alone he won't manage to cum in your hand right now.

How could he behave at you any other way when you're lying in front of him, practically begging to jerk him off?

You try to straighten up a bit so you can breathe a kiss on the tip of his cock, and the way he flinches at the brief contact of your lips is enough amends for the stinging pain that emanates from your leg as you move.

Briefly, you think about what would happen if Rick were too loud.

If someone came into the small cell while you lay flat on the bed and Rick towered over you, fucking your hand.

The thought makes you whimper softly, "Fuck me."

As you expected, he shakes his head, "No, baby. You wanted my cock so jerk me off and I'll fuck you as soon as I can push your legs apart again."

Your grip tightens and you whimper softly, "Please don't talk like that."

Irritated, he frowns and when he sees you slide your free hand between your legs, he grunts, "It turns you on, right?"

Hesitantly, you nod and he grins at you, "Then keep your hands off yourself, baby."

Your hand freezes in mid-motion and Rick continues to fuck your hand, "Good girl. Imagine all the things I'm going to do to you because you're finally mine."

You moan softly, "Rick, please..."

"Shhhh, just jerk me off, baby," he teases you and you know it.

His cock is hard and swollen in your small hand and every time you graze his tip it twitches in your hand.

His knuckles stand out white and he moans harshly, "Where do you want it?"

Greedily you open your mouth and he growls, "Shit you're dirty."

He pushes your hand aside and aims for your wide open mouth as he rubs his shaft and he rests his forehead against his forearm to look down at you as he cums.

Some of his cum hits your mouth and the rest runs down your cheek.

You swallow what he gives you and gather up the rest from your cheek to put your finger in your mouth and suck his cum from your finger.

With his mouth open, he stares down at you.

You are perfect.

In every way, shape, and form.

With a 'plop' you pull your finger on your mouth as you hear Hershel's voice from outside, "Are you done?"

Smutty May Masterlist

Taglist: @hail-yourselves @bean-is-reading @chanlvr2 @criminalwalkingsupernatural @sunshinevirus @toxic-ink @kingtwhiddleston @bloodycherry22 @vane28282 @bamslover @revesephemeres @emo-potato-virgil @mrsashleybarnes18-blog @starsaroundmyscxrss @starkstiless @easystreet07 @darylsonlylove @your-shifting-gurl @strnqer @dreamtofus @lincolnswidow @rickswh0r3 @iluvdixon @sinsandsweetness @beekassyy

#rick grimes #rick grimes x reader #rick grimes smut #rick grimes imagine #twd x reader #twd #the walking dead #request #andrew lincoln #smutty may 2023

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dotieeee · 1 month

Text

The Gamemaker's Apprentice

Level 12

Pairing: Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow x You, named!Reader

Overall Warnings:

NON-CON, DUB-CON, Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow, Snow himself should be a warning, lots of blackmailing, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, possesiveness, eventual forced marriage, eventual loss of virginity, breeding kink, canon-compliant major character death, reader is named but has no physical descriptions in the fic so one might also consider her an OC but in 2nd POV, will have canon inconsistencies, drugging, somnophilia, and other stuff that may be added

Masterlist

Level 12 Warnings:

The blackest of mails, like vanta-blackmail lolol,

Replay Level 11

Ready? Level 12 Start:

The satisfied hum on the other line almost makes you throw the receiver into the wall.

“You win, okay? Let my uncle go.” You’re unable to hide the tremor in your voice as you concede. Coriolanus lets a pause pass before responding.

“Sugarplum, I’m happy you finally see things my way, but I think that’s a conversation best had in person.”

“I think it’s fine just this way, Coriolanus.”

“Now, don’t be stubborn,” he admonishes. “I will have my driver pick you up from your home in thirty minutes and bring you to me. We have much to talk about.”

Good grief. Obviously, you’d rather put in your safe space and not face him now – hell, not ever – but he’s been holding all the cards since yesterday and his tone isn’t giving you room to argue at all.

“Nellie. Thirty minutes.”

His almost-warning is followed at once by the dial tone. Having no choice, you use the remaining time preparing to head out. The warm bath you take takes a little bit of the tension off, but by the time you get inside your ride to Hell, it returns tenfold, and nothing you do save the fidgeting on the hem of your coat gives you a modicum of comfort. You arrive at the luxury apartment building where a valet opens the car door for you, and the doorman escorts you to the private elevator.

And just like that, you find yourself ringing the doorbell of Coriolanus Snow’s – now apparently your fiancé’s – penthouse.

A maid opens the door for you and motions to take your coat, before leading you to the living room. She then disappears, presumably to call for the master of the house, leaving you standing in the middle, fiddling with the hem of your dress and half-wondering whether you should make a run for it.

“Good morning, sugarplum.”

Ah, the said master of the house.

You look up to see Coriolanus grinning at you from ear to ear, wearing a thick designer crimson bathrobe with golden damask embroidery with matching house slippers. You freeze in place, which he takes advantage of; he places his arms around you and plants a single, lingering kiss on your lips.

Pulling away as he nudges your chin, he says, “You’ve made me very happy by just coming here. Have breakfast with me; the chef should be almost done.”

If you hadn’t been at a disadvantage, you’d have reacted incredulously at the nerve, as if he’s invited you here for mere casual chitchat.

“I thought you said we were going to talk,” you say.

“And we shall,” he replies. He puts an arm around your waist and, steering you into the dining room, he adds, “But first, you need to eat. When was the last time you ate anything, sugarplum?”

The smell of bacon coming from the kitchen invades your senses, and to your absolute mortification, that’s when your stomach chooses to betray you by grumbling audibly. Coriolanus laughs heartily, and for a moment you’re reminded of the days you spent with him as friends – and yet here you are now, ensnared and trapped by that friendship which you now know was just a front.

“I can’t have my future wife starving herself and risking her health,” he says with a smirk, pulling back a chair for you to the left of what you assume is his seat at the head of the dining table.

The table has been set lavishly with silver cutlery and fine chinaware, and in a few moments, you’re both served by the maid a steaming cup of tea, followed by a plate of eggs benedict with arugula salad on the side.

Breakfast breezes by quietly, with your eyes fixed on your plate as you chew mechanically while he steals glances at you in between bites. He urges you to finish off your plate, which you comply with just to get the entire thing over with. Once he’s satisfied, he motions for the maid to clear the table and gives her one final order as she curtsies.

“Clean up, and then you’re free to go home for the day, as is the chef. My betrothed and I will need the privacy.”

You wish he’d stop referring to you like that, but it’s not like you have a choice in the matter.

Coriolanus takes you back to the living room by hand and offers you the loveseat. He then takes his place beside you with a contented sigh as he turns to face you with his legs crossed and his back leaning against the backrest.

Well-fed in his bathrobe and slippers, he paints this relaxed, almost cheerful picture you could only hope to achieve. You scoot a little more away from him as much as the two-seater couch allows you to.

He takes your trembling left hand in his cold ones and kisses the back of it before placing it on his knee as he speaks.

“We have so much to do, so much to talk about, but first, let’s discuss the matter of our story.”

Ah, yes. He can’t really tell the public about ‘winning your heart’ by way of coercion, can he?

“I told Mr and Mrs Plinth that I have good news for them, so they invited us for afternoon tea and dinner.”

With his grip impossible for you to wrench away from, your hand remains on his knee, clenched at the prospect of revealing this devastating news this quickly.

“But, why now?” you ask. “Can’t we…I don’t know, wait? Isn’t this a little bit too sudden?”

He tilts a corner of his lips as he responds, “The twelfth Hunger Games is just two weeks away, and the Capitol will surely be happy to know that the two gamemakers responsible for its success are now tying the knot. I plan on announcing our engagement as soon as it finishes. There is no better timing than this, sugarplum.”

How typical of Coriolanus Snow to use the Games to further publicise this farce of an engagement and shift the limelight to himself. All that aside, however, you have only one focus which he hadn’t yet touched.

“And what of my uncle? Has he been released?” you insistently probe.

“That depends entirely on your cooperation today, sugarplum,” he says as he draws circles absently on your hand which he still clasps. “If you follow my instructions, if you stick to our story, word per word, I might be inclined to let him go home by tonight, just like nothing happened. If not…”

His grin grows colder and wider – an ominous sign that this isn’t going to end well for you and your uncle if he doesn’t get his way.

“Your uncle will stay detained, and by tomorrow I will give the order to have him exiled somewhere in the Districts. I’m feeling generous today, so I’ll let you take your pick, save District 3, of course.”

His other hand reaches out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear before asking, “So, will you be good today, and do exactly as I say?”

Numbly, you nod once. He just tuts and tugs your hand to bring you closer.

“Use your words, sugarplum,” he whispers.

So, you swallow that lump in your throat, your voice shaking as you say, “Yes, Coryo.”

As an approving smirk grows on his face and victory dances in his chilling blue eyes, you get an overwhelming feeling that you’re going to have to get used to saying that more often.

“Good girl,” he praises.

He gets to his feet at once with a quiet order for you to stay put as he exits the living room. Before you could even know what for, he returns after but a few moments clutching something with his hand you can’t see. You watch, confused and increasingly dumbstruck, when he bends on one knee. With your faces now level, he peers into your eyes as he reveals what he’s holding in his hands:

A red-velvet jewellery box, the lid of which he flips to unveil a ring; at its head is the largest emerald-cut diamond you’ve ever laid eyes on, with its white-golden band accented with smaller round diamonds at its shoulder.

Clearly pleased at your reaction, he uses your momentary stupefaction to explain, “I could’ve done this more properly and in a better setting in the near future, but I suppose this will have to do.”

Coriolanus pries the ring off its case and very gently slips it on your left ring finger, where it stays there in its glimmering radiance, weighing down your hand and almost mocking you with its implied permanence. As if to seal your fate further, he captures your lips with his in a searing kiss that raises the hair on your arms and the back of your neck. His tongue pushes past your lips insistently to make you respond – instead, you turn your head away and break it off. You’re breathless, partly because of the kiss, but mostly because this is now happening – you’re going to have to get used to kisses like these and you’re really now engaged to Coriolanus Snow – and any chance of getting away from him is smaller than it has ever been and will likely vanish entirely as soon as the Games is over.

He lets out a sigh of displeasure the moment you break the kiss.

“Sugarplum, when I said, ‘do everything I say,’ this is part of it,” he chastens, but he lets out another exhale and shifts to his previous carefree mood. “But like I said, I’m feeling a little more lenient at present, so I will let that slide.”

He then smooches your exposed cheek instead before adding, “Disobey me again today, however…” he trails off with a suppressed chuckle – a warning not to fuck up again in his eyes – and briefly stroking your cheek before settling down once more on the seat beside you.

From there, he begins giving you his instructions – how to act and react, how to respond to anticipated questions, and most importantly, how to defer to him when it comes to matters you haven’t brushed over. He gives you room for questions and objections, but to these, his explanations are clipped – and since he won’t allow opposition, you try to keep your dissent at bay no matter how much his orders appal you. He doesn’t stop pressing you until your performance is every bit as perfect in his eyes. You don’t finish until about half-past twelve, when he asks if you’d prefer going out to eat for lunch with him or have it ordered in; both of which you refuse at first, but you opt for the latter the moment you see his eyebrows start to furrow.

Once the food arrives, he says something about getting ready to go out for an important Sunday errand before sauntering away. He leaves the apartment, but not without a kiss on your forehead. You let enough time to pass for him to have left the building entirely before you run to the door and shake the knob open, only to find that he’d locked it from the outside, and no matter what you do with the keypads on the inside, it would not budge.

No way out of this glorified cage, it seems.

You get the inkling that you’re going to have to get used to being locked in this apartment from the outside more often.

“Oh, my goodness, Nellie, my dear!”

You’re encased in a huge, warm embrace the moment a delighted Ma Plinth sees you cross the threshold of their Corso home. You return the hug gladly, almost melting into her arms.

“Ma, I’m so happy to see you,” you whisper in an almost pained voice. You needed that hug so badly, you realise.

Ma pulls away to cradle your face as if to get a better look at you. “Oh, it’s always a pleasure to have you,” she beams brightly before that smile turns into a small, worried frown. “How are you? Have you been eating and sleeping well, sweetheart? You’ve lost a little weight.”

“I have?” you mutter absently. Not that you really care what you look like right now; you’re just glad to be with a friendly presence for once in your Uncle Cas’s absence.

From behind you, however, Coriolanus places a cold hand on your shoulder, overwhelming the warmth Ma exudes.

“I’ve made it my personal mission to make sure she’s taking care of herself, Ma, but my sugarplum can be stubborn at times,” he says teasingly.

Ma lets out a lilting laugh before him in for an embrace. Once the maid has taken your coats, you follow the two into the lounge, paying their animated conversation very little mind as you go over in your head silently the things you’re supposed to say and the topics you’re supposed to avoid and defer to him. The three of you are eventually seated at a small round table by a tall window overlooking the Corso circle, where you’re served hot tea and an assortment of teacakes and pastries, which both Ma and Coriolanus urge you to eat as much as you’d like. Mr Plinth arrives shortly, so you and Coriolanus pay your respects by getting to your feet and greeting him. Plinth senior returns the gesture by shaking Coriolanus’s hand firmly and pulling him in for a brief one-armed hug and a clap on his back.

“Strapping young man, as always,” he comments with pride. Turning to you, you extend a hand to him as well, but he says, “None of that, my dear girl, we’re practically family!”

He gives you the same one-armed hug and smiles warmly at you, before motioning everyone to take their seat.

After he’s served some tea by the maid, thus begins the inquiry.

“So, Coriolanus, what is this news you bring? I can tell it’s something good,” Mr Plinth asks with a bright, expectant smile. Like he already knows what it is but he’s waiting for your companion to spill it. Ma wears the same look, sipping her tea but looking over her cup excitedly.

Coriolanus’s right laces with your left hand – the one bearing the token of imprisonment masquerading as an engagement ring – over the table where it’s clearly visible to the Plinth couple. You force yourself to smile at him like he had instructed, which he returns. He seems over the moon, a genuine display which you’re mildly surprised he’s still capable of, when he starts to explain.

“I suppose it could’ve waited until dinner, but I was too overjoyed at the news.” Pausing to lick his lips, his posture straightens as he continues, “Just the other night, Nellie made me the happiest man in the world by accepting my bid for her hand in marriage.”

Under duress, you inwardly add.

The gasp that Ma lets out is immediately drowned out by her husband’s loud ‘Ha!’ and if that doesn’t tell you he was expecting this bit of information, he says jovially, “I knew it, I kept telling everyone that you two children were bound to get there.”

Ma lets out a teary ‘oh’ while she clutches her chest, gushing over the way Coriolanus grips your hand and gently runs the pad of his thumb over your knuckles. She bursts into quiet sobs while Strabo pats her on the back and holds her hand.

“Oh, you kids!” she exclaims amidst tears of apparent joy. “I’m sorry, I’m just so happy you two have finally decided to settle down together. It’s just so obvious you’re meant for each other.”

Strabo pulls a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and hands it over to his wife, who proceeds to wipe her tears demurely, and says, “About time, too! Congratulations, both of you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Coriolanus replies.

“I’m just glad Nellie finally gave you a chance! I was starting to think your famous charm had finally found its match, my boy,” Strabo teases.

Coriolanus’s eyes twinkle when he catches yours and kisses the back of your hand to further drive this image of a couple head-over-heels in love with each other that he wants to portray. And just like he wanted, you give him a smile, which is getting increasingly harder to do while you battle with your inner self to keep you from breaking character.

For Uncle Cas, you remind yourself.

Your fiancé goes along with the jest. “I’m certainly lucky she did, sir. I would’ve otherwise resorted to other measures to make sure she ends up with me.”

This earns a laugh from the married couple across the table, making them miss the rather knowing glint that passes over Coriolanus’s eyes.

Jokes are half-meant, so they say.

When the joyous tone dies down a bit, Mr Plinth brings up a topic that Coriolanus had anticipated and trained you with.

“What of Acacius? Does he know? Your uncle should be here as well, should he not?”

Those blue eyes tell you what you don’t need to be reminded of: don’t fuck it up.

With your hands on your lap, you slowly say, “He’s aware, sir, but it’s...a little complicated.”

“How so?”

“My uncle didn’t approve, and we’re currently not on speaking terms,” you explain with rehearsed ease. Just like he told you to.

Back at his apartment, he had ordered you to stay away from your uncle, which he claims is to corroborate with the story of him not approving the match. To you, however, it’s likely just to keep you and your uncle from planning ways of escaping his clutches.

As if on cue, Coriolanus holds both your hands on your lap and squeezes, making it look like he’s trying to comfort you.

“Oh, you poor dear,” Ma whispers empathetically.

“Well, that is absurd,” Mr Plinth nods to himself with his brows stitched together. “Acacius should know better than to interfere with the decision of two consenting adults! Quite frankly, I’m disappointed in him, given his speech back...” he seems to catch himself, possibly to refrain from mentioning a certain meeting you weren’t privy to.

“But, never mind that,” he amends. “Perhaps I should have a word with him.”

It’s Coriolanus who speaks this time. “I appreciate the gesture sir, but Nellie and I have decided to give Mr Innis time and space to come around. If that’s what he needs to accept our decision, we’re happy to give it to him.” Then he adds with a soft smile directed at you, attempting to lighten the mood, “The last thing I want is to put pressure on my future in-law.”

