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ode2rin · 1 month

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1 | ANYONE BUT YOU .ೃ

summary. as lines get blurred, hearts get flustered, and a scheme ensues, your brother's best friend suddenly seems way more interesting than he used to be.

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“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can go with you anymore.”

Your ears were ringing.

After the words hung over the line, a heavy silence descended, punctuated only by the dull thud of your heartbeat echoing in your ears. The phone line seemed to distort, and the world beyond reduced to a distant murmur as a disorienting ringing filled your ears. Yet, despite the shock rippling through, you managed to maintain a facade.

“Ah, I see. It’s no problem. See you around!” Your chirped voice made you cringe internally, but it was a better front than sounding like a defeated kid whose mom said no over a piece of candy at a grocery store.

Before he could say anything else, you clicked the end button faster than he could spew some tacky excuse. Throwing your phone to the side, you settled onto your bed, lying on your back, staring at the uninteresting ceiling of your room.

Sure, it was no problem at all— the music festival was just six hours away, and your date had just canceled on you over the phone. It’s no big deal facing your college blockmates without a companion as initially planned, and it’s totally not a problem that you will most likely be a third– hell, a seventh wheel, actually, and have them talk behind your back – speculating about why you're going alone or if you were just making it up that you had someone to bring.

Yes, it’s not a fucking problem at all.

You don’t even like the artist lineup, anyway (maybe you’re mildly interested with one band that’s attending). You wouldn’t bother if you weren’t just a sophomore still trying to find a group of friends you can call your own. It's embarrassing enough that freshmen even had it better than you. It’s not a race, for sure, but in college– the truth lies blatant that support systems help. A lesson you learned the hardest way.

“Y/N? Are you in there?” Three soft knocks on your door and a muffled voice, surely coming from your older brother, interrupted your pity party.

“Yes. Come in,” you confirmed. The door creaked open, revealing a mop of magenta hair leaning over your door frame.

“There’s food downstairs. We ordered your favorite.”

“We?”

“Kaiser is downstairs.”

Of course, he is.

Your brother’s best friend must have really taken it to heart when your mom told him he can treat your family as his own. Too deep into his heart, if you could comment. You see him around the house more than you see your parents, and if that wasn’t tiresome enough, he’s literally a damn superstar in your university. Every corner, every room, in halls and library, everyone can’t seem to be over his name like a broken record.

You wouldn’t be this annoyed, hostile even, if said man was just as nice as your brother. But instead, he was far by the most obnoxious, foul-mouthed, arrogant prick you’ve ever known. Alexis should have never kicked some ball with that conceited oaf a decade ago. Life would have been so much better. But no— reality is, the bane of your existence in the form of blonde hair and sharp blue eyes, is in your house’s kitchen, probably gulping down your favorite drinks in the fridge.

If you can’t seem to have friends, your older brother seems to be goddamn bad at picking his.

“Hey, dollface. Missed me?” Speak of the damn devil and he shall appear.

The first thing you’re met with after coming down is a sight of Michael Kaiser, sitting high and comfortably on one of the counter’s bar stools. Your gaze trails down to his hand where you see a peek of his crown tattoo— and would you look at that? He’s holding a can of your Coke Zero.

“Oh, so that’s why my life was going sideways again,” you feigned a sigh in disappointment, making sure it was loud enough for him to hear, “because you’re back.”

In your unwanted years of knowing this guy, you’ve soon realized that none of your words, no matter how sharp or snarky they get, would ever faze him. Evidence would be how he just openly chuckled at your remark. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I missed you and your smart mouth, too. Don’t worry.”

“Trust me, worry is not in the list of emotions I would ever feel for you.”

“Well, does attraction make it to the list?”

Years ago, perhaps it would have. Not that he needs to know—no chance. Your silly childhood crush on him was your deepest, darkest mistake. You might be overdramatic, but this was Michael Kaiser, and god, you would rather get caught having feelings for anyone but him.

Rolling your eyes at him, you sneer, “You wish.”

“Oh, trust me, I do wish,” he mocks your tone.

“Fuck off.”

“That won’t get rid of me, I’m afraid,” he shrugs before winking at you. You shook your head in annoyance.

You took the seat across from him and settled. You were about to lean to reach the box of pizza at the other end of the countertop, when Kaiser reached for it first and placed it in front of you.

You turned to look at him, half expecting a smirk or yet another wink from the blonde, but instead, he was preoccupied browsing on his phone as if his body moved on its own to attend to you.

You shrugged off the weird occurrence and turned all attention to the pizza and its heavenly scent sipping through the gaps of its box, just in time for Alexis to take the seat next to his best friend. You drowned the noise of their conversation as they started talking about last away games.

Your brother and Kaiser had been the most valuable players of your university’s soccer team for as long as you’ve remembered. They were two years older, so by the time you entered university, they were already making big names in the field. Rumors had it that there were already offers lining up at their feet.

If you come to think of it, it wouldn’t be this hard making friends if you would just be vocal about being Alexis Ness’ younger sibling, but the limelight and pretentious popularity it came with was something you wouldn’t wish upon yourself. You wanted real and genuine friends, not people who wanted to be around you because it was a step closer to your brother and his best friend.

Like earlier, Alexis’ voice came reaching your eardrums, snapping you out of your thoughts. After hearing what he had to ask, though, you wished you had a way to physically block out his words.

“Are you not going to get ready for the festival?” your brother asked, meanwhile, his dear friend seemed to take great interest in what you’re about to say as both of them peered over you.

“Not going anymore,” you said, as nonchalant as you could to play pretend.

“Why? You’ve been looking forward to it the whole week.”

Heat crept into your ears and cheeks as embarrassment filled you. Sure, you might not be prancing around being all excited about it, but if your brother was able to notice it, your enthusiasm must have been evident then. God, you felt like an utter fool now.

“It got canceled,” you looked away from them.

Alexis looked at you with furrowed brows, “What do you mean? It’s not–”

“My date canceled on me. I’m not going anymore to save face and not make a fool out of myself. There, happy?” you snapped.

Before you could even feel the guilt from bursting out unprovoked to your brother, you swiftly got up from the stool heading back to your room, leaving the two of them in the kitchen looking concerned contrarily. One with worried eyes glancing at your room hesitantly, and the other one with a clenched jaw and narrowed eyes.

It seemed everyone was testing your patience today, as for the second time, your ears rang—not from a last-minute cancellation this time, but from the persistent sound of your ringing phone.

Your heavy eyes fluttered open, weighed down by the sleep from your ignoring-the-world nap after the exchange with your supposed date and your brother. Disoriented and groggy, you reached out, fingers fumbling to check the caller deserving of your unrelenting fury.

Kaiser, the screen read, and suddenly, the urge to throw your phone at the nearest wall almost overwhelmed your senses.

But you answered the call anyway, because logic says that he was still your brother’s closest, and sometimes, that warranted a call that might be about him.

“I swear to god this better be important–”

“Get ready,” he interrupted.

“What?”

“Look out your window.”

Groaning, you rose to your feet, moving your drapes aside to see what awaited outside.

Outside your house’s gates, a midnight blue sports car, all too familiar, was parked across the driveway. Its owner leaned lazily over its door, one hand in his pocket while the other held his phone pressed to his ear, looking right back at you with that shit-eating grin.

“What the hell are you on?” you muttered into the phone.

You instantly closed the drapes after meeting eyes with him.

It’s infuriating—He’s infuriating. But damn, does he look good when he smiles like that. And it’s not helping your case that he was clad in loose-fitting denim pants and a black shirt, sufficiently showcasing both his tattoo and his lean yet toned build.

It’s sorcery how he makes simple and ordinary clothing look like it was screaming high-end and luxury. Only he can do that, you admit.

“As I said, get ready,” he repeated over the phone, “We only have less than two hours before your music festival or something starts.”

He’s taking me to it? “Why?”

Only one word in response, yet the two of you understood what you’re pertaining to. Silence filled the line for a moment before you heard a subtle click of his tongue.

“Because you look ugly when you sulk,” and he hung up.

You should be irritated at him hanging up abruptly and calling you ugly, but for some reason you don’t know, it puts a smile on your face.

The first one today.

Kaiser wishes he had a bigger car— which one would deem ridiculous, given that his car could easily match the price of two or even three minivans.

But if it meant having you sit not so close that your scent infiltrates his senses beyond his sound judgment, he’d gladly trade his lambo for a minivan any day.

You were intoxicating— not akin to the grip of liquor, because it would be inadequate in comparison. But rather intoxicating in the same way as the irresistible magnetism that beckons a madman to its vices.

And he must be really mad because you weren’t even sitting shoulder-to-shoulder close to him. You’re sitting comfortably at the passenger seat, a good distance in between, and yet he acts like a raging teenager who got locked up with his crush in the utility room. It is absolutely embarrassing, even for someone like him.

“Did Alexis ask you to do this?” you suddenly inquired, your gaze fixed on your side of the car.

Thank heavens you broke the silence first, because who knows what ungodly phrases he would come up with in an attempt of small talk with you?

“No. Though I bet he would have taken you himself,” he snorted, of course your brother would, “If our coach weren’t so pissed at him these days.”

Ah, so that explained why you hadn't seen Alexis around the house before hopping into Kaiser's car.

Momentarily, you turned to him. It was so swift that he might have missed it if he wasn’t so hyper aware of your every move in this damn confined space. “Is he in trouble?” you inquired to the blonde, your voice concerned and hesitant.

“Nothing you have to worry about, doll.”

“Stop with the nicknames,” you hissed, attempting to intimidate.

Unfazed, he countered with a cheeky “Make me,” under his breath. His smirk practically audible, even without you glancing his way.

Silence overtook between the two of you once more. You fixated on the road ahead, noting the nearing destination as the glow of the festival stage lights peeked into view.

It’s your chance— your chance to release the words that have lingered at the edge of your tongue since he urged you to get ready almost an hour ago. You stole a glance at the man driving beside you. His eyes focused on the road, his left hand steady on the steering wheel while his timepiece-adorned hand rested comfortably on the gearshift. In another frame of mind, you might have found yourself lost in the rhythm of his long, slender fingers tapping against it. You snapped out of it before he could point it out.

You stole one last glance before turning away to whisper, “Thank you… Kaiser.”

Instead of saying welcome like a polite person would, your companion would of course, choose to say something as, “You owe me something now.”

Of course, you thought. Mentally rolling your eyes, you ask, resigning to his antics, “What do you want?”

“Call me by my name.”

“Did you not hear? I said, thank you Kai–”

“The one you used to call me.”

Mikka.

It was a silly nickname you gave him– back when Alexis first brought him home for snacks nearly ten years ago. He and Alexis were eleven, and you were barely nine.

You remembered the blonde kid, all sweaty in his mud-stained clothes, clutching a worn-out ball by his hip, his gaze fixed on you with curiosity. “This is Kaiser,” your brother introduced, but the blonde stranger approached you, extending his hand.

“I’m Michael.”

“That’s… long.”

“What?”

“Your name– it’s long,” you echoed, looking up at him, “can I call you ‘Mikka’?”

“What?” Kaiser’s deep voice sliced through your reminiscence. “You had no problem calling me that before,” he pointed out.

“That’s before you beat up the boy you knew I like,” you scoffed at him, a familiar pettiness clouding your mind.

He chuckled at your retort, seemingly lost in his own memories. “Beat him up on the soccer field, you mean,” he corrected, though he wouldn’t particularly mind if it were an actual fight.

“Same thing.”

“Oh, come on! It was highschool!”

“Your point?” you countered.

“He was a snotface, anyway.” he rationalized.

“He was nice to me!”

“I suggest you rather get a dog instead— if nice is all you need. I heard dogs are fun to be around,” he sneered, “What do you think of pomeranians?”

You brushed off his question, preferring the depths of silence over the hypothetical responsibility of tending to a pup that bore more than a passing resemblance to him, both in appearance and, perhaps, in demeanor.

“I knew agreeing to come here with you was a mistake,” you sighed, exasperation lacing your words.

Surprisingly, Kaiser offered no retort. Taking his silence as a cue for your own, you settled into quietness, hoping for a peaceful remainder of the drive. Minutes drifted by until Kaiser broke the stillness with a whisper loud enough for you to catch.

“He was a slimy jerk,” he began, pausing as if hinting his careful choice of words, “and he was nice to you because he was trying to get into your pants.”