Mr Plinth hums to himself and bobs his head in affirmation. “You have a wise head on you, my boy. I think that’s for the better.” Turning to you, he says, “I’m sure your uncle just needs time to think. After all, it’s understandable – to him, you’re his daughter, and he loves his little girl too much he can’t bear the thought of losing you, even if it’s to a man who clearly loves you.”

“Thank you, sir,” you say.

Ma mirrors her husband’s words and adds, “Nellie, once he sees how genuine the love is between you two, I’m positive he’ll give you his blessing.”

Coriolanus thanks both for their support and takes this time to veer into another matter he’s rehearsed you with.

“I’d like to also announce, Ma, sir, that I’ve taken it upon myself to let my Nellie stay in my apartment for the time being, given the circumstances; this is my way of giving you a heads-up.”

Another one of his mandates which just cements your initial idea that he wants to keep you under his watchful eye to prevent you from running away. It’s despicable, but like anything he does, it’s efficient and well-thought-of. The idea, however, is met by silence, followed by the couple exchanging unsure looks. You can only hope that their more traditional views would mean they’d be against Coriolanus’s rather bold move.

Ma, who seems hesitant, asks him carefully, “Why would there be a need for Nellie to move into your home, Coriolanus? This...this is a huge, uh, step, even for engaged couples.”

Once more, Coriolanus’s eyes find yours, and he gives you this look that you interpret pretty well: ‘Do it exactly as I said.’

So you swallow any reservations in you and explain the ‘mutual’ decision.

“After I told Uncle Cas the news that Coriolanus and I got engaged that night, we got into an argument. He said a few things that didn’t sit well with me, so, I decided to just pack my things. I ran away yesterday at dawn. I didn’t think I could live with my uncle anymore, not when he couldn’t see fit to respect my choice.”

Lies. All lies. And you’re getting to be quite the good liar, yourself. Then again, you’re learning from one of the best out of all of them.

“Oh my,” Ma says as she places her fingers over her lips in distress. “I’m sorry, my sweet girl…” She reaches over to you to clasp your hand momentarily before letting go.

This is Coriolanus’s turn to interject. “I caught up to her that morning trying to board a train to her aunt in District 3.”

Ma lets out a gasp of shock and Mr Plinth raises his eyebrows in alarm. To appease the couple, you add, “I admit it was a brash move, but I had nowhere else to go.”

“Nellie,” Ma says in a chastising tone. “The Districts? It’s not safe, even if you have family there. You could’ve gone to us instead.”

“I’m sorry, Ma – ”

“Nevertheless,” Coriolanus cuts off, as he once more reaches for your hand over the table. “We talked it out, and I made a choice to offer her my place. I am willing to take her in, as is my duty as her future husband. Besides, better that, than gambling her safety in the Districts. I’d be more at ease if I knew she’s safe and I can protect her should the need arise.”

The Plinth couple, visibly concerned with your predicament, exchange looks, as they contemplate their verdict.

Please say no. Please say no.

Finally, The Plinth senior lets out an audible exhale and gives Coriolanus a firm nod.

Rats.

“A wise decision, then,” Strabo says with a smile of approval. “You have my wife and I’s full support, Coriolanus. I’m proud of you for stepping up, young man.”

The young man in question sighs in relief – another point on his proverbial scoreboard – as your insides wilt inwardly. To you, this just means you’d never get to interact with your Uncle Cas anytime soon, given that he’s now been painted as the villain in this fictional love story.

“Well, then, let’s not let this joyous day be eclipsed by mere unfortunate events,” Strabo declares. “We should be celebrating. You two youngsters, most especially!”

Ma continues to sip her tea and says cheerfully as her hand finds her husband’s, “Indeed, this is a wonderful occasion. Can you believe it, dear? It seems only like yesterday since Coriolanus announced over dinner that he’d set his eyes on Nellie, and now here we are!”

As you sip your tea in silence, your fiancé chuckles heartily over a bite of a chocolate macaron. “I know, Ma. Time does fly by. But so you don’t feel left out, sugarplum, I told them about a year ago that I planned on marrying you.”

You smile at him like a trained pet, but knowing he planned this a year ago, probably even more, is nothing but jarring.

“And have you talked about when the wedding will be?” Strabo inquires.

His honorary son and his wife seem to pass each other knowing smiles, before Coriolanus responds, “Yes, sir. I originally intended for us to marry by January, but we’re now leaning towards the end of the year, perhaps by December, if all goes well.”

By the end of the year. You’re not even close to graduating college yet.

A lighthearted conversation ensues until five thirty, with everyone entirely oblivious to your inner turmoil. When Ma excuses herself from the table so she can supervise making dinner herself, you volunteer to help – Ma looks extremely pleased at this – just so you can get away from the stifling presence and keen scrutiny of your so-called groom-to-be.

“Come, Nellie dear, it’s time we had a chat, just the two of us girls,” she says with her eyes crinkling as she links both your arms. Gratefully, you allow yourself to be steered away into the kitchen where those piercing blue eyes can’t reach you and it’s only Ma’s reassuring presence that’s keeping you company.

There are maids already awaiting their orders when you enter, but Ma instructs them to retire early for the night so she can have the entire kitchen to herself. Once they exit, Ma instructs you to chop some onions.

“We’re having copadia* tonight,” Ma whispers excitedly as she begins toasting some peeled almonds on a skillet.

Curious about the dish, you ask, “Won’t that take three or more hours to finish, Ma?”

But she just winks at you and whispers mischievously, “I have my ways.”

You do as you’re told, quite looking forward to watching Ma perform her magic on the food she makes. You’re halfway through the onions, seeing to it that they’re sliced evenly, and while Ma begins crushing the toasted almonds in a marble mortar and pestle, she peers into your eyes with an anxious look.

“Nellie, tell me something: how are you in all of this?”

Maybe it’s the way she asked so gently, kind of like how you imagine your own mother would if she was alive, or maybe it’s because of the pressure building up inside you that you can no longer contain, and without your Uncle Cas, you’ve no one else to confide to – whatever it is forces a rush of bottled up emotions in the form of sobs you can barely control, making you pause your task completely. Familiar warmth envelops you, and you find yourself in Ma’s arms as she whispers into your ears.

“There, there, dear child, it’s quite alright,” she coos, rubbing your back to soothe you. “Your uncle will come around, you’ll see. It’s okay to feel overwhelmed, too; I felt quite the same before my wedding, but Strabo’s a good man; as is Coriolanus. I know he’ll do anything and everything to make you happy. And I’m sure you’ll make the perfect wife for him, and a loving mother to your future children.”

The warmth you’re basking in vanishes completely with her last sentence, making you let go first. Ma cups your face to wipe your tears with her thumbs, her kind eyes glimmering with unshed tears at what she perceives as your dilemma.

No, you can’t possibly tell her the truth about the kind of man she just let into her home and her family – the knowledge alone would break her.

So, instead, you whisper your thanks, and she returns to her side on the kitchen island to continue pounding the almonds. Likewise, you pick up the knife and resume slicing the last onion.

“I’m sorry if this feels rather intrusive, Nellie dear, but I have to ask: are you pregnant?”

The knife in your hand misses your forefinger by about three millimetres.

“Oh, dear, careful, that was close – but my question stands, Nellie,” she says gently, pausing her task entirely. “You can tell me anything, sweetie, I hope you know that.”

Vehemently, you shake your head. “No, Ma, we haven’t…b-but, why do you ask?”

She looks over her shoulder, before leaning closer and saying with a softer voice, “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but we may have been planning your reception since several months ago – don’t worry, we can make changes to anything you don’t like – but I brought it up because I distinctly remember Coriolanus being fine with the wedding dating a year after, at most. So, I was merely curious about the rush; that’s all.”

If they had been planning this accursed wedding behind your back, what other plans are they making and setting in motion? The kitchen suddenly doesn’t seem so welcoming anymore, and even Ma’s presence is beginning to feel foreign, if not hostile, altogether.

“Nellie, you’re sure you and Coriolanus haven’t…? I mean, I understand young couples these days no longer wait until their wedding night, and as I gather, he and you have been spending so much time together alone, so it’s okay if you’ve...slept together and protection slipped both your minds.”

Your skin prickles at just the thought. “Oh, Ma, please don’t worry,” you say; you even try your best to put on a reassuring smile, which you hope doesn’t come out as looking constipated. “I swear we haven’t.”

I would know.

“Alright, then,” she relents, nodding to herself. “Coriolanus is every bit the gentleman he appears to be, it seems. Oh silly me! I must look like such a busybody to you, barging in on your privacy like this; I’m sorry, dear.”

“It’s okay, Ma, I know you’re only looking out for me.”

Thankfully, she makes no more mention of anything related to the concept of procreation, and the conversation moves on to her methods of improving the ancient recipe.

From there on, the rest of the evening with the Plinths becomes predictable. There’s good food, as usual, which you attempt to enjoy; then there’s the inevitable shift to discussions of your work in the upcoming Games; finally, more talk of wedding preparations, which, although completely foreign to you, you feign interest in. This cycle goes on until tea after dinner and you still engage, now mildly desensitised to it all, watching Mr and Mrs Plinth interact with their found family. Somewhere along the conversation, someone has turned on the television, which is tuned in on this wildlife documentary of a lovely bird’s nest, with the mother and the father bird tending to their hatchling. Almost transfixed while the chatter goes on around you, you watch the lovely bird family as the camera pans to this white snake which had burrowed underneath the nest. It had just donned on likeness of the little hatchling after swallowing it whole, and it seemed to bide its time with the intent of devouring the mother and father bird as well. You can’t fault them for their nurturing nature – no one can – but there isn’t much one can do to help fix the now-infested nest, either.

As the night grinds to a halt, you say your farewells to the Plinth couple and obediently allow yourself to be carted off back to the car which will take you to your new living space – it’s hardly deserving to be called a ‘home’ – and Coriolanus lets out a drawn-out, self-satisfied sigh. Cupping your face from the side, he plants lingering kisses on your temple and on your cheek before whispering his praise: “You did exceptionally well today, sugarplum.”

You simply purse your lips the entire car ride.

He accompanies you from the car all the way to his penthouse door. Punching his keycard in, he ushers you inside and leads you to the bedroom beside his.

“This is your room now,” he says. “I’ve taken the liberty of moving some of your things from your old apartment. If they missed packing some of your clothes, I can always buy you new ones.”

Then he adds that he’ll be with you shortly after running an errand. What errand, he doesn’t elaborate, and you barely get enough time to look around the bedroom when you hear the apartment door close. He’s locked you in again, and this time, you don’t need even to confirm for yourself.

Snow lands on top.

The phrase he’s come to accept as the truth rings over and over Coriolanus Snow’s head before his day has even begun.

It started this morning at seven when everything began to fall into place for him. When things became right again, when all his years of planning, fantasising, and scheming, had finally bore fruit.

Prunella Innis had at last become his.

Well, you were already his, to begin with, but it’s nice to have you essentially admit it out loud. Overall, Coriolanus is relieved to find his winning streak still ongoing – the Games, the Plinths, your uncle’s work, and now, you, but even he admits this isn’t over. There is so much more work to be done, so many things to prepare for – all of it to so he can lock in your future with him, secure the Snow bloodline and move on to further his political ambitions.

The image in his head is clear it almost looks like a memory: you, standing beside him, timelessly beautiful as you always are, your arm clinging to his, your other resting on the shoulder of a blond-haired child, his son; his perfect, beautiful family wholeheartedly supporting him right before a herd of Capitol residents as they celebrate his inauguration as the President of Panem…

Every day is a day closer to this goal, and there is no one else left who might get in his way.

“Mr. Innis.”

Almost no one else.

Coriolanus made a promise to you this morning – that if you went along with the story he wants to portray to the Plinths, he’d have your uncle released – a promise he almost regrets making, seeing Acacius Innis in his cell, leaning back on his chair with his feet on the table looking perfectly nonplussed, even bored, like he’s merely waiting for his turn at the doctor’s office.

The thing is, you had exceeded his expectations by a mile, so what kind of husband would he be if he isn’t true to his word?

Coriolanus closes the door behind him. No one else, save his future in-law, has to be privy to the words he has to say.

“Snow,” Acacius greets with a curl of his lips. The chains binding his hands rattle as he rights his posture. “How’s the digging through my stuff going?”

Coriolanus almost raises an eyebrow at this nonchalant display, but he knows better. He simply takes the vacant seat facing the presumed former rebel.

“I did not come here to interrogate you, Mr Innis,” he says. “I came here out of respect for the man who singlehandedly raised and cared for my future wife. I’d like to thank you for protecting her all these years.”

Acacius crosses his arms and just shrugs half-heartedly. “I was doing a pretty good job with it, too. At least, until very recently.”

Now this, Coriolanus is genuinely perplexed with. Acacius Innis has always been adamant about securing your future, and in that, they share a common goal. Why the older man can’t see his way is beyond him.

“You’re shielding her from what, exactly?” he asks, an incredulous tone bleeding in his voice. “Achieving her true potential? From living a good life?”

“From nasty little cunts like you, that’s what,” the Innis patriarch sneers. “You see, Snow, I’ve been trying to keep her away from your grubby fingers since I saw you set your eyes on her on the night of her twentieth birthday.”

Coriolanus can’t help but twist his lips in the same contemptuous smile. “You’ve done your part. You don’t have to worry. I’ll take over her protection from here on out. This time, only I get to turn away the other ‘nasty little cunts’, as you put it so eloquently.”

A mirthless chuckle erupts from Innis senior. “Oh, yeah, you’ll do a great fucking job, I’m deeply reassured. I guess I should be more worried now about the people you’ll poison along the way.”

So, he knows. Even in duress, he can’t help the sarcasm. Coriolanus wonders if you’ll argue with him like this in the course of your marriage. That aside, he shouldn’t be surprised; the Innis prick, after all, has managed well in meddling with his affairs as of late.

“You know. How?”

“Which one? Highbottom, or Braun? Last time I checked, I’m what you call a math teacher, so, it was just like putting two and two together.” Acacius leans forward as if to drive his point. “I saw right through you, Snow, and although Nellie was late to it, she figured you out. She was smart enough to see who you really are underneath that fancy garb.”

That’s true, Coriolanus admits. It’s a trait he deeply admires in you.

“She got that from you,” he concludes.

“Oh, she got more than that from me,” Acacius says proudly.

“Clearly. She’s got your sharp tongue and your penchant for rebellion.”

“Good.” Acacius Innis laces his fingers as if he’s addressing a mere student. “And I’m assuming you’ll purge it all out of her. Anything that makes her who she is – save her brains, of course, because she’s the only one around here who can do what I can – but everything else, you’ll stamp out of her, so you can fit her into your perfect little world and put her in your high shelf like your perfect little doll. I suppose, compared to what you did to that Plinth boy, it’s a hell of an upgrade, isn’t it?”

Ah, so he’s deduced that, as well. Perhaps even before you did, given his free access to all the Citadel laboratories.

“You led her to the Citadel that day. You knew she’d make that connection herself.”

“Like you said: Nellie has my intuition.”

“Why did you do it?”

Acacius raises a derisive eyebrow. “You see, Snow, you’re not as clever as you make yourself out to be, because if you were, you’d have figured that out yourself. I raised that child like my own, but I’d rather her be dead than see her in the arms of an evil psychopath such as you.”

This time, it’s Coriolanus’s turn to get under the Innis prick’s skin, and he knows just where to strike a blow. Leaning forward to rub it in his face, he says, “Well, if I’m not as clever, Mr. Innis, she wouldn’t be living in my house right now, dutifully waiting for me to come home.”

An image of you lying in his bed in his choice of lingerie invades his mind, but he shuts that part of himself down. Plenty of time to indulge in that later.

If your uncle is fazed, however, he doesn’t show any outward signs.

“That must feel nice, right?” the Innis senior asks. “Having someone who loves you await your return? That must be how Sejanus felt as well. That kid was always writing to her. I risked a lot to make sure their letters don’t get intercepted, well except for one, which I think you have.”

“Ah, the letters. Is that how they avoided detection? Your little band of rebels doing all the leg work? I hope it was worth sacrificing your immunity for.”

“You did your research, I’m impressed. Have you cracked their code, yet?”

Unfortunately, no matter how hard Coriolanus tried, the code has since evaded him. A little roadblock, sure, but an inconsequential one in his eyes.

“The meaning of those letters doesn’t matter now,” he says dismissively. “Nellie is mine, and I think it’s in your best interests to accept that. After all, I’d like our children to have their grandfather around.”

The Innis senior just nods thoughtfully at his jab. What might make this old man crack, Coriolanus has yet to discover.

“But I also think it’s in your best interests to know that every letter they exchanged ended in the same gist: that they’ll be with each other soon to make a difference in this world. Nellie loved that boy you betrayed and, in consequence, executed.”

And then the meddling, cunning Innis prick smiles – the kind of smile Coriolanus loathes to his core – one that his old self has been given a lot to remind him just how powerless he was then. “You may have her, marry her, have children with her, but you’ll never have her heart. Which begs the question: do you truly own something if you don’t own it in every sense of the word?”