“How did you know?” you asked, meek and shy, fumbling with your fingers in your lap. Seeking love advice and opinions from none other than the mighty Kaiser seemed absurd, but maybe, wisdom might sometimes fare well with age.

“Trust me when I say I know how boys can be,” he scoffed, a displeased furrow settling in his brows. “He wasn't the gentleman you thought he was.”

“And you? Are you a gentleman?”

Before you could stop your thoughts from escaping your rebellious mouth, the words spilled out like water through a breached dam. The lack of response from him compelled you to chew on your lip and fix your gaze on the road, refusing to spare even a glance his way, despite feeling his stare burning into the side of your face.

Meanwhile, Kaiser was aware he might be staring too long at your side for someone controlling a vehicle, but he couldn't help it. Not when you caught him off guard with a simple question, and especially not when you were trying so hard to avoid looking at him, your discomfort palpable in the air. You looked so cute—it made his mouth twitch.

Staring ahead at the road, he contemplated your question, needing no more than a minute to reach his conclusion.

When a man looks at his best friend's younger sibling in a way he shouldn’t, he’s not deserving of the title “gentleman.”

He was far from it, he concluded. With one last glance thrown your way before bringing the car to a full stop, he muttered in an uncharacteristically soft tone.

“Especially not one, doll.”

“Y/N! Over here!” a familiar voice cut through the cacophony, prompting you to scan the crowd until you finally spotted them.

Relief flooded over you at the sight of a familiar face amidst the crowd. Checking your phone had proven to be a wise decision; otherwise, you might have spent the night searching aimlessly through the vast expanse of the venue.

The venue stretched out before you was a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds that danced upon the senses. Laughter and chatter mingled with applause and the occasional roar of approval as performers graced the stage.

Everywhere you looked there was movement and so much life. Yet amidst the bustling crowd and pulsating music, one figure occupied your thoughts more than anything else.

Kaiser's towering 6-foot frame loomed behind you, his broad shoulders carving a path of confidence through the crowd. He stood behind you like an immovable rock amidst a rushing river. And if your senses weren't deceiving you, you swore you felt the occasional brush of his hand against the small of your back, gently guiding you forward.

He was so close behind you that his breath on your nape soaked into your skin like ointment— warm to the touch, yet icy on your spine.

“Where's your date?” one of your blockmates inquired after the initial pleasantries were exchanged.

The question lingered, and suddenly, all eyes were on you. Mentally counting heads, you realized you were really on track to be the seventh wheel if you attended without a companion. Speaking of companions— you turned behind you with the intention of introducing Kaiser (not that they didn’t know him already), but your intention faltered when you noticed the scowl on his face.

“I’m the date, if you couldn’t tell,” he interjected.

From his vantage point, he observed the widening of your eyes at his declaration. Yet, when he didn’t hear any immediate retaliation from you, he flashed you— and everyone else watching— a lopsided smirk. He sensed your blockmates’ curiosity lingering, some perhaps wondering if he was truly dating you. But none of them dared to probe further—maybe because he wasn't exactly the approachable type.

After a few murmurs of ‘oh’ and ‘really’ from your blockmates, they returned their attention to the stage, where the next performer was beginning their pre-performance monologue.

You, on the other hand, look like you were out for his blood from how you’re glaring at him. “Are you out of your mind?” you hissed under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear.

Yes. Perhaps he was. Irrationality had seized him upon hearing the question. After all, he was there with you, visible for all to see. Did they not see him? Did he look like a fucking chair to those people? Common sense must be a luxury these days, given its absence in this situation.

Yet, a small voice of reason within him attempted to intervene, suggesting that the question might have stemmed from genuine curiosity.

As his best friend's younger sibling, seeing the two of you together wasn't an unusual occurrence for those who attend the same university. They likely concluded that your presence with him at the music festival was simply a matter of normal friendship (which it was, but they don’t have to know that, nor does he desire for these extras to reduce it to just that).

“I’m helping you save face like you said earlier,” he tells you, still wearing that annoying smirk.

“How does telling them you’re my date help me save face?” If anything, you'd be hiding on campus after his stunt. You could only hope words won’t travel fast.

“Would you rather I tell them I'm chaperoning you because some jerk canceled on you?”

Your words stalled at the base of your throat, unable to counter his remark. That shut you up, much to your chagrin. He was right.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought,” he quipped, grinning at your silence. “Come closer, there’s a lot of people.”

You huffed in irritation and decided to ignore him behind you, determined to make the most of your experience here. You’d let this slide for now. After all, he was here because of you.

But it wasn’t too long before you realized that ignoring him would be as futile as trying to pluck roses without being pricked by the thorns. You knew very well that this man thrives in getting under people’s skin.

“You should be flattered.”

Genuinely appalled, you ask, “I’m sorry?”

“Accepted.”

If it wasn’t night time and the blaring lights were replaced by the sun, he could have seen the twitch that your eye did at his retort.

At this point, murder is a tempting option. Sure, he’s taller and much bigger in physique terms, but you have the rage for it. Just one more insufferable antic—one more word— from this man and the whole university will be mourning their star player’s demise first thing tomorrow morning.

You took a deep breath to calm your murderous nerves, “Is that so? What part of telling people— oh wait, our schoolmates who are probably whispering behind our backs— that you’re my date, is flattering to you?”

The asshole had the audacity to shrug, “Calling me yours was.”

“Well then, you should be flattered. Not me.”

“You don’t know how flattered I am to be yours,” he mused.

If you didn’t know any better, his attempt at flirting might have sent warmth to your cheeks. But this was Kaiser— no one can tell when he’s being serious or just being his usual menace self talking shit like he’s employed to do so. Good thing you had better plans than spend it on his guessing games.

Just when you’re about to berate him once more, words halted on your throat because of a sight you least expected to see.

Han— the guy you’ve been talking to for almost a month now. The same guy who was your supposed date, to be more specific.

“What? Cat got your tongue, doll?”

If cats come in the form of a familiar man who’s a few good meters away, clearly having the time of his life dancing with someone, and clearly showing no signs of unavailability to go to a music festival he asked you to, then yes, it got your tongue.

You stayed silent far too long for Kaiser’s patience. Your lack of snarky clapbacks were starting to unsettle him more than he would allow. Shifting closer to you, he followed your line of sight to see what got you stunned in silence.

Recognizing what, or rather who, got your attention, he turns to you, his voice coming out too indignant, “Do you know that guy?”

“Do you?” you counter, picking up on his tone being all too casual as if they’re acquainted.

“He’s last week’s opposing team’s goalkeeper,” or was it ‘striker’? He couldn’t recall, so he’s more or less incompetent to him. One thing he remembers, however, “and he hates me.”

You threw him a glance, “Not surprised.”

“And do I give a fuck,” he shook his head, “Why do you keep looking at him?” Don’t fucking tell me.

Your answer wasn’t any better to what he was starting to imagine, “He was… supposed to be my date to this music festival,” you mumbled, looking down at your feet.

You didn’t want to see the look on Kaiser’s face, fearing you might see pity, and so you nailed your gaze to the ground. Totally oblivious of the man peering over you rather softly.

“Why can’t he then?” he asks, voice an octave lower.

“He said they had late notice training, so he can’t come.”

“Well, that better be his fucking ghost yapping with a brunette then,” he scoffs, looking straight to the lying man who canceled on you.

Sick of his face and sloppy dance moves, Kaiser turned his gaze back at you, only to be filled with rage because of it.

You look sad— and it made his blood boil. Not towards you, but for you.

“Y’know what? Let’s go there,” he urged, head pointing at where Han was.

Is he fucking crazy? You immediately shook your head at his scandalous suggestion. You might be feeling a little betrayed and angry, but rationality still had its hold on you— and it’s saying to not let Kaiser go with his idea.

Instead, you tug on his forearm, eyes still on the floor before looking up at him, “Can we leave, please?”

Kaiser was taken aback by your sudden meekness. He wasn’t used to this— to you, being all deflated and zoned out. He was used to your deadpan expressions and your eyes that seem to roll every time he utters a single word. He was used to you being, dare he say, feisty.

And he would rather have you stay like that all day long, even when he’s the receiving end of it.

But this? You, saying please to him, of all people? He doesn’t like it.

If this is how he gets to make you say please, then he doesn’t want it. Fuck that, and fuck that guy. How dare he.

Kaiser didn’t say anything back at your request, but you felt big calloused hands grasp on your hand still resting on his forearm. The next thing you knew, you were walking with him, shoulder-to-shoulder while his other hand was on yours guiding you to walk out of the scene.

“If I see one—just one drop of tear, I swear I am turning this damn car around.”

Your thoughts abruptly halted at the sound of Kaiser’s threat—his ultimatum, rather. It sounded more like a promise than a threat, and you knew this man well enough to understand that he never ate his words.

You shot him a glance and snickered. There was no way in high hell you’d ever cry in the same space where he was. It was the last thing you’d ever do, even if it meant convincing yourself that what you saw earlier was just a mere look-alike of Han.

“It's nothing. We aren’t even a thing,” you dismissed, your voice flat.

“But you thought you could be,” he countered, and damn if he wasn't right. “How do you even know him?”

“We're kind of talking, well, sort of—”

“Kind of? Sort of?” he scoffed.

“God—it's like a talking stage or something casual, Kaiser! There, got it?”

“That's not exclusive,” he remarked, adding insult to injury.

Irritation bubbled in your throat as his interrogation continued. But even before you could unleash your venom, you caught yourself. He was right. And while this man had never brought you good, it wasn't fair to make him the target of your bad.

“Yeah, it's not,” you admitted, a dry, humorless laugh escaping you. You recalled the brunette he danced with earlier. “I wasn't exclusive material for his reputation, I guess.”

What reputation? “That’s bullshit.” He gritted his teeth, his hand itching towards the steering wheel, clearly tempted to turn back to the festival.

“You said it yourself, he’s an athlete,” you pointed out, “You people never like to go exclusive with someone.”

“You people? Oh, please. Do not insult me by comparing me to the likes of him.”

The sass in his voice drew a chuckle from you. It was amusing how he said it with genuine horror, as if the mere idea of being associated with Han was an insult. “Why? Are you telling me you can commit to someone exclusively?”

“Someone like who? You?” He met your gaze briefly, “Absolutely.”

What the hell. “Stop messing around,” you snorted, effectively ending the conversation.

He was playing a dangerous game, saying that to you. Did he even realize what it did? Did he hear your stupid heart hammering in your chest? It was too loud, too obvious, a frantic drum solo against your ribs.

And the realization settled— he made your heart flutter.

His words, so simple, so casually tossed out, had landed like a bomb, sending shrapnel through your carefully constructed walls.

Michael Kaiser, of all people, made your heart flutter.

Suddenly, the air felt thin, the car an echo chamber amplifying the frantic rhythm of your traitorous heart. You knew you should scoff, dismiss it as another one of his infuriating jabs, but the truth was like a hot coal lodged in your throat.

“I’m not though,” he countered, eyes steady on the familiar road ahead. He sounded serious– too serious.

As you were about to retort back, the car lurched to a stop, announcing your arrival. You glanced out the window, the familiar sight of your house doing little to ease the tension that had coiled tight in your stomach.

“We’re here,” Kaiser announced, his voice a low rumble.

Hurried and flustered by the unexpected shift in the conversation, your clammy hands fumbled with the buckle, the metal cold and unyielding against your sweaty palms. You tugged, then tugged again, frustration building with each failed attempt.

“Easy, doll.”

Before you could protest, a large hand swooped in, effortlessly unlatching the buckle with a practiced flick. The sudden proximity sent a jolt through you, making your breath hitch. You met his gaze, his eyes a blazing blue as he held your stare for a beat too long before turning away.

Taking a deep breath, you composed yourself. You reached for the door handle, pushing it open and stepping out onto the familiar pavement. Before slamming the door shut, you paused, turning back to Kaiser with a newfound resolve.

Crouching down to meet his gaze, you surprised yourself with the words that tumbled out. “Be careful on your way home and,” you paused, “Thank you... Mikka.”

The nickname slipped out before you could stop it, leaving a blush blooming across your cheeks.

Before Kaiser could react, you slammed the door shut, the sound echoing in the quiet street.

Mikka. He repeats your words in his mind.

He watched you disappear into your house, a slow grin spreading across his face. Only when you were safely inside did he start the car, the image of your flustered face lingering in his mind.

Damn it, doll.