If Coriolanus Snow could just wrap his hands around the fucking prick’s throat, he would. At this point, he has to remind himself to keep his composure; he’d rather drink an entire bottle of rat poison than admit the Innis prick has hit a rather sensitive nerve.

He made you a promise.

So, he simply returns the venomous smile as best as he could and says, “Our plan is to be wed in six months’ time.”

“You mean ‘your’ plan,” Acacius says under his breath.

Coriolanus decides to ignore that. “We have decided that, due to your disapproval of our relationship, Nellie will stay with me and have no contact with you until you publicly announce your blessing. We would appreciate it if you’d attend both the engagement, which we should be announcing soon, and the marriage to show support and solidarity between our families. We’ll let you know when they’ll be.”

“I hope you get good cake. You already know her favourite,” Acacius says casually.

Seeing no further need to acknowledge him, Coriolanus finally gets to his feet.

“This isn’t over, Snow.”

Nor does he see the need to respond to that either. He wordlessly exits the cell and motions the peacekeeper standing on guard to remove Innis senior’s handcuffs. He’s fulfilled his promise to you, but perhaps he can think of other ways he can get Acacius Innis as far away as possible from ruining what he’s worked so hard to build (save killing him because that would just break you).

All Coriolanus needs now is for him to make a single misstep.

You groan audibly as you wrench the doors to your closet open.

Having come out of the shower from the guestroom’s private bathroom, you proceeded to raid the adjacent walk-in closet for your pyjamas, but you didn’t find a single pair of them anywhere. Everything else the movers didn’t seem to miss.

So, when you hear Coriolanus arrive, you step out of the room clad in only a bathrobe barely reaching your knees, hoping he knows where they put your pyjamas.

“Those looked old, so I bought you new sleep clothes instead,” he replies as he enters the guestroom closet. He pulls back the last cabinet door, which you’ve already checked.

“There’s nothing there but – ”

You stop midsentence as he pulls out a silk, crimson nightgown trimmed with black lace at the hem.

“I can’t sleep in that,” you protest.

Shrugging, he just throws the nightgown on the bed with a playful smirk and says, “Either that or keep the bathrobe on.”

At least he exits your room completely and closes the door behind him to give you privacy. Grumbling to yourself, you put on the nightgown to find that it’s a few inches shorter than the bathrobe. How bad can it be, you wonder? You’re just going to bed, anyway.

Even with the nightgown and the bed covers proving to be comfortable, sleep evades you for the next few hours. All you can think of as you toss and turn in your bed is Uncle Cas. Has Coriolanus upheld his end of the bargain? Has he ordered your uncle’s release? Is your uncle back at home and resting?

You place an ear to your door to listen for signs that Coriolanus is still awake. It’s awfully quiet outside, so you risk stepping out of the bedroom and noiselessly amble around the apartment for a single platinum-blond hair of him, but he isn’t in any of the open rooms you peek into.

“This suits you much better than the bathrobe, sugarplum.”

You gasp as you turn around, finding yourself inches away from bumping into Coriolanus Snow himself. He has to bend a little to peer into your face given his massive height, so you almost cower at the way he leans into your space. He’s gotten so close you catch a whiff of his usual rose perfume along with notes of something else you’ve never smelled on him before.

“Coryo, have you been drinking?” you ask.

He flashes you a smirk as he replies, “A little. I had a tough conversation a while ago.”

You can’t help but tilt your head curiously at him. Who and what could’ve ruffled the feathers of the great Coriolanus Snow?

“What happened to my uncle? Where is he?”

“Why would you want to know that? What purpose would it serve you?”

You almost groan in annoyance at him needlessly beating around the bush. You just had the roughest day in your life, being engaged to him, and you’re not sure you can handle a tipsy version of him. “Coryo, just...stop jerking me around and tell me. Please.”

He just hums, walks into the living room and plops down on the loveseat he seems to favour. He pats the empty space beside him and says, “Come and sit with me.”

So, you do, while keeping as much of a distance between you as much as the sofa can give.

“What would you give me in return, sugarplum?”

“What?”

“Quid pro quo,” he says with an increasingly wider smirk. “I can keep the knowledge to myself, but if you’re willing to make this interesting…”

Coriolanus inches towards you as he draws closer. Those blue hazy eyes are fixed on your lips, and you shudder inwardly as his meaning dawns on you.

“Kiss me,” he gruffly whispers. “Or I could just go to bed…it’s an office day tomorrow, after all…”

But you have to know what has become of Uncle Cas, right? So, you swallow that lump in your throat, close your eyes and place your lips over his.

Surprisingly, he remains stationary and even allows you to break the quick kiss.

“Your first kiss was him,” he then blurts out. It comes out almost accusatory.

Oh no.

“How was it?”

“W-what – ?”

“How was it?” He grabs your arms, seemingly determined to get an answer. “Show me.”

“This has nothing to do with – ”

“I said show me.”

The way he growls that command of his and the manner in which he almost shakes your form shows you he isn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer. Whatever point he’s trying to make, he isn’t letting go of it anytime soon, so once more, you kiss him, letting your lips linger a little more on his before letting go.

Exactly the way Sejanus did.

Coriolanus Snow just managed to tarnish a cherished memory of yours without even lifting a finger.

And yet, he just scoffs like it’s nothing. You try to wrench your arm away, but this time, he initiates the kiss – a longer, deeper kiss, pushy, almost, with his tongue demanding entrance to your mouth. When you keep your lips shut, he pulls away.

“Remember that fight we had?” he whispers into your lips. “You said I took everything from Sejanus. Not everything, then. Not yet. You were Sejanus’s love. His girl.” Then, as if to further make a mockery of your dead first love, he lets out a deep, throaty laugh, continuing, “I wish he was alive today if only to see his first and only love in my arms, kissing me as he did on the day he last saw you.”

Humouring him by sitting on the same couch was a mistake. You struggle against his hold, but he just pulls you closer.

“Let me go – ”

You lean further away from his face, but you don’t get too far away, not when his grip on your arms is still vicelike.

“Now, I get to do so much more than he ever did with you...”

In a single swoop, Coriolanus manages to pin you underneath his frame on the loveseat with your legs awkwardly hanging on the side, earning a yelp from you. Your heartbeat is pounding so loud in your ears as his warm breaths fan the side of your face – he’s taken your arms and pinned them above your head while he leans over your shaking form. Your attempts to budge are met with a displeased growl over your ear.

“Coryo, stop – ” you manage to breathe out, but you’re instantly cut off.

He’s just encased your lips with his, and his tongue roams your mouth hungrily – with every move of his lips, yours is forced to move as well. When he’s had enough, that mouth and its heated kisses travel to your jaw, finally allowing you to breathe.

But instead of an exhale, a choked sob escapes you.

Coriolanus pulls away reluctantly, adjusting his grip on your arms as he peers into your tear-filled eyes.

Finally, he states matter-of-factly, “You’re a virgin.”

Despite your distress at the vulnerable position you’re in, you retort, “That’s none of your business.”

“But it is. You’ll be my wife soon. I suppose I can tell you about my past to make it easier for you. There’s that one in the back alley, that was my first; you already know that. Then, a few after that...whores...”

His head dips into your neck, and he goes on to whisper over your exposed skin, “I want you to know that while I fucked them, all I could think of was you.”

Ignoring your frantic plea, Coriolanus angles your head and proceeds to lick, suckle, and bite all over the column of your neck to your collarbones. His bites become increasingly harsher, and from above you, you feel him grasp both your wrists in one hand, while his other travels downwards, roaming the side of your body and reaching the hem of your nightgown. That hand slowly caresses your thigh, lifting the gown in the process. As if that isn’t enough, he bucks his hips into yours, trapping you further underneath him and almost suffocating you in his warmth.

“Please, Coryo, stop…please…”

Your pained sobbing and begging seem to get to him. Coriolanus pulls away at last, getting one more look at you before he admits, “You’re right. We’ll have plenty of time after the wedding.” He pauses before adding as an afterthought, “Oh, your uncle has been released and all his confiscated belongings have been returned to him. I’ll see to it that your bag is returned to me, as well.”

You don’t get to see his face with your eyes full of unshed tears, so you only vaguely see him draw close and feel the chaste kiss he plants on your trembling lips before he gets off you and releases you completely.

As soon as he does, you scamper back into your room and push the lock on the doorknob. Still gasping for air in between crying, your eyes automatically land on a shelf in the room. You don’t why, but somehow you know it’d be there:

Your little bunny plush.

Somehow, the sobbing dies down as you make a grab for it, thanking whoever packed your stuff for somehow picking it up and adding it to the pile. You drag yourself and the bunny plush to the bed and burrow under the sheets. You hug Bunny as close as you can, squeezing it harder than you’ve ever held it.

Your uncle had been released from his cell in the Citadel, so that’s one problem crossed out, at the very least.

Just when you’re about to close your eyes, however, your fingers manage to grope at something solid – almost the side of your palm, thin and square – inside your bunny plush.

Enter Level 13

Author notes:

Please reblog and comment, it's always appreciated!

*copadia - ancient Roman beef stew

Alrigt, more Snowball assholery xD there are so many things in this fic I'd like to make commentary on, but please comment whatchutink will happen next lol

#dark!coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #Young!coriolanus snow #young!coriolanus snow x reader #named!reader #or #x OC2ndPOV #18+ only #dark!coriolanus snow fic #dark!coriolanus #dark!coriolanus fic #dark!fic

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junowritings · 1 month

Note

Gale with an artificer significant other who makes him magic items for him to absorb?

:0 I never considered this idea before but holy hells if that wouldn't be such a fascinating scenario. I'm not the most well versed on artificers so I had to do a lil reading and wing the rest but hopefully this is alright~!

=======

♡ An artificer partner who can create magic infused items for him? Hells you may as well be a knight in shining armor for Gale, showing up in his hour of need when circumstances were most dire.

♡ Before the abduction upon the nautiloid ship, Gale’s lack of orb-based implosions was credited only to the magical objects he had amassed over the years. And where his supply had begun to dwindle, Tara had been invaluable, retrieving magical objects and bringing them back to the tower to aid the wizard like the ruffled caretaker she always had been. It certainly wasn’t a pleasant existence, locked away constantly fighting to stem the tide of something he once hoped could earn him the forgiveness he craved. But it sated the orb, for a while; gave him the time that he desperately needed as he scoured every tome and followed every lead for answers in quelling the thing’s lethal nature away from any who could get caught up in the destruction, should his plans go awry.

♡ After the crash however? Gale has neither, and the orb within his chest burns at the knowledge, churning away with that incessant need to consume and nothing to fulfill it besides the few measly trinkets left on his person.

♡ Thankfully he has a saving grace, in the form of the very person that helped free him from that rune circle back at the beach. Even without your constant tinkering with magic infused items, you’ve got an uncanny knack for stumbling across things that are absolutely thrumming with powerful magic. Weapons, armor and trinkets that brim with enough power to keep the orb quiet for hours, days even if he’s fortunate.

♡ You make no fact to hide that you’re an artificer by trade and soon enough Gale learns that the items you’ve been giving him alongside the ones that you find are of your own making. You’ve got a way with magic, enough that the items you give him are enough to effectively sate the orb - did you learn this all yourself? Or were you so gifted that the art came naturally to you? Whatever the reason, the items that you create are invaluable to the wizard, one that you offer up freely before he even reveals the reason why he needs them in the first place.

♡ The time eventually comes where Gale can’t hide his affliction any longer, and finally opens up to you about the orb and its constant need for consuming potent magical items. He can see the cogs turning in your head already, piecing things togethers as you realize why he’s asked you for those magical items in the past. He apologizes for keeping that factor in the dark until he knew he could really trust you, hoping that his words will at least earn some modicum of forgiveness considering just how many items you’ve handed over.

♡ His apology is cut off abruptly, earning a thump to the shoulder from you when you realize the man has been eeking out the time between ‘feeding’ the orb so as to not raise suspicion. Needless suffering, considering how easily that pain could be mitigated by something that you could have made in abundance. Gale’s surprised when you forgive him just as quickly, a determined glint that he’s seen whenever you’re at work with your craft present in your gaze as you jump up and dart over to your tent. He calls after you, only to be met by a quick “I need to get to work!” before you all but disappear from view.

♡ The morning after this conversation Gale’s all but woken up by a loud clatter right outside his bedroll, startled by the sight of you unceremoniously dropping half a dozen handcrafted items right into his lap. You don’t need to tell him what they are - he can sense the magic within each one with but a glance, and the bewildered expression upon the wizard’s face is well worth the time you spent working into the late hours of the morning to make them. You look exhausted but smug, proudly gesturing to the pile with open arms as though expecting him to use one there and then.

♡ Maybe you actually do, as Gale ends up having to convince you that he’ll test them later at your insistence. Probably better to get breakfast together first, so that he at least has some sustenance and you can get a break before he attempts to do anything else.

♡ Gale often finds himself transfixed watching you as you tinker, fascinated seeing you at work. Of course he never wants to intrude whilst you’re hard at work, and wouldn't dream of interrupting you. But it’s hard to miss the guy practically burning holes into your hands, inquisitive eyes peeking over from the book he’s pretending to read trying to figure out every step of your practice by observation alone. It’s kind of cute, in a way - and having the actual process of your work appreciated is rather vindicating.

♡ Offer to show him how you work and the wizard will be by your side the moment you give him the all clear. He’s naturally got a curious disposition - one that’s gotten you both into more trouble than you can count actually - and his eyes are practically trained to the movements of dexterous hands along with your words of explanation, mapping out the intricacies. A perfect mix of the mundane arts and the magical to make something that is basically saving everyone in a few miles radius from an impromptu end - how could that not be fascinating to a man like Gale?

♡ He doesn’t want you to feel like he’s just using you for the magical items that you provide. The lengths you go to to help him cope with his affliction aren’t lost on him for a second, and he fears he’ll never be able to repay for that kindness. The man will essentially put himself at your disposal should you need anything. He doesn’t mean to brag, but he’s learned enough that he’s confident he can at least be of some use to you with his proficiencies. You’ll notice the little things - the extra portion he gives you when it’s his turn to cook; the little gifts of tools or items that caught your eye from passing merchants. He knows it’s not enough to repay you - you deserve something better, something grander - but till things have settled and he can give that to you this will have to do.

♡ Admittedly the pair of you experiment with the usefulness of your creations. Does the kind of magic or spell infused within the object have any effect on how long he can last before the next one? Unfortunately not; but the fact that the ability to test such a theory is even possible is extraordinary. With the threat of living from magic item to magic item no longer the catastrophic issue that it once was. The orb is always a lingering thought in the back of his mind; even on the best days it never fails to remind Gale of its presence ceaselessly beating away in his chest. But now it feels as though he’s gained some control back; a stable supply that does more than buy him time. And it’s all because of you - his wonderfully avid creator.

♡ Even after the orb is temporarily stabilized you still continue to make items for him. Maybe it’s out of habit, or maybe you worry that the spell that’s holding the orb back won’t last as long as you both hope. Whatever the reasoning, Gale never misses the spare magically infused trinkets hidden away in his pack; his ‘emergency supply’ for the worst case scenario that you’re not there and he needs it. He may hopefully never need to use them, but gods if he doesn’t cling to each and every item you make for him like it’s still the dearest lifeline you’ve ever given him.

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 x reader #bg3 x reader #bg3 gale #gale x reader #gale dekarios #gale x tav #request #anon #artificer tav #ngl im imagining them giving gale those items the same way ppl do like #breakfast in bed lmao

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st-danger · 10 months

Note

Sister giving Dew lessons on how to be good, training him like you’d train a dog

Or, having him sit between her thighs for as long as she wants while his little cock is caged, unable to get any pleasure but unable to stop humping her leg nonetheless

It would be easier if he wasn't able to see it. He's sure that's part of why she makes it obvious; turn the screws a little harder, a little more pressure applied. The thin gold chain glints around her neck, and around that, the key. Small and plain, utterly unremarkable in appearance. No reason for anyone to guess at the function.

Before her, Dew trying hard to keep it together, to look as in control as is possible when he's wearing only a plain black jumper, pants down and around only a single ankle. Underwear too, looking so at odds with the neat and organized study around him. Kneeling at her feet, Dew's hips twitch forward bringing his caged cock against her nylon covered leg. Straddling it, enough to press against it. Not that it offers any modicum of relief, but there's something about it that still feels good to do. A pathetic little bid for attention. He keeps his head resting against her thigh, stroking up and down her leg, his eyes shut tight. His knees are sore against the hardwood floor of her office.

Imperator pets at his hair, and Dew groans.

"Unlock it," he mumbles, rubbing his cheek against her leg, a bid for comfort. "Just for a little bit. Just for one." He can't help but press it against her again. A useless little hump. Gets him nothing except the reminder that he's caged.

"And what have you done," Imperator asks, her voice measured and ever so slightly condescending, exactly the way he likes it best, "to think you've earned that?" Her nails rake against his scalp while she plays with his hair, and the frown deepens.

"M'leaving," Dew says. For tour, for months.

"Dewdrop," Imperator says softly, sweetly, "what the fuck does that have to do with anything at all?"

"You'll miss it," Dew says, trying to convince her. To take pity, to give him a break. Appeal to her own urges. Something. Anything that gets him taken out and touched. He continues nuzzling against her thigh, hips still pushing forward.