Meanwhile, you hurried to your room, clutching your chest where your heart still hammered a frantic rhythm.

Why did I call him that? you asked yourself.

The use of his nickname, a name you rarely uttered now, was a stark reminder that the two of you weren’t as close as you were younger.

It’s not a big deal, you tried to reason with yourself. He literally said you owed it to him, and calling it quits would be in the form of a stupid nickname. It doesn’t mean anything. Right— you were just returning a favor.

Your obvious self-deception was interrupted by the incessant buzzing of your phone, tossed carelessly on the bed. Picking up your phone, you opened one of the notifications, your breath catching in your throat.

It was a post on your university's gossip page, and there, plastered on the screen, was a picture of you and Kaiser.

The image froze a moment in time, capturing him standing protectively behind you, his arms caging you against a barricade. Panic clawed at your throat. This picture, out in the open, could be misconstrued in so many ways.

What were people going to think? Who took this photo, anyway?

Your eyes darted down the comment section, scrolling through a sea of unimaginable speculations, desperately searching for clues about the culprit.

Just then, a knock on the door startled you.

“Y/N? Can I talk to you?”

It was your brother— and his voice suggested he needed answers too.

Shit.

note. first mini series lmao xD will add cw as i go!

#☁️ my ode to you #michael kaiser x reader #blue lock x reader #kaiser x reader #blue lock imagines #michael kaiser imagines #kaiser imagines #michael kaiser x y/n #michael kaiser x you #bllk x y/n #bllk x you #bllk x reader #blue lock x y/n #blue lock x you #michael kaiser #blue lock fluff #first milestone event!#writing: 004

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popamolly · 3 months

Text

‘ DANCE WITH THE DEVIL ’ ALASTOR

summary. a bit heartbroken by last night’s events, you tried to move forward and entertain more suitors, a string still pulling on your heart since it was hard to forget alastor.

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE

warnings. human!alastor x fem!reader, eventual smut, mature themes, age gap! youre 20 while alastor is in his early 30s, alastor is a serial killer, alastor stalks you, dark romance, angst, gore, death, blood kink, not a happy ending

author’s note. thank you for all the love this story is getting!

The next morning arrived with the sunlight streaming through the window and painting the room in a soft warm glow. You stirred awake from a restless sleep, the events of the previous night hung heavy in the air but before you could get lost in your thoughts a gentle knock on the door interrupted your thoughts, and your mother entered with a tray of your favorite breakfast.

"Good morning," she greeted sharply, setting the tray on the bedside table.

The atmosphere in the room felt charged with tension and you felt as though if you made a sudden move you might die from the suffocation of it all. Your mother's stern expression hinted at the lingering disapproval from the night before. As she sat down, her eyes bore into yours, her words measured and direct.

"I hope you've had a chance to reflect on your behavior last night. Venturing into such places is unbecoming of a lady, especially a Duvalier, I will not have you tarnishing your father's name." she chided, her tone laced with disapproval.

Your attempts to explain were met with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Enough. We won't dwell on the mistakes of yesterday. However, I must insist that you put this Alastor nonsense out of your mind."

The mention of Alastor brought a rush of emotions that you had to swallow down. Now your mother’s instructions became more of a command rather than a suggestion. Though when have her words ever been a suggestion.

"Forget about him, my dear. You need to focus on the suitors who are genuinely interested in you. Now, get dressed. We have guests arriving and you must present yourself with grace and composure," she instructed sharply.

The weight of your mother's insistence felt like shackles but you complied, suppressing your emotions. As you prepared for the day, the memories of the jazz club and Alastor were pushed to the back of your mind, replaced by the formalities and expectations you were to upheld.

The morning, which had begun with the soft glow of sunlight, now unfolded in a harsh contrast. As you descended the grand staircase to meet the suitors, a silent determination set in.

The night before had been replaced by the reality of the courting season, and in this world of scripted dances and polished conversations, the echoes of the jazz club was nothing but a forbidden memory.

"And your favorite hobby?" The man next to you asked as you both walked along the side of the riverbank with your mother in tow behind you as a chaperone.

"Cooking, sewing, cleaning..." You listed everything your mother practiced you to say since you were sixteen with a bored expression, "It's hard to choose really. Especially when my new hobby would be doing all those things and taking care of man who can't take care of himself."

The gentleman's expression shifted from mild curiosity to genuine offense as your response veered off the expected path for traditional domestic roles. He struggled to conceal his surprise, his facial features contorting into disbelief.

"Taking care of a man who can't take care of himself?" he repeated, his tone carrying a touch of annoyance. "Well, I must say, I wasn't expecting such... candidness. A woman's role is to support and enhance her husband's life, not to suggest he's incapable."

Your mother, who had been following as a discreet chaperone, discreetly cleared her throat, offering a subtle reminder of the expected decorum during such conversations. The gentleman, however, appeared unamused by your deviation from the conventional script.

"I believe in partnership and mutual support," you continued, maintaining your composure despite the tension in the air. "In my view, a successful marriage is built on shared responsibilities and understanding, don't you think so? Or is your brain too small minded?"

The gentleman's offense transformed into outright displeasure, and his face reddened with anger. He took a step back, as if distancing himself from the perceived audacity of your words.

"I never expected such impertinence," he huffed, his voice dripping with disdain before turning to your mother. "If this is the kind of woman your daughter has become, madam, perhaps a lesson in decorum is in order."

Your mother, taken aback by the abrupt turn of events, attempted to diffuse the tension. "I assure you, she is a capable and respectful young woman."

The gentleman scoffed, "Respectful? A woman's place is to support her husband, not challenge societal norms. If you want to see your daughter married perhaps you should tape her mouth first."

With those final words, he turned on his heel, storming off along the riverbank, leaving an air of tension in his wake. Your mother, left momentarily speechless, could only watch as he disappeared from view.

Your mother, though caught off guard by the gentleman's departure, turned her attention towards you with a stern expression, the air thick with disapproval.

"I cannot believe you would speak so boldly, especially to such a promising young man. Do you even know who his father is?" she scolded, her voice low. "You'd be lucky if he doesn't spread a rumor about you and your outspoken views, who will marry you then?"

You bit your lip, a mix of frustration and defiance bubbling within you. The stifling expectations of the season seemed to constrict, and the encounter had exposed the deep-seated clash between tradition and your desire for an equal partnership.

"But Mother, I only spoke the truth. I want a marriage built on partnership," you argued, your voice carrying a hint of rebellion, "I want love."

Your mother's gaze remained unwavering, and she sighed in exasperation. "Love? My dearest child, it was one night of sweet nothings you must forget that man. You must understand that your words have consequences, and you must learn to navigate these social situations with more finesse."

The scolding continued, a lecture on the importance of being a mere trophy without thoughts. As the words from your mother lingered, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of resentment. The courting season proved to be more of a challenge than you had anticipated.

The journey back home was quiet, the echoes of the encounters with potential suitors lingering in the air. Your grand estate, once a symbol of opulence and refinement, now felt like a gilded cage . A cage that you unfortunately had to be stuck in for the rest of your life.

As you and your mother entered the stately home, servants helped you take your coats off at the door. Tonight had only proved that the majority of suitors were mostly ignorant and entitled. Men who expected the traditional gender roles only stifled your desire for a more equal partnership.

You follow your mother into drawing-room where tea awaited, sitting down on one of the elegant couches after pouring yourself a cup. You mentally prepared yourself as your mother sat across from you, dropping two sugar cubes into her own teacup with a discerning gaze, ready address the events of the afternoon.

"Do you understand that I want only the best for you? It is hard but you must find content with your situation, as I did. The suitors today were from respected families, and their opinions carry weight in our social circles," she advised, her tone a mix of caution and motherly concern, "Don't be foolish to throw this all way because you want a fairytale marriage."

You sighed, feeling her slowly start to crush your spirit. "Mother, I cannot fake enthusiasm for these men. I want a marriage based on love and mutual respect, is that so bad?"

Your mother's expression hardened, a sign of her struggle between the desire for your happiness and keeping your father's legacy alive. "The world we live in demands certain sacrifices for the sake of reputation."

The conversation continued, a delicate dance between generations, aspirations, and tradition. The walls of the grand estate seemed to close in, threatening suffocate every ounce of a dream you had left.

"We will talk more about this later, now go and freshen up for dinner." Your mother turns from you to get the daily mail that sat onto a silver plater one of our servants held. Her thoughts now occupied with whatever was in those letters addressed to her.

The mention of dinner provided you temporary relief, a chance to gather your thoughts in the privacy of your room.

As you reached the upper landing and walked down the corridor towards your room, a familiar sense of fatigue settled in. The idea of facing another evening filled with polite conversation and forced smiles only wished to drain you more than you already were. With a sigh, you opened the door to your room, hoping to somehow muster enough strength to make through dinner with your mother.

Upon entering, the room was bathed in the soft glow of the evening sun. The space offered little comfort compared to the storm brewing within your mind. You moved towards the patio doors, intending to draw the heavy curtains and shut out the world for a brief moment.

However, as you approached the doors, a gasp caught in your throat. There, at the patio, stood Alastor, his tan skin bathed in the warm hues of the setting sun. He held a bouquet of flowers in hand, with that grin that would be bone-chilling if you were in another world.

Had he climbed up to your patio? Your heart skipped a beat, startled by his unexpected presence. Alastor turned, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that mirrored the electrifying encounter at the jazz club.

"Forgive the intrusion," Alastor spoke, a charming smile playing on his lips. "I couldn't resist the opportunity to see you again, (Y/N).”

You found yourself at a loss for words, the sight of him standing there, outside your room, both thrilling and a little scary. The flowers he held seemed to highlight the spontaneity of the night that had captured your heart.

As you stood there, Alastor's gaze held a question, an unspoken invitation to step into the realm of the unexpected once more. You couldn’t, you thought, you shouldn’t. The decision lay before you – to embrace the conventional path or to follow the allure of something more unpredictable and genuine.

A surge of conflicting emotions washed over you at the sight of Alastor. The initial surprise and excitement gradually gave way to a simmering anger that had lingered since the day before. Memories of his sudden departure, leaving you alone in the crowd, resurfaced to only fuel the flames of anger.

You composed yourself, maintaining a veneer of poise, as you faced Alastor at the patio doors. "Alastor," you greeted, your tone betraying a subtle undercurrent of tension.

He smiled, seemingly oblivious to the storm brewing beneath the surface. "I hoped to catch you before dinner. These are for you, my dear," he said, extending the bouquet of flowers towards you.

You accepted the flowers with a forced smile, your gaze sharpening as you met his eyes. "How kind of you. But if this is your way of an apology for leaving me the night before then you are not forgiven," you remarked, your words laced with a hint of reproach.

Alastor's expression faltered for a moment, a flicker of remorse crossing his features. "I apologize if my departure caused you any distress. It wasn't my intention."

You couldn't help but feel a surge of frustration at his nonchalant response. "Intentions or not, it was thoughtless. All this is challenging enough without being abandoned in the middle of a crowded club."

Alastor's gaze dropped ever so slightly, "You're right, and I regret not explaining myself that night." The man before you was unable to meet your eyes, "Something came up and I had to tend to it right away, I had hoped to invite you to dinner to properly apologize."

"Dinner?" You looked back at the clock hanging from your wall, knowing that your mother was expecting you in less than an hour to join her, "I can't tonight."

"Tomorrow then?" Alastor persisted, his eyes searching for a glimpse of agreement.

"Tomorrow." you agreed, the magnetic charm that surrounded him softening your resolve. A sense of anticipation lingered, a silent acknowledgment of the romance weaving through the conversation.

As Alastor pressed a tender kiss to your knuckles, a shiver ran down your spine, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. His gesture, reminiscent of the forbidden knight in shining armor that came to save your dress that fateful day.

"I will see you tomorrow," you responded, your words breathless, caught in the enchantment of the moment. The courtyard, bathed in the soft hues of the setting sun, transformed into a canvas for the unfolding romance between you two. Was this foolish yes? But when you are smitten and swooped off your feet by the person who you think could be the one, it didn’t seem so foolish. Everything surrounding Alastor made perfect sense even when nothing about him made sense at all.

"I can't wait to reveal to you my world, my dear," Alastor's voice carried a mysterious undertone, his words dancing on the edge of menacing. Unbeknownst to you, the promise held a duality, a blend of charm and an underlying darkness that eluded your naive perception.