"It isn't like it's going anywhere, is it?" she asks, and then gets a handful of Dew's hair in a loose fist, a hint of how he'd like her to pull. "I'll know exactly where it is. Besides," she says, and Dew does look up at her now, gives her the most pleading eyes he can manage, "is that really what I'm going to miss most about you?"

"Just a little kiss, Sister," he frowns. Trying not to whine but how can he not? "One more cum. Please," he says, and knows the answer because he sees the amusement written on her regal face, "unlock it and-"

"Does it hurt?"

It hurts in ways Dew really likes. He blinks and nods. He sees the key around her neck. He longs to grab for it.

"And I suppose you want me to make it better," Imperator drawls.

"Uh huh," he says, grinding against her, insistent. She looks down at him, pityingly.

"I punish bad behaviours and reward good ones. So unless you can show me behaviour worth rewarding, the key stays with me."

Dew can be a good boy. He can be a very good boy.

He tells her as much.

It's easy, to throw her long skirt over his head, to pull her panties to the side and lick at her like that. Hiding underneath the linen fabric, making out with her cunt and trying to do everything possible to convince her to let him free and help him cum before he heads off with the band. Using his long fingers to spread her and expose her. Pull her lips apart so he can seal his lips around her clit and suckle at it sweet and soft, flicking his tongue back and forth over it. He hears the sounds she makes; she pleased. She's feeling good, he knows.

A knock on her office door has him freezing.

"Stay under my dress," Imperator says sharply, a hand on the back of his head. "It's just someone dropping off a file. They can't see under the desk. Stay quiet."

His heart thuds in his chest as he hears her call come in, and the creak of the heavy door when someone strides in. He breathes against her cunt and tries to keep still. No greeting, just a few heavy footfalls, something thrown onto the table, and then Imperator saying thank you very much. Footsteps receding, the door closing again, and after it does, Dewdrop sighs, surprised to have been tense from that.

"See?" Imperator says, stroking his head through her skirt, "keep going."

Dew licks at her and moans now. Desperate to get her off, prove to her he's earned something. He's been good- he was quiet, he didn't- he's been good. The sounds he's pulling from her make it obvious she agrees; she moans softly and grinds against his tongue.

"Make me cum," she orders. So he does. He slides a flat, wet tongue back and forth and sucks on her stiff clit until he feels it start to throb and twitch, and as he feels the first tremors in her thighs, slides his first and middle finger of his left hand into her in one slippery push, curling and pressing and her cunt is snapping around him moments later. He lets her ride it out and then loses himself, can't help but to babble.

"Make me cum," he whines, coming up from under her skirt. His chin is shining, lips wet and cheeks pink.

"Ask correctly," she says, and reaches up and behind her to undo the clasp of the chain the key is wound on. "You've been so good so far."

"Make me cum, mommy," he shivers, holding his hands against his crotch, cupping his trapped, needy cock. "Please, please make it cum."

"And you've been good?"

"So good," Dew nods. She pulls the chain off and holds the key up. "Been a good boy, been a good dog for you, huh, Sister?"

"Part of running this place is knowing when to delegate tasks," Imperator says, still holding the key aloft, and Dew feels instantly nervous. "So I'm going to make sure you have help being good while you're away."

"Mommy, huh?"Dew startles and his head whips around at the voice. Swiss grins, wide and predatory, and pushes himself off the door where he'd been leaning. Watching.

"No," Dew breathes, face falling and flushing a deep wine from the sudden hit of humilation. "Oh no, Sister-"

"Oh, it's back to Sister now?" Swiss asks, striding forward and to Dew's absolute horror and dismay, swiping the key from Imperator. "What happened to mommy?"

"You can go, Dewdrop," Imperator says, and she and Swiss chuckle at the misery washing over his face. His being as a whole. "If you feel you've earned the right to squirt, you can address that with our friend here." She stands, adjusting her clothes. "I've charged him with assisting me with this matter."

Swiss gives her hand a kiss and then they both look down at Dew, still shellshocked and crumpled on his knees, holding his hands over his cock to hide it.

"Buon viaggio," Swiss chirps.

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destroy-me-baby · 1 year

Note

ALBERT WESKER PLEASE🙏🙏🙏 I AM BEGGING ON MY HANDS AND KNEES DO DEGRADING AND “MASTER” ALBERT WESKER 😋 thanks boo

ASK AND YOU SHALL RECEIVE 🙏🙏🙏

Albert Wesker x GN reader - Master + Degradation

Requests are open, see pinned post.

Content warnings: use of “master” as a title, degradation, light bondage, Wesker is a hard dom and not very nice, use of “slut”, spanking, orgasm denial, crying, punishment, slight dehumanization, use of “sir”, hair pulling.

I am not 100% familiar with Wesker yet, so please excuse any accidental ooc or mistakes. Hope you enjoy the extra shit I threw in there ;)

This is nsfw, if you are underage or uncomfortable with the previously mentioned content, please continue scrolling.

His touch is unforgiving, hands pressed firmly into your lower back as he holds you down. You can hear the slight intake of breath with each pounding thrust, but other than that he’s perfectly collected, as always, while you are nothing less than falling apart.

“Remind me again, you fucking brat- what gave you the notion that disobeying a direct order would be a good idea? Speak.”

Your hands are tightly bound at the wrists behind you, hips digging painfully into the edge of Wesker’s desk. You wince, and moan, and nearly scream as he grazes against your sweet spot from within. Evidently displeased with your lack of coherent response, he takes a fistful of hair and pulls you nearly to eye level, despite your desperate whines in protest.

“I asked you a fucking question, dog. I expect a response for your superior.”

“I- oh fuck- I’m sorry, sir! I didn’t-“ you find it’s awfully difficult to carry a conversation with someone’s teeth on your neck- “didn’t mean to disobey you, sir, it was a bad call!”

He leans back with a scoff, still keeping pace as he admires his own handiwork. Namely, a nasty looking bruise forming right at the side of your throat, one that will no doubt raise some questions from the others.

“A bad- call? That’s what you call running directly into the enemy’s line of sight when I told you to hold back? Are you that fucking stupid?”

Before you could even dream of responding, Wesker releases your hair from his grasp, if only to fully pin you beneath him as he goes all in. You can tell he’s close, as much as he’d love to hide any modicum of vulnerability. Hips faltering, shaky breaths, he leans down towards your ear.

“I’m gonna fill you up so fucking good, and you better not even think about cumming, do you fucking hear me? You’re nothing but a toy for my pleasure and my pleasure alone, and you’re gonna start acting like it. Isn’t that right, slut?”

Your heart drops, walls clenching around him as you try to hold back. You can feel it creeping up on you, the sheer weight of your impending orgasm, as the pain and frustration make you begin to cry. Tears fall freely down your flushed cheeks, sobs escaping your reddened lips from how desperately you’ve been biting them.

“Y-yes, yes, I’ll be good, sir, I promise-“ You manage, and it’s simply not enough.

“Let’s try that again, but correctly. I said you’re a toy for my pleasure, isn’t that right?“

“Yes, master! I’m sorry, master!”

Between the pleading desperation in your voice and your screwed-shut eyes, and the tight warmth of you around his cock, Wesker cums with a nearly animalistic groan. He keeps going until every drop has been spilled inside you, before finally stepping back to see his handiwork.

You’re crying with earnest now, trying to grind your neglected junk against the wood without him noticing. Oh, but he does, and puts that to a stop with a harsh slap across your ass.

“Just for that, you aren’t cumming for a week.” He says, unlocking your cuffs and tossing them aside. “Now get dressed and bring me a coffee, and I better not hear any complaining.”

#dom albert wesker #dom!wesker #sub reader #resident evil smut #Albert wesker smut #Albert wesker x reader #resident evil

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thetomorrowshow · 23 days

Text

for a light

okay I PROMISE that comfort is coming I PROMISE

Scott stares Xornoth down from across the plateau, wind whipping the demon's hair and robes, black streaking out from him like some decaying flag.

They're alone, just the two of them, so far away (ndisu ndikitá'ána).

He's here.

It's time.

He sets the crown of antlers upon his head.

His fingers tighten on the thin grip of his sword.

Scott hisses as his finger bumps the pot, drops his hold and sticks the finger in his mouth. He was just trying to shift it to settle it better in the coals. Stupid cloth slipping.

Right. There's literally snow right there.

Scott removes his finger from his mouth, digs it into the snow beside him. The burn cools, eventually going numb.

That's one upside to living in a permanent winter. There's snow everywhere.

This little clearing in the woods that he took used to have a tent pitched in the center, grass and trees and wildflowers all around.

The tent is long gone, having collapsed under the weight of the snow and ice that collected upon it. Scott replaced it with an ice hut of sorts, which he thinks he created while asleep because he's not exactly sure how he did it. It's kind of ugly, but it has four walls and a roof and a little hole for a door, and it works.

The grass and plants aren't really visible anymore, the ground covered in a thick blanket of snow. Scott's not sure how, but someone had managed to get him a good pair of elven work boots, insulated and sturdy, so that he can tromp through the six or seven inches of snow without much issue. He's cold, this old, patched coat not quite enough to block out the chill, but the gloves keep his fingers from feeling too much like ice and the hand-knit hat prevents a majority of the headaches that his frozen ears cause. He's not too badly off, to be honest. There's just so much . . . cold.

And if he could get it to melt, that would be great.

He can make ice and snow appear just fine. There's plenty of snow, and he can point and ice spikes will shoot up out of the ground, and he can picture a cube of ice and watch as it forms in front of him, but that just means that now he has a little pile of ice cubes and a ludicrous amount of spikes the size of a tree. He can't get rid of anything.

And sure, he has a modicum of control. He can form ice cubes, and spikes, or whatever. But he can't turn off the way ice and snow just grows around him, or the freeze that blasts from him when he waves his arms.

He's been here for two weeks, figuring absolutely nothing out, and he doesn't have much hope for the future.

It feels like there's a wall in his head, a literal barrier keeping him from finding the way to draw back the ice. He's spent hours, days, even, pushing and shoving and just sitting against this wall, trying to force it to work.

It won't give. It's exhausting, day-in and day-out, to try again and again and again as the ice and snow just build up around him.

"Scott!"

Jimmy.

They haven't really . . . talked. Of course, Jimmy turns up every day without fail, bringing with him food and supplies. He always stands on the fringe of the clearing, shares news of the camp, of their latest excursion, of the fight they have planned.

Scott never really says much. He doesn't know how to respond, and Jimmy always leaves with his shoulders sagging the slightest bit.

What is he supposed to say?

I mourned you. I cried for you every day, because I knew I'd never see you again. I attended your funeral. I comforted your sister. I wore a depressing mimicry of what we once wore together, covering myself in the same darkness that took you. I lost you.

You didn't die, you survived, and I still lost you.

How is he supposed to tell Jimmy that what hurts more than anything about this situation is that he never tried to disabuse Scott of the notion that he was dead?

He thinks he still loves Jimmy. Their hearts were made for each other. They've been through too much together to just let go of everything they had.

But there were forty-two of the worst days of Scott's life, in which Scott believed his betrothed to be dead. He can't forget that. He can't pretend that Jimmy even attempted to contact him.

His mind always returns to that. Why didn't he? What reasons has he given, other than his ominous “it wasn't time yet”? Why?

And now they're here, in this horribly awkward phase where they haven't even discussed whether or not they're still an item (Scott's desperately in love with Jimmy but he isn't sure he can even stand to see him it hurts so much) or if that's even something they want to pursue right now (Scott wants so badly just to hold his hand but he can't let himself hurt Jimmy).

"Hey, Scott!"

Scott straightens (his wings shudder under the weight of the ice coating them, but none of it cracks), shakes the snow off his hands, and turns, stomach twisting.

Jimmy is standing there, a good ten feet away, leaning out from between the trees.

It's just Jimmy. Hair still too long, beard still obstinately there, an anxious smile on his pockmarked face.

Doesn't he have anything better to do, rather than visit Scott every day?

Jimmy holds up a bundle of cloth.

"I brought some bread and . . . venison, I think? I forgot to ask what it was. Does that sound good?"

Scott tugs his scarf up a bit higher on his cheeks. "Sounds fine," he calls back, voice muffled by the fabric.

Jimmy tosses it; Scott catches the bundle, grimaces when it frosts over the moment it touches his hands.

"What are you cooking?" Jimmy asks, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Scott glances back at his little pot on the dying coals.

"Just porridge," he says. That's all Jimmy gave him yesterday, after all. The grain for whatever chunky porridge it is that they eat at the camp all the time.

"That's . . . that's cool," says Jimmy. Dear Aeor, he looks so unbearably awkward. What does he want?

Thankfully, Jimmy gets straight to the point, no more hobbling around small talk.

"We're going on a mission," he says, the words coming out in puffs of frozen air. "There's a village about a day's walk from here, the largest we've gone for yet. They're going to be a huge asset to our rebellion."

Scott nods a couple of times. "Okay. How long until you're back?"

Jimmy chews on his lip—the way he always does when he's anxious, or isn't sure how to approach a problem. "That's . . . well, I wanted to see if you would come, actually."

It takes Scott a few seconds to process that, but when he does, he almost laughs out loud.

He's out of his mind if he thinks Scott will risk something like that. He can't control this! He's had to separate himself from the rest of the camp because there's a ten foot radius of winter wonderland that appears around him!

He has to be joking.

"You have to be joking," Scott says.

Jimmy shrugs. "I talked about it with the others that are coming on the mission, and they're all fine with it. If it makes you feel better—"

"No, I'm dangerous—"

"—we can walk apart from you, and—"

"—you don't understand, I hurt Gem, I'll—"

"—was just thinking that it can't be good for you to—"

"Jimmy, I said no!"

And childishly, to emphasize his point, Scott stamps his foot.

Ice crackles along the ground like a whip, shooting up in little spikes, a ten-inch wall down the middle of his little clearing.

It stops just short of Jimmy, the last little spike rising just inches from his boots, and Scott almost wants to go and shove him out of the way because Jimmy doesn't even move!

Doesn't he have any sense of self-preservation?

Jimmy doesn't seem scared when he looks up at Scott. He just seems sad.

"That's why I can't," Scott bites out, wrapping his arms around himself. His scarf is slipping, nose exposed to the cold. "I'm not safe. I don't want to hurt someone."

"Okay. Can I explain myself, though?"

Before Scott can give an answer, Jimmy takes a small step forward, boot crunching on snow.

Scott takes a step back.

"We know how to keep ourselves safe," he says. "Most of the people here escaped terrible conditions where one wrong move could kill them. They know how to recognize threats and keep a safe distance. It wouldn't even be an issue to travel with you."

Scott wants to argue, but Jimmy takes another step. Scott quickly steps back, swallowing down the fear that rises in his throat, burning like bile.

"We would travel kind of separately, and it wouldn't even be a long journey. Two days at most, I think. So the main group would stick together, and you would stay within sight off to the side. We usually move quietly, so you wouldn't miss out on conversation or anything."

Okay, that's probably what Scott would do if they were forced to travel. He's pretty sure that he can cause ice issues outside of the ten foot radius, if he tries, but it doesn't automatically happen. Travel plans like that might actually work.

Which doesn't mean they're good. They aren't. They just might work.

"This village has a lot of soldiers, from what we can tell. Way more than there ought to be. They're beginning to figure out our game. We usually wouldn't go for someplace so risky, but there's so many people there. If we freed them, we could easily add two hundred to our able fighters."

Is Jimmy stupid?

"It's a trap," Scott says, pointing out what seems obvious. "Why would they have so many Mythlanders there if not to wait for you?"

Jimmy scoffs. "We know it's a trap," he says. "That's why we want you. We want to avoid fights if possible—and if you were there, we would have a really decent chance of getting in and out without losing anyone."

"You're forgetting that I can't really control this," Scott says icily, and as if to match his tone, it spontaneously begins to snow. "I'm just as likely to hurt one of you."

"We just need you to make it as cold as possible. The Cod will survive—we're pretty good with cold temperatures. But humans are a bit more sensitive to that kind of thing. So we thought—if you could freeze over the village, then all the guards would go inside and we could sneak everyone out!"

That. . . .

That is a monumentally idiotic plan.

Scott blinks several times, just to make sure it really is Jimmy in front of him and not some hallucination induced by so much time alone.

"Or we could not do that," he says. "Just a suggestion."

Jimmy laughs a little. "I kind of figured you'd say that," he says. "But it's worth a shot, right? And if it doesn't work, we can go back to camp and figure out something else. No harm done, right?"

"Other than the possible harm that my very presence could cause," Scott says. "Do you really think that staying ten feet away while traveling would work? Just because that's my snowglobe radius doesn't mean anyone is safe outside of it."

He re-crosses his arms, waits for Jimmy to meet his eyes.

Jimmy's quiet for a long time, looking around at the unintentional ice spikes and piles of snow. Long enough that Scott turns away, tosses the sack from Jimmy into his ice hut.

That's that, then. He and Jimmy aren't going to talk about any of their real issues. Jimmy's so focused on this inconsequential rebellion of his that he won't even think about the fact that Xornoth may be controlling the world by now. Gem might be dead—literally any of them could be dead, Lizzie or Shubble or Joel all could have fallen—and Xornoth has control of half of the empires or all of them. And the only way to stop him didn't work.

Yet all Jimmy will even give thought to is his stupid little rebellion.

"I know it's hard," Jimmy says, voice awkwardly too-loud, rousing Scott from his thoughts. "It's really, really hard. I know that you don't trust yourself, and that you're hurting, and there's so much tangled up between us that I don't really understand but I know isn't making any of this easier for you. But I know you want to get better. I know you, Scott. And I know you will do everything in your power to keep those people safe."

Scott doesn't say anything, blinks back the sudden tears. He doesn't need this. He doesn't need Jimmy telling him what he feels.

Even if he's right.

He would do everything to keep the others safe.

He just can't guarantee that it would work.

"I trust you," Jimmy says firmly. "We trust you. I wouldn't have even brought it up if I hadn't cleared it with everyone else. And if it doesn't work, I'll never ask you to do it again. But please, Scott. If not for the people suffering, do it for me."

He doesn't owe Jimmy anything.

As a ruler, he pledged to defend his people, and he failed. What about when he fails again? Will he even be able to live with himself?

Will he be able to live with himself if he doesn't try?

In the grand scheme of things, a rebel attack to evacuate citizens of a small town in the Codlands is absolutely nothing. It will likely not contribute at all to the ending of the war.

But it's somewhere to start. Jimmy's always talking about how if they're still alive after everything, they ought to be doing something good with it. If he wants to eventually try to launch some sort of hopeless attack on Xornoth, he has to start somewhere. He has to figure this ice stuff out.

"Okay," he says eventually, reluctantly. "I don't . . . I don't want to. I don't think it will go well."

"If you can't trust yourself, you can trust me," offers Jimmy, and Scott grimaces at the hope in his voice.

He doesn't respond.

He wants to trust Jimmy. He wishes nothing had ever broken the trust that was there.

He isn't sure what did break it. He can't exactly blame Jimmy for not dying.

"I'll come get you tomorrow around midmorning, okay? We're hoping to arrive when it's dark the next day, then just have you freeze it overnight and get the Cod out before sunrise. Sound good?"

Scott shrugs. "It's your plan," he says. "Does it sound good to you?"

Jimmy doesn't respond, glancing over his shoulder. "I need to go finish prepping," he says when he turns back. "Take care. I . . . I'll see you tomorrow."

Scott doesn't move (frozen to the spot, he thinks idly), just watches Jimmy go, picking his way back between the trees.

What has he agreed to?

The journey goes exactly as Jimmy had laid out. Jimmy travels in a band of thirty-two people (Scott counts them during one of their fifteen minute rests), all able young Cod, some with cobbled-together armor or swords, others with nothing but the clothes on their back and improvised weapons. Scott sees two hand-made slings, one little hunting bow, and a couple of large branches shaped into clubs. All from afar, of course.

Scott walks a good thirty or forty feet away from the group, shying away whenever someone accidentally veers a little close. They always hurry back to the others, shivering and rubbing their arms.

Jimmy, of course, comes close on purpose. He keeps trailing along on the edges of the group, giving Scott terribly hopeful glances.

Scott just keeps his eyes on the snowy ground before him and wishes he could figure out how to talk to him.

Does he even want to talk to him?

Of course he does. Of course he wants to talk to his . . . to Jimmy.

He just can't. He can't risk hurting him. He can't risk getting hurt.

And soon enough, they've arrived at the town.

Scott has somehow managed to avoid hurting anyone, though one Cod only narrowly avoids getting stabbed by a flying ice spike when Scott gets startled by a bee.

He isn't sure how powerful he is, just that he's managed to tie it down and lash it to himself. But Scott, more often than not, feels like there's a thin door being battered and blown by a terrible snowstorm, ice seeping in through the cracks, and soon enough he'll have to try to open the door just a little bit. He can only imagine it blasting it open and sending bursts of unstoppable power out, forever unable to be closed.

Jimmy approaches him as Scott finishes up eating a cold supper, and even though it's dark Scott knows it's Jimmy because he knows Jimmy, he knows his habits and his tendencies and just weeks ago that had been painful, precious knowledge and now it means nothing significant.

"We're about ready," Jimmy says, not looking at Scott. He's looking out over the ridge that they're hidden behind, toward the town below. Scott wants to shake him, scream at him, drag him down to the ground. Doesn't he know he'll be seen? That his outline against the darkening sky will be obstinately visible?

"I'll take you down there in about a half hour. Then you just need to drop the temperatures to about freezing, all right? We'll do everything from there."

Scott doesn't answer. He doesn't have anything to say.

You left me you died to me I lost you and you were here. You were here this whole time and I've been hurting, and I'm still hurting and you just don't care. Why didn't you comfort me? Why aren't you helping me? Why won't you listen to everything I can't say?

Jimmy doesn't say anything, either, despite Scott's silent cries. He just stands there awkwardly, then gives Scott a nod and jogs back over to the main group.

Scott flexes his fingers in their gloves, blows on his hands, relishes the momentary warmth that brings him. He's always so cold these days. For good reason, of course—and despite all that, elves naturally run colder than humans, with the climate of their dwelling—, but he doesn't have to like it.

How is he meant to freeze an entire town without accidentally doing more damage than intended?

At this point, Scott has absolutely zero doubt that he'll be able to freeze the town. Piece of cake. The problem is drawing back the power after it's been extended.

It doesn't help that he doesn't know what he's doing. It doesn't help that all he's done for the past two weeks is try to not explode. He hasn't actually learned anything about control, or using the magic to his advantage.

And now he has to save a town. Use this untamable magic in moderation.

He's going to fail so badly.

And yet, when Jimmy returns not long later, Scott readjusts the little knapsack that hangs off his shoulder and sets off around the ridge, following Jimmy from a safe distance.

They skirt around their little camp on the side of the ridge, giving the refugees a wide berth so as to avoid getting any of them mixed up in Scott's personal snowstorm. That wouldn't help anything about this situation.

The ice hasn't been unfreezing behind him, either. That's been kind of concerning. He'd assumed, back in his little patch of the forest, that the ice hadn't gone away because he hadn't gone away. But now there's just a path of frost and snow through the long grasses of the outer Codlands, a trail leading directly to the rebel camp.

Scott really hopes it melts with time. It wouldn't be good to have one of fWhip's flying fish spies follow it and discover the camp.

He gets pulled from his thoughts by necessity as they approach the town, Jimmy making sure to keep them to the shadows, out of range of the torchlight from the perimeter guards. They crouch down behind some bushes (Jimmy beckons Scott closer, miming something about talking, and Scott reluctantly settles down close enough beside him—about five feet away, the closest to anyone he's been in weeks), peering between the brambles. Sure enough, there's more guards than a small border town ought to have—Scott counts at least four that patrol by the edge of town in the five minutes that they sit there and watch.

"We need to give my people a few more minutes, probably," Jimmy whispers, glancing up at the sky. The moon hasn't risen yet, so Scott's really not sure what he's checking. "But if you want to start the freeze, you can."

Right. Freezing an entire town.

Scott reaches inside himself for . . . for something. He isn't sure what. It's not like there's anything in there. Just his aching heart.

He legitimately feels fatigued from holding back the magic the best he can, but he doesn't know how to let go. He doesn't have any sort of point of reference for this. What is he supposed to do?

After several long minutes of indecision, of pulling at different parts of his mind to see if something just releases the switch, Scott gives up on figuring it out and just pushes.

He's not sure if the dam is broken, but a little flurry of snowflakes shoots out of his hands and he imagines the town, water in barrels and canals slowly freezing over, the temperatures dropping, the night air becoming frigid and biting.

Why does it have to be him?

"Nice," Jimmy whispers beside him. Scott blinks, looks up.

It's snowing. All across the town is snowing.

He didn't mean to make it snow. He only wanted to make it cold.

And it is cold. His fingers through their gloves are aching, the exposed skin on his face burns as a gust of freezing wind blows past.

"Was that too much?" he whispers, twisting his hands together. "I didn't mean for—"

Jimmy breathes out a near-silent laugh, gives him a grin. "I knew you could do it. I knew it!"

He made Jimmy happy.

Despite all the confusing hurt keeping them apart, that still makes Scott's heart squeeze in the best way possible.

The guards glance around at the fat flakes of snow, clearly confused. There's some shouting person to person, and within torchlight on the edge of town, a cluster of guards gather, rubbing their hands together and stamping their feet and pointing back to the center of town as they talk.

There's no way this will work. If his guards at Rivendell left their posts because it got a little cold, they would be in severe trouble with their captain.

But as Scott watches, one by one, the guards begin to trail away, heading toward what Scott assumes to be the inn.

There's no way. There's no way this is actually working. This can't be real.

Jimmy takes in a near-silent breath, lets it out in a low, loud, whoop/whistle. It sounds strikingly like the call of an owl that Scott has heard occasionally in these parts, late at night.

When did Jimmy learn bird calls?

It's a small thing. It's not even anything that matters. It's tiny and unimportant and Scott really shouldn't be close to tears right now.

It's like he doesn't even know Jimmy. He doesn't want to be upset, but he can't seem to stop it.

Jimmy still loves him and wants him; Jimmy wants them to be in love again.

How is it so hard?

Every guard has gone inside now, the town quiet.

The snow continues to fall, slow, drifting gently onto a peaceful street, becoming a picturesque winter scene.

Yet staring at it doesn't bring Scott peace. He only grows more and more anxious, eyes scanning from point to point, as though he might miss the operation entirely if he only watches the snow.

And after five or so minutes of waiting, Scott sees, past the falling snow, camouflaged people stealing through the streets, peering in windows, tapping lightly on doors.

The Cod residents are quick and quiet to answer, which is absolutely absurd.

It's actually working.

The other day, this was the most ridiculous plan Scott had ever heard. He never would have believed that any part of it would actually come to any sort of fruition.

And here they are.

He continues to watch as entire families sneak out of houses, glancing left and right before stepping out into the street, some bundled up in layers of clothing and others with nothing but a thin tunic protecting them from the weather.

The rebels move in phases, ushering out first this side street, then that one, making sure each sector of the town doesn't leave without instruction.

Scott watches, and something within him marvels.

This is the work. This had seemed so inconsequential to him just days ago—there are much larger things to worry about, after all—but now he can see how this had become Jimmy's whole world.

There's so many of them. They're moving house-by-house, sending one group before beckoning the next, but the streets are still close to packed.

There's a woman, hands covering her mouth as tears stream down her face, following a group into an alley. A shirtless man, carrying two children at once, his shirt draped over the both of them. A child—a tiny slip of a girl, surely not older than eight, clinging to her parent's leg, the torchlight from the abandoned guard posts illuminating her face just enough that Scott can see a hand-shaped bruise spanning her cheek.

The people are malnourished, injured, terrified. They’ve been desperately praying that someone will rescue them, someone will come along and deliver them from this darkness.

And here Jimmy is, a shining light, their once-dead king returned to save them specifically, as unimportant as they feel they are.

It makes sense. Jimmy's forces aren't strong enough to take on Xornoth, so why should he even focus on something so unattainable?

This, while not easy, is doable, and something that both strengthens his numbers and helps his people.

Scott gets it. It's about hope. It's about remembering the lost. It's about finding strength and life in this world of corruption.

"Scott," Jimmy whispers, pulling him from his realization.

Scott blinks, looks over at him. Jimmy's teeth are chattering, his nose pink, his lips pale of color. His arms are clutched around himself, doing nothing to hide the way his entire body trembles.

"You can reel it back in, a bit," Jimmy says, clearly going for humor, but the words fall flat when his lips can't even twitch up in some semblance of a smile.

Oh.

Scott looks back to the town, and now, he doesn't just see the wonder of it all. He sees how slowly everyone is moving, the way the rebels look up fearfully at the quickening snow, the way none of them are wearing any proper winter gear.

It's cold out. It's very, very cold out. It's definitely far below freezing, icicles already hanging from buildings, a thick layer of snow blanketing the ground.

It's too cold. He sees, all at once, three children collapse, and their caretakers pick them up but can barely keep going.

It's too much. It's too cold, so cold that a man stumbles and falls, and those around him are too cold to stop and help.

"Scott, make it stop," Jimmy whispers with increasing urgency. "It's too cold. Scott, stop."

He can't stop.

The door has been opened, and Scott doesn't know how to close it.

He can't make it warm up, he can't even stop it from getting colder. The night sky is growing steadily darker as more clouds roll in, the snow falling harder and faster—there's actual ice spreading, visibly spreading, crawling out from the bushes where he and Jimmy are crouched, heading toward the town and Scott can't stop it—

"Scott—"

"I can't stop it," breathes Scott, and it's nothing but the truth. He can't just turn it off, that isn't something he knows how to do—he doesn't know how to do anything, this is a curse and he hates it and nothing will ever be right again!

"I can't stop it," he says again, louder, voice shaking. "I can't—I can't do it, I told you I can't, I don't know how—"

"Just try," Jimmy says over him, hands held up. "I know you can do it, I trust you—"

"Just—just stop!" Scott bursts out, finally, all those terrible emotions rising to his tongue. "You keep saying—you keep—you were dead, you left me and you don't get to—you can't tell me what I can and can't do, I don't—"

"Scott," Jimmy says, something horribly placating in his voice, and it sounds just like the old Jimmy, just like the one who died—

Scott stumbles up, backing away from Jimmy. He can't—he doesn't want—this is all too much, too much, he's ruined everything and it's too much—

Jimmy stands as well, taking a couple of steps toward him. "Scott, I'm going to touch you, okay?"

"No!" Scott bites out. The wind is whistling in his ears, he can barely hear Jimmy over it—he can barely see Jimmy through the snow, there's so much of it, and Scott can't make it stop! He can't fix this! "Don't touch me, I don't—I don't even know you, I'll hurt you!"

"Scott—"

"Get—away—" Jimmy's just coming closer, one step at a time, and Scott doesn't want him, that's not his Jimmy, he doesn't want to hurt him—

The storm is rapidly getting worse, the snow beating down on his face with little pellets of ice, he had never meant to make it snow let alone storm, he's cursed, he's forever cursed, there's no way he can make things right, there's no way anything will ever be right again—!

And then there are arms around him.

Jimmy squeezes him tightly, good pressure and tightly enough that his brain is forced to settle into a more peaceful state, despite his surroundings.

His lover is warm against him, and Scott instinctively buries his face in the crook of Jimmy's shoulder where it belongs and perfectly fits.

Something inside doesn't really click into place. It doesn't quite work. It's close, but it's just not where it needs to be.

But it does slide together nicely, and Scott somehow finds a slippery grasp on the cold and tugs it back in.

He hadn't even been able to have this before. He hadn't even been able to feel a way to control it, let alone actually take hold.

But there's some kind of power positively radiating from Jimmy, something that Scott can feel and recognize in this entirely new world of magic that he never even knew existed.

It's got to be Jimmy's love.

Jimmy loves him so so much that it overpowers the curse.

And Scott, for the first time in weeks, feels warm.

He feels warm. Jimmy's here, his arms wrapped around Scott, and he feels warm.

A sob rises in his chest.

This is his Jimmy.

His Jimmy is holding him, and loves him, and is so very warm.

"There we go," Jimmy whispers into his hair, voice slightly muffled. "Not too much, now. We still need a little bit of snow coming down."

Right.

Scott doesn't think he has the emotional capacity to pay attention to anything but Jimmy, but he loosens his grip on the ice just a little, enough that the snow doesn't stop.

The sob bursts out of his mouth, and Scott clutches Jimmy as close to him as possible.

His Jimmy is here. He's actually here.

And Scott can feel his fingers again, warmth washing over every part of his body.

They don't move for a long time. Jimmy watches the exodus over his shoulder as Scott cries into his chest, letting all of the emotions that he's been feeling for the past two months pour out onto Jimmy's coat.

They stand there, and Scott sobs.

After too long, long enough that the tears on Scott's face become more sticky than wet (they aren't freezing on his cheeks, like they've been doing, and isn't that just a miracle), Jimmy pulls away.

Scott feels his tenuous control slip from his grasp—too cold again, too cold—and he launches himself back into Jimmy's arms.

"Don't go," he chokes out.

"Okay."

"Please . . . I can't—I can't do this without you."

"Okay."

Scott takes in a shuddering breath. He's stronger than this. He can do this.

"Do you think you can stop the snow?"

Scott nods, his nose wiping across Jimmy's coat. Then, with a mustering of what little strength he has, he shuts that imaginary door.

It almost doesn't shut. Scott strains against it in his mind, inch by inch, but eventually it clicks shut.

He can't lock it. But holding to Jimmy keeps it shut, and Scott doesn't plan on letting go.

Jimmy's right here.

Jimmy is real.

He's alive.

"You died," Scott sniffles, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. "You died!"

"I know," Jimmy murmurs, sounding absolutely heartbroken. "I know. I'm here."

"You weren't there, though. You—you left me! I was so—so alone!"

"I know," Jimmy says again. "I'm so sorry, Scott. I'm so sorry."

Jimmy's crying too, Scott realizes. They're in snow up to their knees, in full view of the town, and they're both just standing here crying.

Scott. . . .

Scott doesn't really care.