As Alastor departed, leaving you in the fading light of the terrance, the echoes of his words lingered. The anticipation of the mysterious dinner date took root in your heart, overshadowed by the allure of a world yet to be unveiled. Little did you know, that this romantic endeavor concealed layers of foreshadowing pain and death.

TAGLIST: @queenmizuki @sirens-and-moonflowers @poppingaround @happytacojudgepalace @mo-0-o @harmfulb1tch @tiredkiwiii @moody-mod @themoonitselff @darifes @whocaresimnothere @boogiemansbitch

@stygianoir @miyu-kii @jam0001 @theredviolets @olive-frog @t0xic1vi @chirimeimei @luzzbuzz @simp-erman @arsonist0621 @velvethakiragi @abi99gail @mistpurpl3 @burninupa-star @manicjk @foxykatniss123 @night-shadowblood-writes2 @dissociativeidentitydumbass

Be sure to leave a comment & let me know if you want to be added to the tag list for this story so you’re updated whenever I drop a new chapter! xo

#hazbin hotel characters #hazbin hotel fiction #smut #𖤐popamolly #𖤐popamollyposts #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #alastor x reader smut #alastor x reader #alastor #alastor the radio demon #radio demon #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor

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tojisun · 4 days

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sugar, spice, everything on ice (hockey au)

part of the ‘if fwb’ spinoff // simon riley x f!reader

johnny’s been… doubting, you see, about the validity of simon’s dating life.

like, for example, if he really was dating anyone.

simon looks content in a way that he never was before—intense eyes turned down towards his phone, unapproachable aura less angry but more settled, like he’s warding off people not because of his dislike but more so because he’s not available anymore.

not like he ever made himself available before, but it’s fundamentally different this time around; self-imposed walls brought down to make room for unbridled fulfillment.

he looks like he’s won the damn cup.

and that’s what makes johnny twitch—someone out there was just as, if not more, valued as the championship cup to simon, but he’s never introduced anyone to them.

not a picture nor an update nor even a PSA that they need to commission another WAG jacket for his partner because simon is tight-lipped about whoever it was he’s seeing. it’s not like he’s even dancing around the fact, it’s just that whoever it was he’s dating was never free.

not for a game nor a night-out nor a party. in simon’s house.

this level of secrecy was just unheard of. even the other men in the league who have a tight leash on their private lives still have living proof of their partners unlike simon who leaves it at, “she’s busy,” like that covers anything.

which is why johnny would like to go on record and say: he is totally valid for choosing to crash at simon’s place without letting him know.

he remembers getting wasted with the others, then refusing to be driven home, only to take a cab to simon’s place. he must have been coherent enough to remember the code for simon’s house, and was shockingly coordinated enough to even punch it in, but his memories begin to splinter there.

next thing johnny knows, he’s waking up, feeling like he’s been hit by a freight train. his tongue is heavy inside his mouth, the pungent taste of last night’s alcohol rising from the back of his throat like bile. he groans, blinking blurry eyes as he tries to remember where he’s at or what he’s done, only for nausea to wash over him so intensely he flops back down onto the bed—

he pats at the cushioning.

—onto the sofa then.

by the devil, what did he do last night? got him drinking like he’s got a new liver to replace this one he fucked with.

christ. he needs water, or a whole bottle of mouthwash, honestly.

“mactavish?”

johnny jumps, twisting his head to the side at the call of his name. it’s simon, of course it is, but he looks dishevelled, unkempt in a way that looks criminal because—johnny roves his eyes over his friend—who the hell looks that good when they’ve just woken up?

simon looks like he can be the next cover of inside fitness; give tyler fucking seguin a run for his own money.

“wha’,” is all johnny gets to say because he starts sputtering, dizziness hitting him intensely again. he gags, and only has enough mind to cover his mouth with his fist.

“jesus– down the hall. go,” simon barks and johnny warbles his thanks before locking himself in the guest bathroom.

johnny comes back out to the smell of freshly brewed coffee and melted butter wafting through. simon did say he had a problem with his kitchen vents which made cooking a problem, but johnny sure isn’t complaining right now. although, he supposes that it is a whole different problem when it’s steak or some ribs that simon’s firing up.

oh well, johnny thinks, scratching his side as he ambles to the island, pointedly quiet because simon might kick him out before breakfast is even done.

simon eyes him with a muted approval and johnny grins because, hey, he just secured free breakfast.

he’s about to break the silence, to apologize once more he guesses, when the sounds of padded feet descending from the stairs leading up to simon’s lavishly decorated—sarcasm intended—second floor pierces through the silence.

johnny’s back straightens, his exhausted mind clicking awake.

he turns to his friend but simon’s already angled towards the kitchen door, facing away from johnny. he looks relaxed, previous half-bareness now covered up with a thin white shirt, and johnny doesn’t know why he missed it but simon looks like a perfect picture of a boyfriend fixing up breakfast post-coitus.

“jesus–” johnny begins to say, the pieces linking because yeah, simon’s never denied that he’s been doing some dating around and it’s just johnny’s drunken whim to assume that the most talented ice hockey player of this decade was lying about his relationship status and—good lord, that’s a fucking person diving in simon’s arms, alright.

johnny watches, with his mouth agape, as simon and the mystery woman talk to each other in hushed whispers, his friend having to bend forward to make up for the height difference.

johnny watches, like the third-wheel he is, as simon laughs, actual quiet chuckles and not that children-crying-in-terror-inducing cackle, before nuzzling his nose over your own, and breathing you in.

johnny watches the quiet kiss, just lips pecking each other, and it’s all so soft and tender and johnny feels really, really bad that he didn’t get to give simon and his girl the privacy you two surely deserve and—

your eyes open, flitting to him because johnny is sure that he’s standing out amidst what must be a normally empty kitchen. he doesn’t even get to count three seconds before you’re screaming, lurching out of simon’s hold and hiding behind his bulk in your terror.

simon, screw him, seems to not have cared that johnny was privy to such an intimate moment and just turns enough to catch your attention again before murmuring reassurances. he says things like, “mactavish? the punk ass who got his hair shaved for the new season only to realize no one’s actually gon’ see it because of the helmet? remember?”

“what,” johnny chokes out, embarrassed that that’s what simon told you about and not, like, his player number or something.

“oh,” you gasp out anyway, clearly having heard of the shaved-sides and using it as a marker for johnny. “oh!”

you dance away from behind simon to make your way to johnny, your previous embarrassment gone from your gait. he’s so sure, though, that he’s seen you from somewhere, but the thought’s dashed out of his mind when you chirp, “you’re my best friend’s favourite player!”

“yeah?” johnny replies, gaining his confidence back.

“yeah! she won’t stop showing me the highlights of your guys’ game against that big german fella an’ his team!”

johnny laughs, his own giddiness ramping up. he remembers that game, alright. he remembers the miracle play during the final period when price was able to score an empty-netter. he remembers how, in his adrenaline-induced ecstasy, johnny turned to the player to his side, konig, and laughed in his face.

johnny made headlines then, and he’s saved every single one. his fiancee even printed a copy of her favourite shot and stuck it in her wallet.

(“for good luck,” she said with a wink, like johnny doesn’t have his prick twitching in her fist.)

“well, y’got anything for me to sign for her?”

“uhh…”

“guess you can use that one group photo our marketing team gave to us,” simon finally pipes up, and johnny turns, surprise lining his face at seeing the rich spread of breakfast.

he didn’t even notice simon setting up the table, too engrossed in the high that came from reliving the memory of laughing at konig’s face which resulted to him being pushed into the glass protector by a protective horangi.

not even that had dampened johnny’s elation then and now.

“oh yeah. thanks!” you say to simon before you run out.

you’re barely out of their eyesights when johnny turns to simon with a grin.

“what.”

“oh, you fucken’ sap!” johnny sings because he’s still too hungover to come up to simon and playfully punch him. “and why were ye hidin’ lassie?”

simon grumbles something as he turns, pretending to busy himself with the now-empty coffee pot.

“wha’s’at?”

“i said,” simon begins, heaving out a sigh. “that we jus’ became official last week.”

“oh, shit,” johnny whispers sagely. he blinks. “so, uh, who’s the one you’ve been callin’ yer girl?”

“oh fuck off johnny,” simon hisses, sputtering, before throwing the tea towel at him.

“what now!?” johnny yelps, ducking away from the soaring towel. “what’d i do now–” he gasps, realization dawning on him. “you didn’t.”

simon looked like he was going to say something but by then you were running back with the photo and a marker pen, telling him your friend’s name—alessandra, “or sandy!”—for johnny to sign.

while johnny’s busy practicing his signature on a scrap of newspaper that simon gave to him, he pretends not to hear the giggly whispers between his friend and his friend’s new but longtime-pining-for girlfriend.

“and me? why aren’t you asking f’r my signature?”

“oh ‘cuz y’r mine.”

johnny dutifully ignores the lips smacking sounds as he finally signs the picture, making sure to add devil horns on simon’s head.

serves him right.

i just. love fluff and hockey au sm 😞

#hockey au #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley #cod x reader #suns #guys we are so back (to fixating to the point i cant even function anymore) !!!!#im so sorry if u guys are tired of this :(( i just love this au sm. its so refreshing

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chvoswxtch · 7 months

Text

taste

pairing: matt murdock x fem!reader

summary: matt just wants a taste.

warnings: swearing, explicit sexual content (minors dni)

a/n: it’s thanksgiving here today, and despite my mixed feelings about this holiday, I am thankful for all of y’all. so, here’s a little treat from me to you bc I haven’t shown our favorite human disaster some love in awhile. 🖤

word count: 1.1k

Matt lost track of how long he’d had his head buried between your thighs. Your hair was still damp from your shower earlier, fresh notes of citrus and green apple lingering on the silk sheets. That coupled with the crisp sandalwood of his own cologne from the worn Columbia shirt of his you had stolen to bed intertwined with your own distinct scent lit a fire of desire within him. He’d discarded a layer of his black suit with every silent step he took descending the staircase that led up to the rooftop door.

It had been a bad night, and Matt’s inherent Catholic guilt was at an all time high. So, he positioned himself exactly where he thought he belonged.

On his knees.

Matt held your soft thighs in his rough, calloused hands, his warm tongue lazily tumbling over your swollen clit over and over again. He slipped his tongue through your soaked folds much like he had the first time he had really kissed you; when a sweet kiss good night had ended with your back firmly pressed up against your front door and the two of you panting into each other's mouths.

Angelic pleas for mercy had sounded from your lips in various intervals, but your greedy fingers continued to tug him just a little closer by tight grips on his chestnut strands. Neither one of you seemed to be able to quit the other. Matt’s nose was nuzzled against your public bone, and his plump lips were wrapped around your clit, alternating between suckling languidly at a pace that made your eyes roll into the back of your head and dragging his tongue up and down the length of your entire pussy meticulously.

Every time you let out a desperate chant of his name and rolled your hips up in a needy way in search of more, Matt groaned loudly and moved his own hips in tandem. He had been rutting against the mattress for God only knows how long now, the front of his briefs completely soaked from the weeping slit on the head of his throbbing cock. He’d never been so painfully hard in his life.

But Matt didn’t feel like he had earned a release yet.

Despite the several tangy coats of your arousal on his tongue, he wanted more. He needed just a little more.

Just one more, he told himself, then he’d finally let himself fuck you. But right now, he was exactly where he wanted to be. Face nestled against your pussy, feeling your heartbeat pounding against his welcoming tongue, smelling the scent that was uniquely you right under his nose, hearing the verbal reassurances of how much you needed him, and how badly you wanted him.

Praises of his name and confessions of love slowly lifted the self imposed weight that laid heavy on his chest like cement. If an angel like you believed the Devil deserved Heaven, then maybe he did. You didn’t ask for his penance, but he wanted to give it. He wanted to be worthy of being the man you made him feel like he was.

Matt ignored the ache in his jaw, and he whimpered against your core as his briefs snagged against the sensitive head of his cock just right. He wasn’t gonna last long. Not with the heavenly aroma of you surrounding his senses completely, the sweet sound of your pleasure hitting his ears, the thrum of your impending climax thundering against his tongue.

He never wanted to come up for air. If this was how he was going to die, drowning in the tidal wave of your gratification, then he’d die a happy man.

Matt used his index and middle finger to spread your slicked pussy apart, eagerly swirling his tongue around your pulsing nub before switching to flicking the tip of his tongue back and forth across it like a metronome. God, you were so warm and soft, and so fucking wet. He couldn’t tell where his saliva ended and where your own essence started, but he didn’t fucking care. The only taste he wanted seared into his taste buds was yours anyway.

He delved his tongue as deep within your cunt as he could, fucking you with it sensually while his nose bumped against your overstimulated clit repeatedly. You were close again. He could tell by the hitch in your breaths and the quiver in your soft thighs that were enclosed tightly around his head.

Matt never felt like he deserved you, so he made it his personal mission to make sure he earned you.

As soon as another wave of your candied tang drenched his mouth and dripped down his stubbled chin, Matt exploded with a pathetic whimper, feeling his own sticky warmth coating his lower abdomen and the tops of his thighs. The only reason he pulled his face away from your cunt was because you weakly pushed at his shoulders with your trembling hands.

“Fuckfuckfuck…Matty…I can’t. I-God, I need a minute-“

The breathless pants sounding from your lips were an elegant symphony to his ears. He closed his eyes while resting his head on your smooth thigh, trying to catch his own breath. For several minutes neither of you said anything, just laid there tangled up in the sheets together, basking in the afterglow of pleasure.

All of a sudden, Matt sensed a shift in you. He heard your eyes flutter open, and felt the way you shifted your head off the pillow to peer down at him in curiosity.

“Matty…did…did you-“

“Yeah.”

He didn’t bother hiding it. He wasn’t ashamed. He’d be pissed when the cloud of lust currently fogging up his brain eventually cleared and he realized he ruined yet another set of silk sheets, but right now, he was too satisfied to give a shit about anything other than this moment with you.

A melodic giggle immediately erupted from your chest, and Matt squeezed your thigh teasingly in retaliation which caused you to squeal.

“Hey! I wasn’t making fun of you. It’s actually quite flattering that you enjoy having your head between my thighs so much that you can come from that alone.”

“Sweetheart, you could make me come just by reading our grocery list.”

Another round of angelic giggles fell from your lips, and a quiet whine of disapproval sounded from Matt when he felt you shifting in bed. Much to his dismay, you moved your soft and warm thigh away from under his head, which caused him to purse his plush lips in a pout. But before he could even protest, you were gently pushing him onto his back and brushing your lips against the shell of his ear.

“Maybe I’ll test that theory later, but right now, I’d rather make you come with my mouth in a different way.”

tags: @yarrystyleeza @little-miss-dilf-lover @avengerstower-houseplant @mars-rants-a-lot @topperthornton @hailey-murdock @neverlandcity @charmedkim @queenofthenoobs @stilldreaming666 @mattymurdock1021 @bubuslutty @thyme-in-a-bubble @ninejlovebot @purrrfect @pennylovey @firesunflamed @oscarisaacsleftknee @messymissy @dark-academia-slut @strawberry1042 @utterlynuts

#matt murdock #matt murdock x you #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x female reader #matt murdock x fem!reader #matt murdock x f!reader #matt murdock blurb #matt murdock smut #daredevil #daredevil blurb #daredevil smut

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kasagia · 11 days

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Dancing With The Devil

Pairing: Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem! royal!reader Summary: Your whole life revolved around court intrigues, gaining influence, and extracting the darkest secrets from important nobility. As a woman, there wasn't much you could do or count on. Unless you provide yourself with status and position through a good marriage. You've made your life perfect. You had a complete plan and vision for your future—even after the unexpected loss of your fiancé, you managed to rise up and find another good match—until the Na-Baron decided to interfere with it and ruin everything you had been working for. You were about to find out for yourself that dancing with the devil never led to anything good. Even if the consequences of this come after some time... Warning: kind of royal au!; 18+; violence; blood; Feyd Rautha; death; smut; Inspired by: Bridgerton and "Would've, could've, should've" - Taylor Swift Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen's Masterlist ~•♤♤♤•~ Main Masterlist

"What do you mean by saying that Paul Atreides is dead?"

"Exactly that." Your mother replies with her typical calm, adjusting the crown on her head in the mirror. "He and his family went on a diplomatic mission to Arrakis. They were attacked by… a group of rebels. More specifically, it was probably Sardaukar, but we all know who benefited more from the death of the Atreides." You shudder at the mere mention of the Harkonnens. However, you still can't get over the shock of the revelation you've just heard.

"It is impossible. They couldn't kill them all, after all... what about Caladan? And the plans of the Bene Gesserit? The Emperor would never…"

"The Emperor is not the same man you knew. As he grows older, he grows not in wisdom but in fear. He is more afraid of maintaining his throne than of the good of the empire. And, as we all know, Paul was his most likely successor. So he killed him before he could kill him." She explains this to you, making sure that her appearance is impeccable. She turns from the mirror and nods to the maid, ordering her to give her a coat in your family's colours and embroidered with the decorations and symbols of your house.

"I... are you just trying to tell me that I don't have a fiancé?"

"Unless you want to marry his corpse, yes, that's what I am trying to say to you from the beginning." Your mother snorts in amusement, watching you as you are still in shock, trying to process this unexpected, terrible news. The shock in you slowly gives way to anger. This wasn't how things were supposed to look.

"Mother, you should know how tragic this situation is. After all, the season is almost over; when will I get any suitors? Should I be without any for a year? And then another one? You know perfectly well that most of the descendants of high families have already announced their courtship. Am I supposed to end up as a spinster?"

"Calm down. The season isn't over yet. Since... Caladan has an unstable political situation, Princess Irulan suggested that we take over the main, final celebrations. All you have to do is dress nicely, present yourself well, and catch whatever poor young men come here." You snort mockingly at her feeble attempts to comfort and reassure you.

"I won't have a better husband than Paul. He was the perfect match! Not ugly, easy to control, filthy rich, only son who was supposed to inherit everything—where will you find me another husband like that?" You ask furiously, more concerned about the consequences of his death for you than the fact that you will never meet your fiancé ever again. You couldn't end up as a spinster. You couldn't marry just anyone, either, or, worse, end up as a mere concubine. You didn't spend all these years beautifying your appearance and studying politics, martial arts, economics, and biological sciences to marry some insignificant idiot from an unknown family and planet.

"It's going to be hard, I won't lie, but we'll get through it. We are Y/L/N. We never give up and always achieve our goals. You're too beautiful, darling, to become a spinster. And too smart to marry some insignificant lord."

"You too were, and yet you ended up with my father."

"I married him out of love and love... love makes us do stupid things. But you are smarter than me. You can do much better, I have no doubt about that. We'll give you a week of mourning before we throw the first party. During this time, we will review... available men. To know who to focus on." You nod, agreeing with her plan. You couldn't immediately rush out to find another suitor when your previous one had just been buried beneath the sands of Arrakis. You had to pretend you were crying for him.

It wasn't like you didn't care about Paul at all. You liked him. He was a good conversation partner and a nobel man. But in this situation, you felt more sorry for yourself. You were left with no fiancé, no suitor, and no other alternative.

And if there was anything worse for a woman in this world than death, it was either infertility or becoming a spinster whom no one paid any attention to. You could have handled every other situation perfectly well, but not such humiliation.

Or at least that's what you thought until you crossed paths with the one and only Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen.

You stand against the wall, sipping your champagne with probably the sourest expression on your face. The masquerade ball had already started an hour ago and you still couldn't find anyone whose attention you could attract.

You and your mother had looked through... all the possible options, but none of the men who came here were fooled by your sweet swan appearance. And if he did, he proposed after just a few minutes of conversation. You may have been in a desperate situation, but you weren't looking for a desperate man.

Standing against the wall allowed you to take a closer look at the nobles present at the ball. You caught a few rumours and scandalous behaviour—touching too long, stolen kisses, and a few other things—but you didn't feel like thinking about them at all when the vision of your future looked so bleak.

Your bad mood is only fueled by Irulan's presence and how she's clearly having a great time at your funeral. As if she had achieved another one of her many victories. Lucky bitch.

You sigh and place your glass on the tray of a passing servant. You are about to leave the masquerade ball when your attention is caught by a man standing alone on the other side of the room.

His outfit is… unusual. His black coat is finished with sharp metal decorations, making it resemble more of a fancy armour than a classic formal outfit. The black mask completely covers his face and the back of his head, leaving only his full lips and part of his defined jaw to your eyes.

And you really like those lips. Very much. You decide that today you will test their softness when the stranger's cold blue eyes meet yours. A shiver of excitement runs through you as you imagine the things you could do with this intoxicatingly beautiful man. And maybe it's the alcohol you drank or your pathetic longing to be the centre of someone's attention that makes you feel brave enough to approach him.

As you slowly approach him and look at him closely, you realise what he's disguised as. The black swan. It was so good for you that you decided to be the white one tonight.

However, the man suddenly disappears in the crowd of people. You frown and look around, searching for him, but somehow you can't. It was as if he had vanished into thin air. You freeze when you suddenly feel someone's presence behind you. A shiver of excitement runs down your spine as the man's husky whisper echoes in your ear.

"Looking for someone, my lady?" You turn your head to meet the same icy blue irises up that were watching you from across the room a moment ago.

Goosebumps run through you as his gaze inexplicably hypnotises you. This could be your opportunity; you just had to play your cards well and make him more interested in you. The circumstances and scenery were perfect—downright romantic, like from a book. You just had to make this handsome devil equally enchanted by you. You must have caught his attention if he decided to play with you and chase you to get to you first.

You also need to find out who owns those captivating lips and eyes whose colour rivals the ocean waves. Oh, and how you desperately wanted to immerse yourself in them...

"My lord." You curtsy, turning fully to face him to study him even more carefully. He was tall, with a muscular figure visible under his clothes that you wanted to explore with your fingers. You lick your lips, shifting your gaze back to his, and catch him assessing you with his eyes, just like you had just done with him. "I couldn't help but notice how... coincidentally, we fit together with our choice of outfits."

"Indeed, we do. Although I personally think you would look better in black, little swan." The nickname he gives you and the arrogance in his voice make you snort mockingly, raising an eyebrow at him defiantly as you become even more fascinated by this mysterious man.

"Why is that?"

"You may look like a tiny, innocent bird in this white, pretty dress, but your eyes—your eyes give it all away, my lady. You can try to deceive men with this... undoubtedly beautiful sight for the eyes, but not all of us fall so easily to the false mirage—maybe only lesser men—but you're not desperate enough to seek the attention of a mere duke or count, who would be easily led by you, are you?"

"And who are you to make such bold assumptions?" You ask furiously, glaring at him as he gently strokes the collar of your dress with his fingertip, playing a little with the white feathers that were attached to it. He smirks, his white teeth gleaming dangerously, reminding you of the smile of a wolf before it catches its prey.

"Definitely not a lesser man." He replies, undaunted by your anger. His hand slides from the collar of your dress over your shoulder as he grabs your gloved hand and presses a soft kiss on it, and you can barely keep yourself from closing your eyes and giving in to the pleasant feeling of having his plush, full lips so close and yet so far from your skin. "May I? I believe that this beautiful dress will look better while moving…"

At this point, you should refuse. Thank him for his company and go find a... more suitable one. But you can't deny that he's read you accurately so far and that he's touched a part of you that you haven't shown to anyone. You were too curious to just let him go; you wanted to stay with him longer and see what would come of this acquaintance with him.

So you nod and let him lead you to the dance floor. A few heads turn towards you, but you can't reach anything other than him, and the feeling of his larger hand gently holding yours in a strange way makes your heart flutter slightly.

You feel like he's put a spell on you, and strangely, you don't want to break out of it at all.

His eyes never leave yours. You're almost dizzy from how intensely he's looking at you. He places his hand on your waist, pulling you a little closer to him. He holds you tight enough so that you can feel his touch on you, and it isn't painful for you. He leads you into a dance with incredible grace for a man, spinning you around to the rhythm of the music.

He's so close to you that you can smell his scent, which is as addictive as his burning attention. The smell of anise, musk, and hot spices assaulting your nostrils makes you involuntarily lean towards him, wanting to be as close to him as good manners allow. However, you know that if you spend another few minutes longer in his presence, all your mother's teachings will be forgotten in favour of... getting closer to this compelling man.

"So what do you believe in then? If you don't believe in coincidence? Destiny?" You ask, trying to shake off this strange feeling of loss of control he's giving you.

And you almost fail miserably, barely keeping yourself from blushing as his low chuckle makes you burn even more for him. You had to find some flaw in him—something that would turn you off if you didn't want to lose your mind completely, because for now, everything about this man was sinfully pleasant.