His heart, broken by the weight of the grief hanging so heavily on it, is finally beginning to heal.

That's more important than anything else around.

Scott doesn't let go of Jimmy's hand the entire trip back.

They walk back to the camp, bringing up the rear of a long crowd of refugees. Scott's trail of frost is barely-there, and he never feels like he's a danger to anyone while Jimmy is at his side.

They arrive back at the camp almost three days later, the group slower-moving with the addition of a good three hundred people. The camp is thrown into chaos, more than doubled in size, and Jimmy's pulled every which way by every person possible as they try to make arrangements and adjustments on such a large scale.

Scott stays with him through it all. He presses himself into Jimmy's side during a hurried meeting about leadership for splitting into several camps; he clings to him while Jimmy directs new refugees to food; he holds his hand through long hours of pointing people this way and that.

Jimmy doesn't end up being forced to bed until past midnight, a young Cod practically pushing him and Scott to his tent. Jimmy goes reluctantly, walk stumbling and eyes bloodshot. Scott can't imagine that he looks any better—he can feel how oily his hair is, limp after being literally frozen for so long, his wings unkempt and dragging. He can barely stay upright, and relief floods him when they finally reach Jimmy's tent.

Jimmy collapses onto his bedroll without even taking off his boots or unbuckling the enchanted sword on his back, and Scott is just able to manage loosening the laces of his own boots and kicking them off before he falls down beside him.

"There's still so much to do," mumbles Jimmy, and instinctively, they wrap around each other, knees slotting perfectly and arms weaving just right.

It's like nothing changed.

It's like everything is right again.

"I missed you," Scott whispers, though his throat threatens to choke on the words.

He lost Jimmy. Forty-two days of mourning, of the worst torture he's ever been subjected to.

He lost him, and it still hurts. Everything still feels so terribly hopeless, so dark, and Jimmy forsook him for so long.

But he's back. He's here, and alive, and through his thin tunic under the hilt of the sword Scott can feel a new scar just below the nape of his neck (Jimmy shudders as his fingers trace it, but doesn't pull away) but he's alive and in Scott's arms.

He died. Jimmy died, and it must have been terribly traumatic for him in ways that Scott hasn't even considered.

But by some miracle, he's here. He's okay.

He is, isn't he?

"Are you all right?" Scott asks quietly, seized by the need to know that his love is well. He doesn't know the specifics, not really—but Jimmy said he'd been stabbed several times, and that can't have been easy to recover from—and Scott had made it awfully cold earlier, and he knows that some of the refugees suffered because of it, and Jimmy only had that thin coat on.

Jimmy doesn't respond, though, breathing slow and even, and Scott eventually relaxes, assuming that he's asleep. He can get his answer tomorrow, after all. He can fuss over him all he wants.

Scott honestly can't believe that he let himself drift so far from Jimmy. He let his feelings of abandonment and despair and everything else get in the way of being here, holding his beloved, giving him comfort and receiving it in bucketloads.

He was so wrapped up in losing Jimmy the first time, he almost lost him again.

Then Jimmy shifts in his arms, sighs a little bit. "I'm okay," he finally replies. "That's what you asked, right?"

Scott nods against his shoulder, and Jimmy lets out a low chuckle. "My good ear is pressed to the pillow, sorry," he says by way of explanation. "Couldn't quite hear you. Are you okay?"

Is he okay?

He's not physically injured. And he's not quite so cold—with Jimmy's love warming him, he can keep a lid on the ice magic, stopping it from spreading beyond his fingertips.

Everything about this situation still hurts. Everything's still so terrible, and there's no way to overcome it.

But Jimmy's here now, and he loves Scott.

And Scott loves him.

"I'm all right," he says eventually, before burying his face deeper into Jimmy's shoulder.

And he thinks, for the moment, that it's true.

Scott dreams that night.

He dreams of a plateau, ice, wind whipping dark robes every which way.

He dreams of his hand tightening around a sword hilt.

He dreams of a crown upon his head.

Inka kuuna ndikitá'ána.

It's just barely past dawn, and a young girl with mousy brown hair and scales smattered across her face like freckles is wandering down to the river to collect water.

It's a bit of a long walk, but Lithi doesn't mind—it's preferable to the walk back, when the empty waterskin strapped to her back will be filled with water.

She's a girl forced to grow up too fast, barely in her teens, yet made to take up her mother's armor and flee into exile.

But she doesn't cry. Lithi never cries, and it's a point of pride for her. Her peers seem to be constantly crying, after all. She isn't going to let herself be perceived as a weak little girl. Not after everything her people have been through.

The ground beneath her bare feet becomes squishy, pockmarked with little puddles of water, and she veers right. Her course has taken her too near the slow, swampy portion of the river, and while she longs to go splash about in the swamp, she knows that the water there isn't clear enough to use back at camp. Not to mention, the Codfather wants them to avoid the swamps, for some reason.

She misses the marshes of home. They all do—Cod aren't made to spend all their lives on land.

She knows the swamp misses them, too.

And that reminds her of the folk song that her mother taught her, and her mother's parents taught her, and their parents taught them.

So, while the girl walks, she sings.

The sun is brighting,

Children, come home!

The grass is sighing,

Children, come home!

Where the water's dark and deep

There her children will find sleep

The marsh is calling,

Children, come home!

The frogs are croaking,

Children, come home!

The critters woken,

Children, come home!

Where the water's dark and deep

There her children will find sleep

The marsh is calling,

Children, come home!

The birds are singing,

Children, come home!

The trees are ringing

Children, come home!

Where the water's dark and deep

There her children will find sleep

The marsh is calling,

Children, come home!

The fries are playing,

Children, come home!

The wind is saying,

Children, come home!

Where the water's dark and deep

There her children will find sleep

The marsh is calling,

Children, come home!

The marsh is calling,

Children, come home!

The night is falling,

Children, come home!

Where the water's dark and deep

There her children will find sleep

The marsh is crying,

Children, come home!

She reaches the riverbank as the song comes to a close, singing the last line over and over again, in a myriad of styles and keys.

She shrugs the waterskin off her shoulders, clumsily dips it into the water. The riverbank is uncomfortably dry and sandy between her toes, which long for the mud of home.

Why can't they go to the swamp? Not that she would ever rebel against their Codfather, but she just wants to feel at peace again.

The waterskin isn't totally full, but she draws it up out of the water and ties it closed, arms shaking, straining to hold it up. And now she has to make the long walk back to camp with this heavy load, the leather straps cutting into her shoulder blades with every step.

So maybe she dawdles by the river. Maybe she dips her fingers into the water, swishes it around.

It's that distraction, perhaps, that changes everything.

Because had Lithi not lingered, she wouldn't have seen the glimpse of bright green caught under a rock in the water. She wouldn't have levied up the rock, pulled loose the thing. She wouldn't have held up the sodden leather bag, beautifully embroidered with a bright green cod and a sky blue stag.

And most importantly of all, she wouldn't have opened the bag to find a thin, Oceanic book, nor caught a glimpse of gold shimmering in the silty mud beneath where the bag had lain.

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dameronscopilot · 1 year

Note

HEY, for a Kinktober post, how about:

Poe Dameron + Rimming & A Glove Kink + “Spread your legs wider.”

Sincerely, Anon 🤭

Insatiable

Poe Dameron x f!reader

Summary: You weren't expecting to feel so goddamn aroused after seeing Poe dressed as a First Order officer.

Word Count: 1.9k

Rating: 18+ EXPLICIT

Content: NSFW, smut, roleplaying (first order!poe + dom!poe), praise kink, glove kink, uniform kink, anal fingering, rimming, spit, spanking, established relationship

A/N: While this can be read as a standalone, this is set in the same universe as Insufferable and functions as a time skip sequel.

MASTERLIST || MORE KINKTOBER

You really don’t like being wrong.

But when it comes to the cocky pilot who’s currently pressing a chaste kiss to your lips in a cramped broom closet deep in the belly of a First Order base, well, you’ll eat your goddamn words for once in your life.

For all the time you spent actively avoiding the addictive pull of Poe Dameron’s handsome smile, after he finally managed to pluck away at the last remains of you resolve while you were stranded on a dismal ice planet with him, you couldn’t for the life of you remember why you’d been so adamant in your outright refusal to even give him a chance in the first place.

And if he playfully gloats about the way he managed to fucking dry hump his way into your stubborn, fastidious heart…well, he’s not wrong.

You’re head over heels for him.

For all the past lovers you wish to forget, you want nothing more than to commit every facet of Poe to memory—most importantly the way his warm, tender gaze comfortably curls around the planes of your heart, kissing every dark corner and sharp edge with a reverence that nearly brings you to your knees.

Poe Dameron has a petal-soft chokehold on your heart, your emotions, your very state of being, and for once in your life, that doesn’t scare you.

Wherever you go, he goes.

But beyond the sickeningly sweet feelings of adoration that send butterflies furiously swirling in your chest with each gentle kiss to your forehead, every curl of his fingers around yours, there’s also a near-constant simmering heat in your gut for him, one that eagerly flares to life with as little as a suggestive glance. For all that Poe’s lips and hands maintain at least a modicum of decency when in the presence of others, behind closed doors, all bets are off. You’ve become irrevocably insatiable for his touch.

That’s all to say that now, as you’re both knee-deep together on yet another dangerous mission, you find yourself contemplating every life choice that led you here the moment that Poe carefully slides the door open and steps into the deserted hallway, looking back at you expectantly.

Your plan of action had been for Poe to go undercover as a First Order officer, and he was to escort you inside of the facility as a captive to be brought in for questioning. Together, the two of you would then obtain a datastick located in one of the utility rooms. The first part of the plan went off without a hitch, because pilfering a uniform was surprisingly easy.

The difficult part is one you weren’t expecting, but it hits you like a freight train all the same—Poe Dameron, now standing before you outfitted in a First Order uniform.

You’re nearly ashamed by the thrill that shoots up your spine as the leather of his stolen gloves creaks when he flexes his hands, and you reach out to smooth the wrinkles in his top. Your eyes rake over his face, focusing on a rogue curl of hair that’s fighting its way free from the cap on his head.

Not missing the way you subtly bite the inner edge of your bottom lip, an amused huff of laughter leaves Poe’s mouth as he curls a hand around the back of your bicep and begins to escort you down the hallway. “See something you like?”

Yes. Yes, you do.

You spend most of the mission mentally chastising yourself for the muddled mess of distraction that your mind has melted into, because every time that the two of you run into another member of the First Order traipsing through the building as you carefully make your way to your destination, Poe’s entire relaxed demeanor immediately hardens into something hard and unrelenting. And Maker, does that turn you on for some reason.

“Do you need assistance with that prisoner, lieutenant?” the voice of a stormtrooper crackles out through the man’s voice modulator.

Poe’s grip on your arm tightens minutely, and his lips pull back into a sneer as the honey-sweet cadence of his voice is replaced by a dark and domineering tone. “She gave me a bit of trouble earlier, but I think she’ll learn to behave once I show her the interrogation chamber.”

Your mouth goes dry, and you nearly stumble at the effect his words have on you. Likely assuming your response was due to the thinly veiled threat and not a reaction to the gush of arousal leaking out of you, the stormtrooper nods and carries on.

Once you’re out of earshot, Poe comments in amusement, “I feel like I should steal this uniform when we leave.”

“Yeah, you should,” you breathe out, stealing another glance at him and immediately regretting it once you see the flicker of challenge in his eyes.

—

Later, once the datastick in question is safely in the hands of the Resistance, Poe doesn’t bother changing out of the Imperial fatigues as the two of you make a beeline across the base toward what’s now become your shared quarters. There’s a teeming, anxious buzz of anticipation hanging in the air between you, and after pushing it down deep in your gut all day, the tightly wound rubber band inside of you is mere moments from snapping.

The moment the door to your room slides closed, you find yourself pressed face-first against the wall. A whoosh of air escapes your parted lips as Poe’s hands begin to feel their way down your body, patting you down. His gloved hands trail down your front, grasping both of your breasts before making their way to your sex. He cups your mound firmly, grasps your ass, and then eventually reaches your ankles. As he stands back up slowly, he hooks a finger into one of the leather straps of your thigh holster and makes a tutting sound. Poe pulls out your blaster and reaches out to turn your chin sideways.

Running the cold muzzle of the blaster along your throat, his voice is condescending as he asks, “Did you think you could get this past me? I think we’re going to have to do a deeper search to see what else you’re hiding.”

You nearly choke on your own spit as Poe puts the blaster aside and pulls both of your wrists behind your back, leading you to the bed.

“Now strip,” he says calmly.

Dizzy with arousal, you let out a small whimper as you slip out of your clothes while Poe remains in the First Order uniform, boots, gloves, hat, and all. His eyes shamelessly appraise your naked form, and by the slight tick of his jaw, you can tell the moment he spots the trail of arousal already leaking down the inside of your thigh.

Jerking his chin toward the bed, he commands, “On your hands and knees.”

Turning, you climb on top of the mattress, heart pounding loudly in your chest as you hear the sound of Poe’s footsteps approaching and the dip of the bed as he climbs up behind you. He caresses one of your ankles for a moment before running both hands up the backs of your legs, pausing to squeeze the globes of your ass. You shiver at the feeling of the leather dragging across your skin.

Poe rests one hand on your lower back and slides the other down your crack, pushing your cheeks apart with his fingers to reveal the tight, puffy ring of muscle nestled back there. You can’t help it, you let out a whine of anticipation, and you feel another sticky glob of arousal drip out of your cunt.

“You don’t seem like you know how to be quiet. Here.” Poe comes closer to you, one thick thigh pressed between your legs as he folds his body over yours and stuffs a glove into your mouth. Satisfied as he watches your jaw flex when you bite down on the leather, he pats your cheek and adds, “Good girl.”

Sliding backward, Poe squeezes your ass and continues talking, “Spread your legs wider. I like to be thorough with my searches.”

You obey, spreading your thighs apart further for him. He spreads your cheeks, and you moan loudly around the glove lodged in your mouth as he spits on your hole. Fingers gripped tightly in the sheets below you, it’s difficult to resist the urge to buck backward when you feel a leather-clad digit trace its way around your wet, puckered rim.

The moment the tip of Poe’s gloved finger starts to probe its way inside of your ass, drool begins to slip out of the corner of your mouth. He spits again and uses the saliva to work his finger deep into your waiting hole.

“So tight. I’m going to need to stretch your little hole wider to get a better look.”

Your untouched mound throbs while Poe works your ass open, dripping more spit onto his gloved hand as he inserts a second finger, and then a third. By that time, you’re pushing back against him, brokenly keening around the gag in your mouth.

“Filthy girl,” he chastises as you unashamedly try to shove his fingers further into your ass, desperate for more. “I know you’re hiding something in there.”

Poe’s just as affected as you are, you can hear it in the way his breathing grows ragged, and you know he can see the steady gush of juices leaking from your folds. Your mouth waters as you imagine how fucking hard his cock probably is right now, straining tightly against those neatly pressed pants.

“Maybe you need to try another method,” you try to say around the glove, which earns you a hard slap to your ass. You moan, a searing thrill of pleasure burning through you, and he spanks you again, but harder this time.

Poe leans his head in after, pressing a kiss to your stinging cheek, and then he trails his mouth toward your tight hole. Your face grows hot when you feel his tongue swirl circles around your rim, and your entire body trembles when he presses it inside of you, the glove falling from your mouth as your jaw falls open.

“Oh, fuck,” you whimper, nerves on fire as Poe eagerly tongue fucks your ass.

He groans, mouth sucking and lapping at your hole, and he reaches a hand around to finally touch your swollen clit. You pant heavily as he massages the sensitive bud while plunging two fingers into your pussy, your soaking wet channel immediately giving way to the intrusion. You begin to lose your composure entirely as heat flares in your abdomen, and Poe sounds equally wrecked as he continues his assault on both of your holes.

Your orgasm hits you hard, pleasure rendering your limbs useless as you gush onto his fingers before falling sideways onto the mattress, fighting to catch your breath. Poe collapses beside you, hat long gone, curls a wild mess.

Reaching out a hand, you tease a finger over the front of his pants, where a damp spot has formed. Poe shakes his head with a smile, “No, I—I already…it was just so fucking hot, baby.” He runs a hand through his hair, quietly laughing at himself.

Though you hardly have the energy to move, a fresh thrill of arousal shoots through you as you realize Poe came in his fucking pants while eating your ass.

Yeah, you’re keeping that uniform.

—

Comments, reblogs, and/or asks are always appreciated!