"We create our destiny. Don't you agree?"

"Sometimes things are beyond your control, my lord." You disagree with him, keeping your searching gaze on him as his hands move to your hips.

You bite your bottom lip as he lifts you up in one fluid motion, following the steps of the dance. The ease with which he shifts you and spins you so that your back is against his chest as he sets you down on the floor again makes your cheeks blush as you think of all the ways you could use his large, strong hands. You feel like a horny teenager in her first season. And you don't like it at all.

"And sometimes, all we need to do is take a step and reach out for what is rightfully ours." He whispers in your ear, wrapping his hands around you, never stopping his movements.

You swallow thickly as he places your joined hands on your shoulder, his thumb brushing against your bare collarbone. You bite your tongue, trying to hold back a moan when you feel the rough skin of his hands, confirming your suspicions that his toned physique is built from years of training and fighting. This fuels your desire for him even more.

"Possible. But our reputation suffers because of it. You can't escape the eyes of society. No matter how hard you try, my lord." Your eyes fall on the couples dancing around you.

You gasp when he suddenly wraps his arm around your waist and turns you around, forcing you to face him again. You almost bump into his chest, completely unprepared for such a sudden move from him. He gives you a mischievous smirk and a wink, amused at how he managed to catch you off guard and off-balance. You purse your lips, causing his eyes to shift to them.

"Do you know what freedom you can achieve when you throw off the yoke of your reputation? How many opportunities are open to you?" He whispers hoarsely, leaning towards you. You lift your chin, meeting his gaze as your heart beats frantically against your chest. You get the feeling he has in his mind... something much less pure and decent. And you almost trembled in his arms with excitement.

"Do you know how many doors close in front of you? No one wants to associate with a vile person rejected by society."

"Oh, but those nefarious always seem to get their attention, don't you think? They are invited out of sheer curiosity about how they will behave and what exciting and forbidden things they will do. They are the source of the most virulent gossip; you won't deny it, right, little swan?"

"Possible. Are you one of them?" You ask, curious about his identity.

He gives you a mysterious, mocking smirk as he chuckles throatily. He leans down and brushes his lips against your ear. You sigh as his lips press a small kiss to your earlobe, your heart racing as you feel him so close to you. You wait in suspense for what he will do next, completely oblivious to the people around you, who, fortunately, are too busy with themselves to notice what is happening around them. You'd never been so happy about wearing a mask before, even though it was a way to protect your identity and allow yourself... to do a little more in such a public place.

"Oh darling… what if I told you that I'm the worst of them all?" He whispers seductively, biting your ear. You gasp, digging your fingers into his arm, holding on to anything as he plays cruelly with you.

At this point, you should thank him for this dance, turn around, and find another company. But there's something... magnetic about this man that draws you closer and closer to him.

Maybe it's the thrill of the unknown—the excitement of how different this man seems from the rest of the people here. And even though your mind is screaming at you, and rightly so, to back away before you burn yourself with the fire that burns from him, you want to follow him like a moth, desperately wanting to bathe in the glow of these new sensations he is giving you.

So, without thinking about it for a long time, you grab his hand and lead him out of the room. Surprisingly, he obediently follows you, not questioning you as the two of you walk through various corridors. You lead him towards the exit—straight to the palace gardens, where there should be much fewer people who couldn't... overhear you.

You drag him into the maze, taking him to one of the dead ends. Before he can say anything, you lean in and kiss him lustfully. You moan at the feeling of his soft lips caressing yours, and you tighten your hands on his shoulders, pulling him closer to you. The metal trim of his outfit digs into you, but you ignore the feeling, completely absorbed by the way his tongue slips into your waiting mouth.

Under different circumstances, if it were known to him who you were and there was no mask covering half of your face, you would never have dared to take such a... bold step. But now, with him so close to you and your identity safe under the white feather mask, you moan into his mouth, letting yourself bask in the feeling of desire.

You and Paul... fooled around a few times, but the furthest you went was touching each other. But with this man, the man whose name you didn't know and who was currently sucking the air from your mouth, you felt completely different.

All your nerves were on fire. Every inch of you was begging for his touch and undivided attention. You couldn't help but moan and melt into his hands as he possessively tightened his grip on your hip, pulling you much closer to his body.

Your bodies fit together perfectly, like two pieces of a puzzle, and you couldn't help but wonder if your souls were also two halves that fit together thoroughly.

Just when you feel like you can't go without air any longer, his mouth stops attacking yours, instead caressing and nipping at the skin of your jaw and moving to your neck.

Suddenly, the corset you're in becomes too tight, and breathing becomes increasingly difficult for you as his lips mark your neck, making your already lust-crazed heart beat faster. You whine, your hands tracing his muscular torso, as you find yourself in extreme conflict. You know you should push him away and that you shouldn't let him mark you so clearly, but on the other hand, he brings you so much pleasure and makes you shiver just from the feeling of his lips on your neck. You dread to think what he would do to you if he moved a little further south of your body—if he kneeled in front of you and did to you things you only read about in the privacy of your chamber.

You quickly cover your mouth with your hand as you are about to scream when his teeth dig into your neck. He sucks on the sensitive skin, making sure to leave a clear mark on you. Your eyes widen in shock when you hear a threatening growl from him. His hand grabs yours tightly, removing it from your mouth, and his icy blue eyes flash with anger, giving you a furious glare.

"Hold back your moans and screams one more time, and I will make sure the people in the palace hear you crying because of me, little swan. And believe me, I can make it only pleasant for me, so don't test my patience and mercy and be a good girl for me." He growls, tightening his grip on your hand that he pinned to the hedge behind you.

He kisses you hard, chastisingly, as he takes a step towards you, closing any space between you. Your breasts rub against his chest as he presses against you, and you think you can feel his hardness through the layers of your clothes.

A short gasp escapes you as his hand travels beneath the layers of your dress. His fingers take their time caressing the skin of your legs, slowly climbing up to where you needed to have him as soon as your eyes fell on him. You decide to compromise with him and pull him into a kiss so as not to attract unwanted attention from any of the guests.

You gasp as his fingers brush against your clothed core. His raspy chuckle as he discovers the undeniable flood between your legs makes you blush with embarrassment and anger. Your breathing quickens as you reach out to grab his cock, squeezing him painfully tight for teasing you. A loud moan leaves his lips swollen from kissing, making you want to extract other, equally temptingly beautiful sounds from him.

But before you can do anything, he drops to his knees in front of you and lifts the folds of your white dress. You shiver, feeling his breath between your legs as he takes his time stroking your thighs, caressing them with his soft lips.

You moan as he sucks and bites the skin of your inner thighs, teasing you as he blatantly ignores your needy pussy. You dig your fingers into his shoulders, biting your lip as you try to pull him to your clothed core. He growls while spanking your pussy. You scream at the sudden, burning sensation, your legs shaking, so only his strong hands are keeping you upright.

You tilt your head back, resting it against the hedge, and moan softly as he presses a teasing kiss on your clothed core. His fingers gently slip under your panties, only to rip the fabric off of you in one quick movement.

You sigh as his nose brushes against your folds as he inhales your scent, stuffing your torn panties into his pants pocket. His tongue gently and teasingly tastes your wetness, making you even more frustrated. You push aside the fabric of your dress and take his hand that was exploring the curve of your ass and pull it to your pussy which is screaming for his attention.

His chuckle stimulates your clit, making you moan and pushing your hips into him in a desperate attempt to find a release. He growls angrily at your impatience and grabs your hips in an iron grip, positioning you to his liking and plan.

You hold your breath as his fingers gently enter you, soothing the burning feeling of emptiness inside you. His tongue plays with your clit, sucking every last drop of your juices out of you, as if he's as addicted to your taste and sounds as you are to the feeling of his touch and the way he fills you.

You feel your orgasm building. You close your eyes in blissful relief, allowing yourself to moan, not caring if anyone can hear you. Your fingers dig into his neck. He growls against your pussy as you draw his blood from him and intensifies his ministrations. His fingers move in and out quickly as he sucks on your most sensitive spot, as if he's trying to mark you there and leave you a hickey there.

Your fingers run up his neck. You want to pull his hair—hurt him as much as he hurts you. Your fingertips find their way beneath the black fabric of his mask covering his head, but when you reach out to grab his hair, you're met with bare skin.

And then everything falls into place in your head.

When the realisation comes to you, you freeze, you lose all feeling, and all you can do is stand there and think about who you let under your dress and between your legs.

Harkonnen. You were being eaten by a fucking Harkonnen, and judging by his body structure, voice, and the guest list you've looked through hundreds of times, by one and only Feyd-Rautha, Na-Barron of Giedi Prime.

You tremble, not at all because of the feeling of how his fingers and tongue work continuously on your orgasm, intensifying your sensations as he lets out soft moans at the taste of you, but because pure terror overwhelms your whole body. You unconsciously tighten the hug on his neck, which only increases the intensity of his… efforts on your wet folds, as he wants to take you over the edge.

You take advantage of the fact that he's too... distracted and push him away from you. You grab the skirt of your dress and run fast, as far away from him as possible. Your heart races as you hear his soft growl before, to your even greater dismay, he chases after you.

You run through a maze, trying to lose Harkonnen among many paths, hoping he will reach a dead end and lose your trail, or at least to find some group of people. After all, he won't be able to do anything to you in front of witnesses—or maybe he could?

You tremble at the thought that the same hands that cut the throats of servants and concubines, hands that killed prisoners in the arena and people in battle, touched you and were the cause of your... your pleasure.

How stupid you were! How could you allow yourself to be seduced by Harkonnen and carried away by your stupid emotions and desires? You mentally curse him, his family, and Paul Atreides, whose death made you have to chase men again to find a suitable husband. And especially you curse how amazing and extraordinary you felt under the touch of this bloodthirsty beast, whose house has been nefarious for centuries.

You run forward, not daring to turn around to see if he's still chasing you. You're so lost in your thoughts and so scared that you accidentally run into someone. You gasp as a hand grips your waist tightly, preventing you from falling. You have a heart attack, thinking that it could be him and that he has somehow outsmarted you. But when you look up, you don't see blue irises, but green ones.

"Forgive me, my lord. I didn't mean to..." Your words stop as you take a closer look at the man. He wasn't wearing a mask; he apparently abandoned it when he entered the garden, and you have to say, he's... handsome. Very.

“Of course you didn't mean to. You couldn't see me when you were running so fast, which makes me wonder: From what are you running away, my lady?"

"I... To be honest, I'm running away from my maids. And that ball. It's just… too much excitement for one evening." You lie, quickly making up an excuse.

Obviously, you won't tell him that you're being chased by the horny Harkonnen heir, with whom you were ALONE in the garden. That would be a scandal. Just talking to this man now could be considered that way too... let alone what you allowed Feyd-Rautha to do to you.

"I think so too. Viscount Y/L/N throws good parties, but… they're a little too loud for my liking. Too vibrant." He comments, offering his arm to you. You can't help but smile as you place your hand in the crook of his arm.

Luckily, he leads the two of you in the opposite direction you were running from. You see that his brown and gold mask is tied to his arm, and on his finger he has... the ring of the Luwael family, a close family of Emperor Corrino. You just talked to the emperor's cousin, the pretender to his throne since he has no son.

You can't believe how lucky you are.

"Tell me about it, I've been enduring it since I was 15." You say it jokingly, giggling when you see his eyes widen as he realises he's gossiping about your father, and you think he looks adorable and cute in his state of little panic.

"Lady Y/N Y/L/N?" He asks, shocked. You nod and reach for the ribbon of your mask, removing it. You see his pupils dilate slightly as he takes in your appearance, his cheeks turning pink—whether from embarrassment or lust, you don't know, but you still like his reaction to you. "My apologies, I didn't mean to offend…."

"You did not." You interrupt him quickly with a charming smile. "It's... refreshing to be able to talk to someone who has similar opinions and feelings. At least when it comes to those terrible balls."

"Sometimes I feel like they force us to participate just to have something to gossip about later."

"Don't you like gossip?" You ask curiously, raising an eyebrow as you continue your walk through the gardens. You completely forget about Harkonnen and your... mistake, as you are trying to gain the interest of the man next to you.

This could be your big chance.

True, you heard that he and Irulan were to marry so that power would remain in Corrino's hands, but... if you make him want you, no one will stop him from taking you as his wife.

"I don't like court intrigues. The way ladies throw themselves at lords just to gain a higher title."

"Maybe for you men, marriage is more than just a financial transaction, but unfortunately for most of us, it's all about stability. The security of our lives is the most important thing here, and love—love is a complex and difficult thing; most often, unfortunately, it is only in books. Won't you agree?"

"Possible. But I would rather my wife love me than the power I give her." You smile in understanding. So you have a romantic in front of you... You have to adjust your role well, so you keep your true thoughts to yourself. You innocently hang your head, feigning uncertainty.

"This is completely understandable. Don't all of us dream about it? Have someone of your own, trusted, to whom you can confide all your dreams and fears without being afraid of being laughed at or ignored?" You ask, turning your head to look at him as you ask him your final question.

By the way he watches you with a burning light in his eyes, you know you've come to the right place and have successfully sold your image of a weak, defenceless woman dreaming of a real courtly romance. Pathetic. However, you will do anything to get a husband, you'll even pretend to be a helpless lamb.

"Yes... I assume that's what all of us want. Maybe expect the Harkonnens." You laugh at his joke, feeling very awkward at the same time as the memory of a certain Harkonnen's lips comes back to you.

You curse yourself for how damn good he made you feel. They may not have known love, but if they were all like Na-Baron, they knew damn well how to please their women—a thing you couldn't say about all the lords of the great houses.

You and Lord Luwael walk around the garden for a while before you both decide to head back to the ballroom. You put on your masks, and the man escorts you back, all the while being a perfect gentleman, including dancing, which he later asked you for.

You have fun maintaining your image as a hopeless romantic who wants to find true love and break away from the courtly conventions that overwhelm you—a perfect match for the emperor's heir. He doesn't tell you his identity until the end of the evening, but you don't mind. You know you've charmed him. And that he will seek your company at the next events of this season.

What you don't know is that certain icy-blue irises are watching you two furiously as you are led back into the ballroom by Lord Luwael. You also don't know that the Harkonnens are persistent and ruthless people who can wait years for their plans to be implemented, and that their devilish Na-Baron is truly the worst of them all...

Or that Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen decided a long time ago that you would become his wife. It didn't matter what he had to do or how to achieve his goal.

In the future, you will often regret this night and dancing with the Harkonnen devil. Very often.

~9 years earlier~

“They say he killed his mother. That his uncle and brother are training him to become a killer beast. That he is now devoid of any emotion except anger and bloodlust, and Paul told me that he apparently even has concubines.” Irulan gossips with you as the two of you watch in the distance as Feyd-Rautha trains in the courtyard.

The emperor invited several greater families to discuss something. You weren't too interested about it. Your mother simply packed your things and said you were leaving for a week. But you were happy. You had the opportunity to play with other nobles' children and it was definitely a nice break from listening to your parents' constant arguments.

"Nonsense. He's our age. Let's ask him if he wants to play with us." You decide and stand up to walk over to the hairless boy. Irulan grabs your hand tightly and pulls you back to your hiding place behind the pillar.

"He is a Harkonnen, Y/N. They don't play." She says and leans out to look at him. He swings his sword several times, making several quick movements and turns.

"But he isn't like them. He grew up on Lankiveil. Besides, I still remember him when he had blonde hair. And Harkonnens have no hair, so..."

"Baron made him his heir. Of course he had to... make himself look like them." She interrupts you, wrinkling her nose in disgust. You shiver slightly at the mere mention of the baron and nod thoughtfully.

"Pity. His blonde curls were pretty." You comment and lean out to look at him. You hold your breath as you make eye contact with him. He looks at you coldly, not moving an inch. You wave at him, giving him a hesitant smile. He stares at you for a while longer before he turns on his heel, his back to you, as he continues his training as if nothing had happened. "Still, we should have asked him. He looks quite lonely."

"NO. I won't be nice to him. If my mother gives a son to my father and I have to marry this… Harkonnen, I will throw myself from the tower."

"Why from the tower?" You ask, confused, frowning at the girl.

"I don't know. This is what the main characters in books do when something terrible happens to them. They say they will throw themselves off the tower."

"I prefer it when they fight the dragon." You say this, glancing at the boy again. You don't know why, but something just wouldn't let you walk away and leave him, although you really want to play with Paul, Irulan, and the other kids. You find yourself much more wanting to play with this strange boy.

You frown when you see him accidentally cut his hand. He doesn't cry like Paul did when you slammed his hand in the door. Instead, he puts his mouth on the wound and sucks out the blood. He tears off a piece of his clothes, wraps it around his hand, and continues training.

And somehow, it makes you make a decision.

"Y/N! What are you doing?!" Irulan hisses at you as you pull your hand from her grasp and take a step towards the courtyard.

"Fighting the dragon. Wish me luck." You answer, and without looking back, you head towards the training boy. His pale, bald head almost gleams in the sun, and you can't help but wonder if his lack of hair makes him less tolerant of the sun's heat.

When you are close to him, you stand still, not wanting to accidentally impale yourself on his sword. He notices you out of the corner of his eye, stops swinging his sword, and turns towards you, looking at you closely.

"Hi." You say as you wave at him.

"Lady Y/N." His voice is slightly hoarse, as if he had sandpapered it. You frown, surprised by such a formal greeting. Usually, only adults greet you like that.

"Um... my lord?" You answer hesitantly and shake your head, trying to ignore how strange he's acting. "Do you want to join us? We are playing hide and seek." You say, pointing your thumb at the pillar you and Irulan were hiding behind a few seconds ago.

"It's fun for kids." He replies dismissively and starts swinging his sword again.

"Are you not one?" You ask in surprise, still looking at him. He growls in annoyance and turns towards you, giving you a furious glare as you interrupt him.

"No. I am a man. And men are supposed to fight in battles and train to become stronger."

"Why?" You ask and frown at him, following him as he walks over to the fountain where he left his water and towel. He wipes the beads of sweat from his head, giving you a confused gaze.

"To keep their women and country safe." He replies like it's an obvious thing everyone should know.

"Well... do you have any in danger right now?" This time it's him who furrows his hairless eyebrows at your weird question. He thinks for a moment, observing you, and then shakes his head.

"No."

"Great! Then you can play with us." You say it excitedly and grab his hand. He hisses under your touch, and it's only then that you realise you've grabbed his injured hand. You want to apologise, but his mad glare quickly silences you.

"I already told you that I am not going to play any stupid game, woman!"

"Hey! I am not a woman, I am a girl! And you are a boy, so stop pretending to be an adult and play with us." You respond to his furious growl with your own and shoot him your evil glare. But instead of caring about your outburst and maybe even complying with your demands, he just laughs, making you even angrier.

"I will do whatever I want. You won't order me, little bunny. It doesn't matter how cute you look when you're angry." He mocks you and turns his back on you. You stamp your foot, furious at his behaviour and the fact that he is dismissing you.

"I doubt that sitting all alone is what you prefer." You say, unconsciously hitting his sweet spot. You see him tense as he reaches for his sword. However, his attitude quickly turns indifferent again as he turns his head to glance at you briefly.

"You should go."

"Why?"

"Before anyone notices me with you. Why are you asking so many questions?" He asks irritably, and he starts his training again.

Even though he tries to ignore you, you can see him glancing at you every few moments as you continue to stand there, watching as he swings his sword and cuts through the air.

"Is that yours?" You ask him curiously, sitting on the edge of the fountain.

"Yes. My uncle gave it to me for my 10th birthday." He replies proudly and stops for a moment to talk to you. You smile, staring longingly at the metal blade.

"My gave me dolls. Again. It's so boring." You grumble, keeping your eyes on his weapon. "How do you play with it?"

"I don't play. I train." He replies in annoyance and rolls his eyes at you. But you can see in his eyes that he's not mad at you at all. On the contrary, he wants to continue talking to you. That's why you act more boldly.

"Whatever. How do you train with it? Can you show me?"

"These are not things for a woman." His rejection doesn't dampen your excitement at all. On the contrary, you want to train with him even more, to do something that your mother forbade you to do a long time ago.

"Well, that's a good thing that I am a girl, then. Can you show me? Please? My dad wanted to train me, but my mom didn't agree. She is stupid." You complain, causing him to chuckle. You smile widely, thinking that he looks better when he's cheerful and not with that dark and grim scowl.

"She is. You should know how to protect yourself. Your father won't be fighting for your safety forever. And with that attitude, I doubt you will ever find a husband to protect you."

"Good. I don't want one. Can you show me then?" You ask, ignoring the fact that he's trying to insult you. You look up at him with your beautiful, pleading eyes and stick out your lower lip.

He watches you for a moment, frowning as he feels his heart beat faster when you give him that cute look he simply can't resist. He sighs, barely taking his eyes off of you, and nods.

"Fine. But only if you stay away from me after that."

"Okay." You reply excitedly and nod enthusiastically. He smiles slightly and stands behind you, helping you maintain a good stance with your sword.

"Hold it like that." He says, adjusting your grip on the handle.

"It's so heavy! How can you hold it and move?" You almost collapse under the weight of the sword, but you try to hold it the way he shows you. He laughs huskily, making you smile.

"You can get used to it with time. Now. I will show you some basic movements."

He trains with you and shows you some tricks and moves. And although he was rough and rude towards you at first, over time you both enjoyed each other's company.

You manage to make him laugh a few times, and each time you count it as a small victory considering how grumpy he was. He's obviously extremely fascinated with fighting and seems more than willing to teach you a few things. You think this "training" is fun—at least until you accidentally injure yourself.

"Ouch!" You scream and almost drop his sword. Luckily, he caught it quickly, before you could cut your foot. He furrows his hairless eyebrows and takes your injured hand in his.

"You're as clumsy as you look, little bunny." He mumbles and brings your hand to his mouth.

He licks up your blood like he did with his and tears off a piece of your dress. He wraps the cloth around the wound and looks closely at your hand. You frown, disgusted that he's licking your blood, but you don't move. Well... not until you realise this insult.

"Hey! You hurt yourself a while ago, too. Besides, it's my first time." You are angry at him, pulling your hand away and crossing your arms.

"Because I had an unexpected audience that was talking passionately about me behind my back."

"Oh… I'm sorry. It was mean." You respond contritely, not realising how he must have felt when everyone around him assumed the worst about him and didn't want to be around him.

"I got used to it." He replies in an emotionless tone and looks away from you, almost looking like a beaten dog, even though he tries hard not to show it. And you feel terribly sorry for him.

"You shouldn't. You are cool. When you take the stick out of your ass." You joke, and he chuckles. You smile at him, but his good mood is suddenly interrupted by something. His face turns serious, his muscles tense, and you only hear the growl of some animal before Feyd pushes you behind him.

A large hunting dog runs up to you. He lunges at Feyd, knocking him down. The dog bites him, and Feyd screams in rage. He tries to plunge his sword into the dog's side, but it clamps its jaws on the Feyd's arm, immobilising him.

You gasp in dismay. You reach for a rock and throw it at the dog, trying to distract it. You succeed, but before you can think about what to do next, the dog lunges at you.

You land on your back and use your elbows to get up, but the dog is quickly above you. He growls, foam dripping from his muzzle onto you, and you can only stare in horror into his eyes. You gasp when, just as he is about to sink his teeth into you, Feyd's sword suddenly pierces the dog.

You lie on the ground, unable to move, as you feel the animal's blood dripping onto your dress. Feyd pushes the dog off of you and gives you a worried look.

"Are you hurt?" He asks and offers you his hand. He helps you get back on your feet, looking for any wounds. You shake and shiver as you look at the dead animal. Feyd notices this and places his hand on your cheeks, making you look into his eyes as he turns your back to the animal's body.

He opens his mouth to repeat the question, but freezes when you throw yourself into his arms and hug him tightly, burying your face in the crook of his neck as you sob softly. Feyd holds you tentatively and strokes your hair, clumsily trying to calm you down.

"Thank you." You mumble into his neck. He doesn't say anything. He just holds you, letting you cry into him and calm him down. When you finally do, you move away from him. You wipe tears away with the sleeve of your dress, which makes Feyd's heart clench uncomfortably.

He doesn't understand what you're doing to him. He should have felt disgusted by you and been as far away from you as possible. He should have rejected you the moment you threw yourself at him, but... somehow he couldn't deny you this moment of comfort. The mere thought of you seeking comfort from him made his heart flutter a little. And you smelled nice, too. Like ocean. Like Lankiveil. Like home.