» POE DAMERON MASTERLIST » OSCAR ISAAC MASTERLIST

#dameronscopilot kinktober #kinktober #poe dameron #star wars fanfiction #poe dameron smut #poe dameron x reader #oscar isaac fanfiction #poe dameron fanfiction #dee writes

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aurevell · 20 days

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WIP Whenever

Thanks for the tag, @rosieposiepuddingnpie! I just wrote a little more yesterday for my Steter marriage pact fic:

“It’s not just me, right?” Stiles mutters skeptically. He keeps his voice low, assuming no one will hear him in the cacophony of voices. After exchanging polite pleasantries, he has worked his way back to Erica, who sits on a tree stump at the edge of the clearing. She, at least, can always be trusted to feel reasonably surly about the intrusion of anyone new in their territory, so he’s sure of commiseration. “No. You’re right,” Erica mutters back. Her hands are tucked into her jacket, blonde hair coiled inside the turned-up collar. “Never seen another werewolf seem so weirdly into Peter.” At the other end of the clearing, a tall woman in a floral dress sits in the chair beside Peter’s, simpering at him over her beer. Peter’s actually been paying her some modicum of attention, though you wouldn’t know without the hint of a lazy smirk. He’s not looking in her direction, just reclined in his own chair, eyes half-lidded—he’s barely moved all afternoon, like his only goal in life is to absorb what he can of the sparse autumn sun. (Sometimes, Stiles thinks he resembles nothing so much as a cat.) “I guess they don’t know all the shit he’s done,” Erica muses. “All of us still see the caution tape. 'Do Not Cross.' The Daughertys just see him as some hot dude.” Stiles grunts. Because yeah, strip away all the antagonism and general assholery, and that's what you have: a really hot dude. A hot dude who looks like he could make you see god if he got you into his bed. Erica snorts. “He is objectively attractive,” she admits, though she sounds almost offended about it. “God, I’ve never witnessed anyone being actively into him. It’s kind of unbelievable, when you think about it. Like falling in love with a snake.” “Hey. It’s not that unbelievable.” She fixes him with a stare. “He gaslit Lydia into thinking she was going crazy so she’d bring him back to life.” Well, it's hard to argue with that. Even if it was a pretty desperate situation. “Fair enough.” The woman’s hand comes to rest on Peter’s arm. She lowers her voice to speak. Peter still hasn’t moved, just listening to her babble on, but he’s smirking in full now. Here and there, he says something back, almost out of the corner of his mouth. Stiles would cut off his own arm to know what they’re talking about.

No-pressure tags for @mirrorthoughts @kordyceps @meggie-stardust @yogi-bogey-box @raisesomehale and anyone else who wants to! No idea who's writing right now.

Also @nogitzune and @beaconfeels just in case you have more to share after yesterday :)

#steter #wip #what is mutual pining without a green-eyed monster now and then

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loudmound · 5 months

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jingling miserably across the floor to bring you yet another goddamn post about james sunderland (and the broader themes of sh2 in general)

part one: silent hill is the world's worst exposure therapist and that's honestly it

for starters, i think it's best to get out of the way the notion that the town itself is actively punishing its inhabitants is... silly. it's just silly. when you operate by the logic that silent hill is punishing james for what he did to mary, that logic quickly becomes concerning when we take angela and eddie into account.

does angela deserve to be tormented by a manifestation of the sexual abuse she endured from her father? does eddie deserve to be tormented by manifestations of the emotional and verbal abuse he faced from his bullies? if you have any modicum of compassion, you'd say no.

but we cannot then say with a handwave that "oh well angela and eddie don't deserve it, but james does! because james did something bad!" and like... yes, i do agree that there is a sort of sliding scale of moral justification and negligibility given each of these characters' acts of violence, but all of these people did such to escape their circumstances. and, most importantly, angela, eddie, and james all feel like they deserve to be punished in some way, shape, or form.

angela's been so horrifically abused that she's resigned to the notion that she deserved what happened to her. eddie's been so horrifically abused that he's resigned to the notion that he is just a fat piece of shit. and, with james, while having a tangible distance from any kind of abuse, feels he deserves to be punished for killing mary; something that he'd unwittingly repressed to even keep himself upright. he drove to silent hill to kill himself—to be with mary in death in the last place they were happy together.

and that right there is exactly what silent hill is doing; silent hill is a functionally amoral entity, i'd argue. it does not care whether its inhabitants live or die, it does not care about punishment or exoneration, it is merely drawing from their psyches and projecting manifestations as a means of confrontation, and seeks to see what that person chooses to do in the face of the darkest and ugliest parts of themselves, traumas and all. will you succumb or will you overcome? that's the only question it cares to ask.

part two: stop pretending james is a violently misogynistic sex pest

now, this part is gonna come off as biased, because i am a james fan. i like him a lot. but i'm also not going to pretend that he's not a divisive character or that he did nothing wrong. he most certainly did. that's not the point and i don't want to come off as defending his murder of mary, nor am i trying to convince people to like him. he's a fictional guy, like and hate whomever. i don't care.

what i do care about is analysis, and some people insinuating that james killed mary for the sole, superficial, and juvenile reason that she wouldn't fuck him anymore? it truly baffles me beyond words.

i've seen this take enough times for it to be concerning; the notion of james' deed solely surrounded being denied sex and lashing out with murder because of it. if that sincerely were the case, james would be a very different man and sh2 would be a very different, markedly worse game, because how fucking one-dimensional is that? seriously, think about it for longer than 3 seconds and let it sink in how much worse that would be for sh2's story and overall message.

contrary to this belief: james loved mary! james loves mary! that's kind of the whole point, really! i'm not denying that there isn't a sexual component to the whole ordeal, there most certainly is. maria is the apex of that, as are a good handful of the monsters like the mannequins and the bubblehead nurses. hell, i'm not going to deny that there aren't shades of misogyny within these monsters' looks, either!

but these monsters aren't made for james' wanton, sexual consumption; they're a means of confrontation. they're terrifying and warped. there's a certain shame about them, too, in so far as they're manifested from a man who seems guilty about even existing as a person at all. that he even has sexual thoughts to begin with when his wife lay sick and dying in her hospital bed.

james doesn't seem particularly enthusiastic about much of anything, least of all sex. him never even alluding to such or even saying the word out loud speaks volumes to me at just the magnitude of shame he feels surrounding such a concept, when everything around him is so loudly saying that it's a part of him he's terrified to look in the face. (think of the pin-up he sees in the hospital where he mutters to himself in his head "...this is no time to be looking at a stupid poster.")

your libido doesn't screech to a halt when your significant other is terminally ill, and finding other people attractive when you're in a relationship with someone else is pretty normal, so long as those feelings don't breach the bond you have with said partner. if james fantasized about fucking the hospital nurses or whatever, so what? that's within the realm of fantasy, and i'm sure he's cognizant of such. that doesn't make him an "incel", that doesn't make him unfaithful, it makes him a regular person with a sexuality, and he feels shame for such because his partner—the one that he truly wants—is sick, dying, and sexually unavailable because of the latter facts. the audacity to think of sex at a time like this? how dare he? how disgusting of him!

(sidenote: i really don't like the conflation of the term "incel" with "misogynist". yes, incel culture at large is misogynistic, but literally anybody can be a misogynist and incels are largely self-identified. misogyny is systemic, and incels are a symptom of that. also, james has a partner and is certainly implied to have had sex before. by definition, he is not an incel. a strange, miserable man, yes, but not an incel.)

part three: james did it for so many reasons and sex wasn't one of them

james killed mary because he couldn't watch her suffer any longer. james killed mary because he wanted his life back—to be free of such a burden on his shoulders. james killed mary to be with her in death not long after, because without her, he's got nothing. together, beyond the grave, they could be happy once more.

while james is not a reliable narrator, it's impossible to me that the reason he did it was purely because he couldn't have sex with mary anymore. it's reductive and insulting to insinuate that sh2, a game about death, about grief, about guilt and loss and trauma, as well as love and sex, would have its main protagonist be a flat as a fucking board when it came to the reason he did it.

hell, i'd argue that his reasoning is more complicated than angela's and eddie's reasonings for their respective deeds because they're fucking rock solid reasonings. it's easier to empathize with an sa survivor killing their abusers and a victim of bullying finally snapping and attempting to kill their respective abusers than a man who finally got so sick of it all and killed his wife before the disease eating her from the inside out could kill her instead. there is an obvious callousness in james' deed that repels such a level of compassion, and that's perfectly reasonable. which is why it's so goddamn complicated!

it's already such a terrible thing to do to somebody else, imbued with so many reasons, both selfish and selfless, both loving and resentful, and to just write it off as "oh well james did it because he was mad he couldn't get his dick sucked anymore and silent hill was so bad for him because the town thought he deserved it <3"... see me after class.

anyways, thank you for reading. i'm gonna go the fuck to bed now.

#stormy shouts #james sunderland #silent hill #brave enough to tag james now that it's not 3am

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tadfools · 5 months

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Ding! Chapter 9 of The One That Got a Thay: A Guide on Breaking Free of Your Dread Father and Removing Illithid Parasites (jeez what a mouthful) is hot off the presses for your reading pleasure here Thank you guys for over 6k hits on my little story xx

We got a durgtash moment from it under the cut if anybody's interested!

...“Jassmin,” Enver gestured to the glass, “Your favorite.”

“My favorite…” She looked down at the amber liquid, swirling it around sowly. She didn’t have that many favorites. There was no space for such stupid things. “Only when you make it.” Tavaris said after a moment.

“What do I owe the pleasure of your visit my dear?” He asked, the glow of the fire brightening the brown of his eyes causing them to shine. In the light, she decided they were her favorite color.

“Business.” She said, “I’m leaving for Moonrise come dawn.”

“Ahh, right,” He stretched his legs out, minding the pooling blood laid before them. “Mustn’t let the gnolls go too long without seeing you. They adore you after all.”

“It’s the fool who has taken my brother Balthazar’s name as his own.” She stopped herself from snapping, setting the tea cup carefully down on the small table, “The disgrace of a necromancer can’t bring Isobel back on his own. Ketheric is growing impatient… more so than usual.”

“We’d truly be lost without your talents.” Enver hummed, drinking from his tea once more.

“My Father’s talents.” She corrected, “I am nothing but an instrument of his will. A sharpened blade extended through his hand.”

He frowned at that and something within her twisted. Guilt at causing a modicum of sadness to set on his beautiful face. Tavaris stood before he could say anything, moving behind his chair, an arm coming to rest on the hairs of his chest – right above his heart. It was beating quickly, but not out of fear like so many others. The speed was caused by an anticipation the rest of him was always so good at hiding.

“And what of your hand?” Enver asked, fingers sliding up and lacing with her own. He turned his head slightly, causing the scruff of his unshaven face to brush against her cheek...

#baldur’s gate 3 #bg3 #baldur’s gate iii #bg3 fanfiction #astarion #enver gortash #astarion/durge #durge/gortash #durgetash #bg3 fic

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thatgirl4815 · 7 months

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Hey, I love your theories and your perspectives on things and so I wanted your opinion on this:

I came across this Tumblr post and I forgot who it was by (sorry) but it mentioned how Ray was basically hand-held by Mew into his relationship with Sand and how he was never truly the first choice. Despite being how Sand should be treated as the first choice due to all he has endured by Ray throughout this series. (Getting pushed to the ground, getting called a wh*re twice, saving his life multiple times, being there for him as a friend, etc). And I do agree because although Ray was both two-timing Sand and Mew, he still wanted to be in a relationship with Mew and pursue relationship things with him. It was only until the apartment scene where Mew rejected Ray's sexual advances when he then fled to Sand. He acted entitled and demanded to know where he was at. If I'm being honest, I think Ray would've continued being in a relationship with Mew if Mew would've genuinely wanted to move on, despite Ray having feelings for Sand. I think was actually forced to just move on to Sand because he realized he could never have Mew instead of him realizing that Sand was his first choice and the one he wanted. I just don't like how he treats Sand in comparison to Mew even though Sand has done SO much dedication towards him. Like, i understand that Ray has known Mew longer and had romantic feelings for him longer and that it makes sense to why he needed time to get over him, but a lot of the time Ray treats Sand as a possession rather than someone he genuinely cares for. He has treated Mew with more care and understanding than with Sand, even though Sand has proved himself to be just as worthy in only a span of 4 months, while with Mew its been 4 years. As much as I like the idea of SandRay together, I think Ray doesn't deserve Sand right now. Not unless he proves it. I hope he genuinely wants Sand for himself and not just because he realized he could never have Mew. I'd love to see your perspective and hope you don't mind the long post :)

Hi! Thanks for asking - I do have a lot of thoughts on this topic, so I hope you don't mind a very long post in reply, lol. I'm gonna respond to distinct bits of your ask to try and break down my perspective.

"If I'm being honest, I think Ray would've continued being in a relationship with Mew if Mew would've genuinely wanted to move on, despite Ray having feelings for Sand."

I'm inclined to agree here, but I think the situation would still be extremely complicated and likely have led to a fallout either way. I keep coming back to the fact that Mew would never have been with Ray if not for what happened with Top. This is a guy who has been friends with Ray for years, has bluntly and repeatedly rejected his advances, and has spoken along the lines of "nothing you do will change the way I feel about you." I bring this up because I don't think there's any version of events where Mew would ever have agreed to be with Ray romantically if not for the falling out with Top. If Mew would've shown even a modicum of interest in Ray from the get-go, then I'd argue Ray would never have chased after Sand to start with.

I also bring this up because independent of the situation with Top, Mew has never liked Ray back. Him genuinely moving on would not involve Ray; Ray knows that as well as he does, but as Ray says in Ep9, he wants to convince himself otherwise.

Where I'm conflicted is in the way Ray acts after the trip with Sand. Sand clearly states that he will not wait for Ray to make up his mind. I think Ray knows by this point that he can't keep stringing Sand along if he wants to keep him; I also think it's clear by their conversation and the love scene to follow that Ray's feelings for Sand are genuine and run very deep (I'm sorry but that cheek kiss was pure adoration). The fact that Ray so easily admitted that he was trying to convince himself that Mew could love him back says to me that he already knew it was over, it was just a matter of saying it. If Mew hadn’t brought it up, I think Ray would’ve done so himself in a matter of time, judging by how he calls out Mew about his feelings for Top. I’d argue Ray isn’t quite so infatuated with Mew in Ep8 as he expected himself to be, and he knows this game is coming to an end. It’s about building up the courage to actually say what both he and Mew have been thinking since their “romance” started. He would've had to to keep Sand, and while it would've been difficult and likely would've been difficult for him to admit, I think he would've done it in the near future without Mew's prompting.

"I think was actually forced to just move on to Sand because he realized he could never have Mew instead of him realizing that Sand was his first choice and the one he wanted."

This situation is tricky because I do think there is naturally an element of "well, I can't have Mew, so I'll have Sand instead" that defines the beginning of SandRay's relationship, but I'd argue that Ray isn't consciously thinking of that fact during his time with Sand. Ray is compatible with Sand in a way he isn't with Mew. "When I'm with you, I'm so damn happy"--he says this to Sand right when he's started a relationship with Mew, when he wants to remain friends with Sand. It reads as Ray himself coming to the realization that he's truly happy when he's with Sand, not Mew. So yes, all of this is borne of the fact that Sand began as Ray's second choice. But rather than Ray realizing that he "could never have Mew," I think he's realizing that both him and Mew do not have genuine romantic feelings for each other. It's not just that Mew rejected him; Ray is subtly coming to the realization that his interactions with Sand are vastly different than his with Mew's. Even if Mew tried hard to like Ray back genuinely, I still don't think it would make their relationship work, because they just don't click romantically. It's impossible to say with certainty, but I believe Ray would've kept pining after Sand regardless if Mew returned his feelings the way he wanted, because he just doesn't connect with Mew on that level the same way he does with Sand. That's an underlying aspect of their dynamic that I think gets overlooked: Ray is realizing the truth about his own feelings just as much as he is realizing the truth about Mew's.

"a lot of the time Ray treats Sand as a possession rather than someone he genuinely cares for"

I address this topic here in detail, and I won't push it too much farther besides to say that I think Ray's possessiveness is a result of his history and mental health; his behavior suggests to me that this could have roots in attachment issues from his upbringing. It's not excusable to treat Sand the way he has, but with context, I think Ray's actions are at odds with how he truly feels because he just doesn't know how to handle his conflicting feelings. In other words, I'd say he does genuinely care for Sand--and Sand has always believed Ray has feelings too or he wouldn't keep coming back to him--but his way of handling it is wrong.

"As much as I like the idea of SandRay together, I think Ray doesn't deserve Sand right now."

I don't think anybody could blame Sand for walking away from Ray after how he's acted towards him, but this reminds me of what First said about Sand's patience. I think Sand is someone who looks beyond the surface; he sees Ray's drinking problems and behavior as a sign of greater issues. I talk here about why Sand has feelings for Ray at all, so I won't press that topic much either.

I empathize with Ray a lot because I don't think he's intended to hurt Sand the way he has. He can't be excused for his actions, but I think he's someone who, like Khao has said, is in need of love. He wants to do better by Sand. I don't think we'll see him toss him around the same way he has in the past anymore; he's learned his lesson from this situation with Mew, and he knows now how much Sand means to him.

...All of this has been a very convoluted way of saying that I think Ray was already deep in the process of breaking things off with Mew, and I think he would've done it himself in the near future even if Mew hadn't raised the topic. Ray very clearly states that he knows Mew has feelings for Top, and Mew very clearly states that he knows Ray has feelings for Sand. They both have feelings for other people that run deeper than the feelings they have for each other. In that sense, I don't think it's so much that Ray is simply settling for his "second choice," but he's understanding that he has something special with Sand irregardless of anything else.

#Hopefully those sentences make some semblance of sense lol #only friends #only friends the series #ofts #sandray #raysand #raysan #sanray #only friends meta #only friends episode 9 #only friends ray #ray pakorn #raymew #only friends sand #sand x ray #ray x sand #only friends ask #ask

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mishapen-dear · 8 months

Note

FUCKED UP 4HALO MY BELOVED!!!!

I think Forever should keep asking Bad about the marriage. And then, Foolish convinces Bad to go through with a fake marriage and they'll blow it up to kill Forever! Something goes wrong. They're at the altar, Bad messaged Cellbit to set off the tnt but nothing was happening. Forever doesn't even notice how distracted Bad seems because everything is perfect! And then they kiss and they're married. ^_^

YESSSS i love the thought of the plan fucking up so they end up Married For Real and then we get the angst of bad in a position of semi-power because theyre married now!! :D if bad wants 200 mines placed around the server because it will make everyone happy, what sort of husband would forever be to say no? <3 and then we get a little arc of bad going mad fueled by guilt and disbelief at the nightmare he’s living in and he should really take advantage of the vulnerability to kill forever- (sleeping in the same bed, modicum of trust, access to all of forever’s resources). But. then forever smiles something small and sweet and asks bad if he would like a very big drill, against the regulations special just for him to make him happy because he’s done so much for the island, and bad can’t bring himself to do it. gift giving is his love language. he could cause many many problems with this gift. he is already a problem. forever has the reason of drugs but bad just has the excuse of grief but he still accepts the drill and swears he’ll murder forever tomorrow

#qsmp #dark 4halo #<- will be tagging any asks with this but i WONT remmeber to tag my og posts #but will make sure to do this now so i dont flood maintag for anyone squicked out by this arc #anonymous #mishapen answers #as you can see i have very many thoughts about them #as shown by that Tangent #it doesnt matter to me how the Aftermath ends up tbh i just think its really fucking funny if the fake marriage turned real by accident

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always-andromeda · 1 year

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Drunk on Halloween || Calvin Weir-Fields x Fem!Reader

Calvin Weir Fields x Fem!Reader

Word Count || 3,195

Summary || Calvin is aching for one night of peace; a bottle of wine, a cheesy horror movie, and the love of his life. However, some trick-or-treaters have different plans in mind.

Author’s Note || can you guys tell that I'm a Calvin apologist with this one? can you guys tell that even though I think he can be toxic as fuck, I'd sell my left nipple for a dime to have him just for a night? am I writing this note at four in the morning and that's why it's so unhinged? mind your own business, perhaps.

Warnings || smut (minors, do not interact or I will dip you into an ooky spooky vat of acid <3), thigh riding, slight use of pet names (Calvin calls the reader a good girl like twice lol), Calvin is an uptight little freak, reader is just in for a good time (good for her), nothing else I can think of!!

"Work all night on a drink of rum, daylight come and me wan' go home..."

Calvin pulls away from your neck, nearly breathless, "Are you really going to do that?"

You continue singing quietly but dramatically from underneath him, "Stack banana 'til the mornin' come, daylight come and me wan' go home..."

"Are you kidding me?" He groans.

"Come Mister Tally Man, tally me banana, daylight come and me wan' go home..."

Hair flopping forward, Calvin's head tips downward, mere millimeters from being buried in your chest, "Wow. You're really committing to this."

You giggle at his expense, "It's not my fault you decided to start something right before the dinner scene."

With nearly every night having been a movie night, you'd waited for something like this. However, you knew that tonight was likely that night as soon as Calvin pulled out a bottle of red wine, insisting that he bring some modicum of culture to the table. A few glasses later and all he'd manifested was a heavy haze that came to smother both of your lazily lounging figures.

Calvin says in disbelief, "I've never seen this before, how was I supposed to know what this scene would turn you into?"

"You should know because you know me, Cal." you slur.

He sounds even more tired than he really is when he replies, "I doubt that more and more with each passing day." Then he shakes his head as if he's actually upset. Your lighthearted demeanor dulls.

Voice softening, your hand rests on his cheek, "Hey, why does it matter? We're having fun, right?"

Calvin watches your eyes go wide, staring at him wearily. It reminds him a little of how his mother would look at him when he was upset. Like he was a child who'd thrown a fit. The next thing he was expecting out of your mouth was something akin to, "There, there, Calvin. It's okay." He can't tell if that annoys or comforts him.

"I guess..." he sighs.

You ask, "What's that supposed to mean?"

The cogs in Calvin's head turn as he tries to figure out exactly what had ruffled him so much. You never let him get away with passive aggression. He's not even sure why he does it in the first place; there's something that tells him there's no chance that anyone would even care why he was frustrated. So why should he bother to even try verbalizing it?

Your dumb runs over his cheekbone, "Cal, what's wrong?"

He begins shakily, "You know...I like when things go to plan..."

Your tone is laced with a little giggle, "So you were just planning to fuck me ahead of time? Is that how all of our sexual encounters go?"

"Don't call it that."

Your smile turns into a full grin as you stare incredulously, "What? Fucking? You mean what we've been doing for months?"

Immediately clamming up, Calvin replies, "It's just...it's not romantic when you say it like that."

You laugh, "Ah, because having sex while drunk on your couch is peak romance." Calvin watches your finger slide down the bumped bridge of his nose before you tap the tip.

Something in the teasing action makes him lighten. Maybe it's the fact that he swears he saw you wink afterwards. Or maybe it was the way the light from the television and the shadows of the darkness twisting and tricking his imagination. Or maybe he's just sick of worrying; maybe he's finally hit the threshold between his nervousness and his want.

He mumbles, "It could be."

You scoff, "You're so silly."

"Says the one who wanted to put me in fishnets and a corset." He reminds you of the conversation that took place during one of your previous Halloween movie nights. The film: Rocky Horror Picture Show. You had laughed while comparing him to the hero of the film, teasing him with breathy repetitions of the line, "Oh, Brad." He'd scowled and rolled his eyes, ignoring the way his stomach fluttered every time he heard it. It reminded him far too much of other sounds he'd heard you say.

"I stand by the fact that you were made to be Brad." You add daringly, "And I think you would've looked super hot in them. I probably would've gotten undressed half an hour ago if you looked like that." Then you looked at him; eyelids at half mast and finger running down one of his arms bracing the weight of his body over you. His skin shivers at the languid movements. He wishes he wasn't wearing a damned sweater so he could feel the soft drag of your nails.

He hears the resigned lyric of Brad Majors ring in his skull, Damn it, Janet. I love you.

Without a second thought he dives back in, delivering a swift kiss that quickly turns more fervent as he tastes more of the dark red wine from earlier. Or maybe the taste is on his own taste buds. He's not entirely sure and he's far too lost in the moment to really differentiate the flavors. All he knows is that the view of you beneath him is alluring and convincing him that his timing is auspicious. Your fingers tangle in his hair, bringing him impossibly closer to you.

He moans right as the song playing ends and breathes, "Can I touch you?"

Though you hear his desperate question just fine, you decide to taunt him a little bit more. "Huh?"

Calvin demonstrates an unusual level of assertion when he fishes around the top the couch and grabs the remote, mashing a button to lower the volume of the television until the movie was almost completely silenced.

You can now hear his khaki covered knee slide up the upholstery of the couch, slow as it eases comfortably between your own legs and presses just slightly against you. It's just enough pressure on your clit that you begin to ache for more. More movement. More warmth. More tension. He's close enough that you can practically see yourself coming down from your high already. Then Calvin repeats himself, rewording the question to reflect his insistence.

"I want to touch you."

You don't dare laugh now. You're too busy teetering on the edge of something big, you can taste it in the back of your throat.

"Please," you croak.

No matter how indifferent he can come off at times, Calvin can't be cruel to you. Instead, he's immensely satisfied with himself as he kisses you again, allowing his tongue to slip between your own lips. He takes as much as he wants and gives just a little more, allowing you some purchase from the heady tease of his knee grinding a little further against your pussy.

Wrenching away from the kiss, you regress into a pleading, mewling tangle of arousal, "Calvin, please-- please just let me...let me--"

His low voice bites you in an almost fatal way. "Let you what? Let you fuck yourself on my leg?"

You like the way the curse leaves his lips. Somehow, a man like Calvin can make the most vulgar words sound poetic even as he practically spits them at you. It makes more heat pool between your legs. It makes you fucking whimper for him. This is a rare form for both of you.

With you regurgitating the same cry of, "Please, Calvin, please..." He lets out his own chuckle.

"I'll let you move soon." He promises, "I just want to touch you first."

Calvin stays true to his word, anchoring a hand on your hip, rubbing circles with his thumb on your hip bone. Your sweater had begun to ride up your torso, exposing your soft stomach and the underside of your chest. Calvin lips curl at the sight of the pumpkin patterned sweater than matched his own. The idea of getting matching holiday sweaters had sounded terribly romantic; something he's sure he'd read in some romance novel as a teenager and simply filed it away in his subconscious. Now he finds his head filling with less than romantic thoughts as his fingers graze the hem of the brown, knitted garment and he realizes that underneath the silly sweater, you're not wearing a bra.

His hand wanders, caressing your side until it disappears entirely underneath the sweater. Cold fingers brush against your ribs and your breath hitches. With the television turned down, Calvin hears it and attempts to amend it by bringing his mouth to your jaw, peppering imprecise, open mouthed kisses along it until he reaches your ear.

He whispers that you're pretty. So pretty as you gasp when his hand finally reaches one of your rounded breasts. He wastes no time focusing on the nipple, swiping his thumb over it carefully. And there it is again: the want that is just dying to keep building. It leaves your clit feeling like it's been set on fire. Another string of miserable pleas leave your lips as you turn your head to the side.

You stare at the television screen now, watching as the titular Beetlejuice torments Lydia's father. Despite the volume being turned all the way down, you know the line that comes out of his mouth. But, even then, you don't have it in you to utter, "We've come for your daughter, Chuck." because fuck, you need to come first.

Calvin takes a hold of your chin with his thumb and forefinger, gently turning your head back to stare into his eyes, blown out and glassy just from feeling your skin. Your breath is raggedly trailing through your burning lungs.

Pitying you just enough, Calvin grants you the permission you've been waiting for. "You can move now." He says simply, as if he isn't just as worked up as you are. As if he isn't just waiting for you to ruin his pants; as if he isn't already preparing himself for the gloating he'll get to do when he does laundry tomorrow.

You respond eagerly but not to get too ahead of yourself, not wanting to unravel the knot inside you too quickly. You rock against his knee with smooth, unwaveringly slow motions. Calvin notices your restraint and lets praise drip from his tongue like raw honey, "Good girl...good girl."

The pet name sounds marginally awkward coming from him, but you're too far gone to second guess it. You let it spur you on even more when your thigh brushes against his erection. Based on how solid it is, you can't even imagine how much control it's taking him to hold back from letting himself get off. And a part of you is proud that just the feeling of your supple skin under his palms and your breathy cries were enough to get him that good. So you offer him a little relief by pulling him down on you, giving your thigh more of a chance to graze him fully.

Beautifully, Calvin groans shakily at the friction. Though it doesn't compare to being inside of you in the slightest, the mere movements are just enough to begin brewing his own climax.

Before too long, you're a tangled mess, hopelessly humping against each other on the couch, the movie long forgotten as you both aim to reach your releases. It only serves to provide mood lighting that flashes against your faces, illuminating how Calvin's expression contorts gracefully with the pleasure. He squeezes your breast with every restricted stroke against your thigh, making you whimper. It's a slurry of heaving chests, uneven breaths, and messily placed kisses and you both inch closer and closer to the end.

You're ascending the final hill, seconds away from the peak. Every time your clothed clit brushes against his knee, you feel your climax slowly and steadily clicking continually, just about to slot right into place when--

"Happy Halloween, Calvin Weird-Fields!" you manage to hear the yell faintly through your lust filled haze. You try to ignore it and continue rutting against him. But Calvin's hand leaves the confines of your sweater, hastily pulling it down over your torso before scrambling off of you. Your climax careens backwards down the hill, leaving you high and dry and ready to tear your hair out.

"Wait--" you barely have a chance to get an extra word in when he sits up.

He raises a finger quickly, shushing you.

Then you hear it again, a similar voice screaming from outside, "Yeah, happy fucking Halloween, Weird-Fields!"

"You've got to be kidding me. Not again." Calvin groans to himself before clambers away to his front door, barely having enough of a grip on himself to smooth his hair back. With the movie and you and the swiftly fading arousal fading, the tension returns to his shoulders, promptly weighing him down.

By the time he gets out the door, the teenagers have gotten back on their bicycles. They pull Halloween masks back over their faces and have already begun to ride back down the hill. At the risk of sounding too much like his late father, Calvin holds back the urge to yell obscenities back at them. He can't even think of the words to accurately express his anger anyways.

He just turns back, staring at the stark white stucco of his two story home, now adorned with garlands of toilet paper. Right then, you emerge from the entrance, following him out to the little concrete sidewalk at the front of his home and looking at the damage. This time, the one thing keeping you from chuckling at the sight is the outrage clearly radiating from your boyfriend.

Calvin reaches up, only just tall enough to reach a strand that hangs down. Though he tugs on it gently, it rips off quickly, leaving him with two and a half pitiful squares of toilet paper in his grasp.

His voice wobbles with frustration, "Are you-- you've gotta be kidding me." He jumps a little this time, reaching for the same sheet as it flutters in the wind, pulling off yet another few squares that he crumples in his trembling fist.

You watch him begin to breathe heavily, his lip quivering as he only works himself up more and more.

You reach out to lay a hand on his shoulder, "Hey, honey, stop..." but that doesn't quite catch his attention. You repeat firmly, "Calvin, stop."

He whips around and shoots you a venomous reply, "What the fuck am I supposed to do about this?"

"I don't know. Can't you pay someone to come out and clean it up?" A guy as wealthy and with as many connections as he did had to know someone who would be willing to take care of the mess.

"How the fuck am I going to get someone out here tonight?" he continues to rant, "Why the fuck are those kids even allowed to be out after dark?

You raise your voice, "Calvin!"

"What?" he snaps.

"You don't need to worry about this right now. Why don't we just go back inside and--"

"What's the point?" he laughs dejectedly, "The night's already ruined anyways."

"It isn't ruined." you insist.

"Yes, it is. They fucked it up and I fucked it up even more and fuck it's all just fucking fucked." His tone only gets more irritated as he rambles on, dropping the crumpled toilet paper squares to the concrete and running his quivering hand through his hair once more.

This hadn't been the first time those teenagers had done something like this. It started with them leaving empty beer bottles on his sidewalk after drunkenly laughing on his porch all night. Calvin had heard the antics of course, but had been too hesitant to do anything. He just hoped they'd go away. So he simply recycled the bottle and thought that was the last of it. But they were spoiled rich kids that lived in the hills and were determined to make the pretentious author's life a living hell.

The last incident, weeks before this, had almost been the straw that broke the camel's back. They'd managed to get their hands on a copy of one of his books and torn the pages out, crumpling them up and littering the bushes in front of the entrance with them. Placed directly on his doormat was the bent and destroyed cover. They'd taken permanent markers to the duster jacket and written insults all over it. Most of them were childish scribblings. The one that stuck up to him most was the simple addition of an extra "D" in his name.

Thus came the creation of the most clever quip these teenagers had against him: Calvin Weird-Fields.

It was silly, he knew it and his cheeks grew red every time he thought about it. But it only ever reminded him of growing up being the prodigal genius. Most people thought he was brilliant. That presented a certain set of issues, all laced with a paradoxical sense of narcissism and self loathing. But the people that insisted he'd peaked during his teenage years? That opened up a brand new avenue of anxieties, ones that made him feel sick to his stomach every time he thought of them.

He really was nothing special. Just a kid who got lucky once. And he'd never amount else aside from that. Those bratty teenagers would probably do more than he ever had managed to do in his few decades of life.

Feeling your hands set on his shoulders once more, you bring him back into the moment. "Calvin. It's late. We can worry about this tomorrow. We're both kind of drunk and I'm sure we're both really tired. So why don't we go back inside and try to get some sleep?"

Eyes glazed over, he stares back at you blankly through his tortoiseshell glasses.

You continue, bringing your hands down to his and hold them tightly in yours, hoping he can feel your sincerity in the touch. "Honey," Right as you start, you remember his words from earlier. "Just because things didn't go exactly to plan, it doesn't mean everything is fucked. We're going to be just fine. We'll figure it out in the morning."

"We?"

Your head tilts bittersweetly, affected entirely by his tenderness and all too aware that he's still too used to going at things alone. You can't imagine what it's like being stuck in his head sometimes; caught between a self aggrandizing front and an inner voice that is probably far more critical of himself than even the harshest reviewer.

"Yes. We." you answer finally. "Now can we go inside? I'm getting really fucking cold. Maybe you can warm me up." With the chunky sweater you're wearing, it's obviously a complete lie. But you don't think Calvin notices or cares.

The anger starts to melt away and he squeezes your hands in his before bringing them to his lips and giving them a chaste kiss. You see his gloomy green eyes are misty with the beginnings of a few tears that he quickly wipes away with the sleeve of his own sweater.

"That sounds nice." he concludes quietly, letting you lead him back inside his apartment.

#danonation #paul dano #danocel #ruby sparks #calvin weir fields #calvin weir fields x reader #calvin weir fields x you #calvin weir fields x y/n #˚ʚ meda writes ɞ˚

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