You represented everything his uncle wanted him to forget. You were... soft. Too soft. And nice. He should have wanted to hurt you, not comfort you, but all he wanted to do was hold you and protect you from the cruel world.

"Y/N!" Your father's scream reaches you.

The man pulls you further away from Feyd and looks at him warily before his worried gaze shifts to you and your eyes, bloody from crying. A moment later, the Baron and the Emperor join you. The men look at you and the dead dog, frowning.

"My best hunting dog..."

"Feyd-Rautha, what is this about? What have you done?" Her uncle's threatening growl makes Feyd tense. A shiver runs through him, and he opens his mouth to explain himself, but you beat him to it, leaving your father's arms and standing bravely in front of the baron and emperor.

"He saved me."

"What?"

"The dog broke off the leash. It… it would have bitten and torn me if Na-Baron hadn't killed it." The men look at each other, assessing the situation. Feyd watches you carefully, ignoring the surprised, frightened looks from the emperor and your father as you tell them that he killed a nearly three-foot dog.

"I... thank you, Na-Baron. For protecting my daughter." Your father nods to him, but he still has an iron grip on your arm. As if he were afraid that Feyd would turn out to be a worse, more dangerous beast to you than the dog that wanted to bite you to death.

"You're welcome, Viscount Y/L/N." He replies, shifting his gaze from you to your father for a moment.

Your dad is not waiting for the Emperor and the Baron to let you two go. He simply grabs your hand and leads you back to the palace with him. As if he wanted you to be as far away from the Harkonnens as possible.

"You shouldn't let just any dog bite you. You let me down, boy."

You feel sad when you hear his uncle's words. You turn your head, making eye contact with the hairless boy. You give him a small, reassuring smile and wave at him. You see him purse his lips and shift his gaze back to his uncle, who is scolding him. However, he looks much less tense than before.

Unknowingly to you, you gained a secret admirer that day. An admirer who was going to make him the only man who would have the privilege of protecting you and holding you in his arms. He promised himself that this would happen, even if he had to bring hell into the world.

~•♤♤♤•~ PART II ~•♤♤♤•~

Dearest, gentle readers… did you miss me?

The opening of a new season has never been a more exciting and long-awaited event. The great families were impatiently waiting for more scandals delivered by this year's suitors. And this author is bursting with anticipation for the future events and gossips of this season.

This year, we have several unexpected debuts that this author will be watching very closely. However, I am convinced that the undivided attention of the masses will probably be stolen by the Na-Baron of Giedi Prime, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, who this year decided to take part in the great search for a wife.

Lord, take care of the future Baron's chosen one so that she can live up to the expectations and life among the Harkonnens.

However, this author wishes the Na-Baron all the best on his birthday and believes that we all look forward to the opening of the season on Giedi Prime, especially to his signature fight in the arena, which will be the main part of Na-Baron's birthday celebration.

But we also cannot forget about the stars of the previous season, whose story is not even close to the end yet.

Lady Y/N Y/L/N did not decide to plunge into great mourning after the tragic death of her fiancé, Paul Atreides. Lord Luwael was charmed by the young honourable at the end of the previous season, and Lady Y/N turned out to be not indifferent to his courtship. Surprising? A little bit. Unreasaonbale? Of course not. After all, why stand faithfully by a corpse of a duke when you can stick by the side of a potential Emperor?

But this author is deeply disappointed that we didn't get to hear any wedding bells at the end of the previous season. Maybe these two will surprise us all this year, and we will see a real royal wedding that we haven't been able to witness for ages.

We are all looking forward to the ball in honour of Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen's birthday, which will be opening this year's season. And this author can't wait to bring all the gossip and scandal to our curious readers. Who knows who will win this great race and have a good match this season?

Happy hunting to all the future brides!

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historiaxvanserra · 5 months

Text

Whatever Our Souls Are Made Of | Chapter 2

Pairing: SingleDad!Rhys x Reader

Summary: The High Lord of Night makes a bargain with a beautiful Priestess and he has come to collect.

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: allusions to sexual assault, allusions to depression, abandonment, broken homes (y'know keeping it light, in all seriousness this is not all angst it's quite sweet actually).

Last night you dreamt you went to Hewn City again.

You are a girl; coloured in the shadowed jade light of the Moonstone Palace, and your body feels unlike your own. A hostile vessel-- empty and aching-- longing for some semblance of release. You call into the darkness words akin to prayers; Mother, save me; Father, please.

From the darkness no answer comes.

Then, as all dreamers are, you are possessed of a sudden magic; you walk the halls of The Moonstone Palace. As a shadow or a memory. The cursed daughter of a capricious Lord. An Ill-faded bride to a mercurial God. The time passes strangely there in the dark dreamscape; the passing of time marked only by the slivers of opal light that pierce through the blanket of the dark each night. Fractured rays of pearlescent light that dapple the marble floors and high, onyx ceilings. You cherish those fleeting moments where hope bleeds into you with the rapidly falling night. It is those moments you cling to as dawn breaks.

The morning light creeps in like hunger; veins of first light that cascade-- all golden and ephemeral-- cutting through the darkness of your dormitory as the dream slips away from you again. A figure, obscured by your sleep addled haze, falls into view and you feel it as their weight settles at your side. The feeling of a fine bone hand runs along your bare arm, soothing and gentle and she whispers words close to comfort to you as the world around you comes back to life.

A myriad of light and color.

“Clotho is looking for you,” Gwny smiles down at you and her eyes shine in the first light. All glinting cerulean -- flecked with gold -- reminiscent of a diadem your mother had worn when you were a girl. That diadem and all memory of the woman you called mother is little more than a distant dream now.

A cruel reminder of the home you left.

“What does she want?” You murmur lowly as the fleeting remnants of sleep still cling to you. You rise with haste from your bed with a quiet reluctance and make quick work of pulling on your heavy pewter robes before the morning chill has time to kiss its way up your bare skin. Judging by the slivers of gold light that spill onto the plush rug beneath your bare feet it must only be about 9am but nonetheless, you’re late at starting the day. Gwyn hovers by your cluttered desk, flicking over some of the parchments there, as you dress hastily. By the time you’re covered and running a comb through your unbound hair you turn to face her.

She’s dressed in dark training leathers and her long auburn hair is adorned with white and silver ribbons that make her look as though she is crowned in starlight. She is every inch the Valkyrie in this light you think. Half-divine with an ethereal look about her.

Like a tragic heroine from some old myth.

“I didn’t ask,” Gwyn shrugs and her eyes meet yours in the broken mirror as your fingers twist and braid your hair as it cascades over your shoulder. Something flickers in those blue gold eyes then, some devilment pools in them as she regards you with a delighted smile that arches on smirking.

“Come on, you’ve got a visitor too.” You smooth a hand over the ill-fitting robes and sigh dramatically as you collect the scrolls and the hastily written notes you’d been studying. Gwyn retreats from your dormitory laughing and humming playfully as you fall into step with her as she rounds the corner into the Library itself. A night chilled breeze graces you as you descend into the lower levels where Clotho will be waiting for you and as you approach the balcony overlooking the ground floor you catch the scent of night blooming jasmine and citrus.

That smell seems to follow you these days. It smells so much of the home that you left all those years ago.

A cruel trick of the mind.

Sunlight filters through the large stained glass window that lights the antechamber of the library and as you round the stone pillars the world as you know it is crowned in gold light as the shadowed sun beams illuminate the great cavern of the Library. The Library deep in the bowels of The House of Wind is a feat of architectural grandeur; Like Hewn City, the house itself is carved into the dark stone of the mountain that looms over the City of Starlight, and everything within is saturated in shades of coal and bone. The Library itself is made up of a series of levels and floors, all held in place by dark pillars of the same stone. The large Gothic archways are adorned with carvings and intricate patterns and tapestries -- embroidered on black cloth -- illustrate the mythos of the court you were born into. Tales of dark Gods and gentle maidens. As a girl you had spent many nights enamored by the dark magnetism of the Gods of old and the cruel and beautiful Goddesses they loved. The Library, sacred as it is, breeds a strange sense of reverence in you. For the knowledge contained between its sanctified walls.

The Library is home to the High Lord’s vast collection of Prythian’s mythological texts; Holy relics of the arcane Gods which had once been venerated and revered in these lands so long ago. All that is left of them now, resides in the deepest part of the Library, where you spend most of your days. There in the bowels of the Library something ancient and foreboding calls to you. The knowledge contained here in the dark heart of Velaris could bring kingdoms to their knees if one were so inclined. And in truth, you had thought about surrendering yourself to the call of the darkness that lies dormant in the depths of the mountains more times than you can count or would care to admit. In it, you feel something kindred to you; something aching and empty that resonates somewhere deep in your soul.

As if the very fibers of your being are composed of the same darkness.

When the High Lord had first brought you to the library-- broken and aching-- there existed in you a vengeful wrath that longed to rage until the mountains gave way beneath you. Until the men who had hurt you were nought but dust and age-worn bone. All that rage. All that grief. It had been a terrible thing; haunting and terrible. But it had been yours. So you clung to it, until the girl you were was dead and buried beneath that mountain. And from her ashes the woman was born; tempered by time, and made strong by the faith you had found there in the library’s darkening aisles, in sisterhood, and in forgiveness.

Your thoughts are interrupted by Gwyn’s gentle humming as you are cast out of the memories that come back to you in flashes of jade and twilight.

“I best get back to Merrill before she comes for my head,” Gwyn exclaims loudly, smiling so bright that you’re sure she must be up to something. You offer her a small nod and a polite goodbye which she returns in earnest as her footsteps fall in sporadic succession and they echo down the aisles. You smile at her fondly and descend further into the main floor of the library still clutching onto the hastily compiled notes that are stuffed into the small cloth bound book you had been reading. Anxiety pools in your stomach, coiling and twisting as you approach Clotho’s office.

The office is situated on the main floor of the library and as you approach through the long, empty aisles the door to Clotho’s office falls into view and the swings open with a magical flourish. Through it a large figure emerges followed by the beautiful Priestess, who looks utterly impassive, even in the presence of such an intimidating figure as the High Lord.

You had always admired Clotho; her unwavering courage and fierce devotion to the Priestesses in her care. Her soothing presence and gentle smiles had been a source of comfort and strength for you in those first few months where you had thought you might surrender yourself to the mercy of the darkness that lurks in the bottom of this sacred Library. Since then it is her courage that had made you strong and her friendship that you valued above all else. There was a faith in the sisterhood you had found here, bonds forged of suffering and healing, made strong by the time in these sacred walls.

Now you must find something else to put your faith into. Who or what that might be you are not entirely certain. Yourself perhaps. And though Clotho was hesitant about your decision to leave the library and her behind, she had offered you her support and comfort all the same.

You approach the Priestess and your High Lord with a quiet caution as your school your face to a neutral expression that doesn’t speak to your rippling anxiety at the thought of leaving the place you had come to know as home or the women who you had come to call family.

The High Lord catches your eyes first; he’s swathed in shadow as he steps out and then the light cast through the windows wreaths him in a halo of topaz light and when his violet eyes find yours in the empty aisle he smiles at you. A carefully curated thing that glitters with false charm and behind the violet of his irises you see the darkness that lurks within them. Something kindred to you.

Made of the same darkness.

“There she is!” The High Lord of Night muses, his well-sculpted arms branching out towards you as if in prayer, “my favorite acolyte.” The High Lord's voice is tempered and light, with an air of arrogance about him that makes you smile shyly as he makes three long strides towards you.

There it is again; night-blooming jasmine and mandarin.

Clotho waits a few paces behind him in wordless silence but the silver lined eyes and sad smile she offers you is an indicator of her true feelings at your leaving. And though you don’t broach the subject at that moment you offer her the promise to find her soon. So that you might say goodbye to your dearest friend in the privacy of her office. She only nods and quietly retreats into her office with a few books.

“I’ve sworn my vows,” You offer gently, surrendering yourself to the enigmatic male that stands before you.

Rhysand leans casually against the desk in the forum, his violet eyes trailing lazily over the elaborate cursive on the parchment left by another Priestess, one of his hands is buried in the pocket of his suit pants and the other flexing around the lip of the lectern. In this light, as the sun bleeds through the stained glass windows, he looks like an old God from one of the tapestries hung along the slate walls.

Cut from the same holy cloth.

At once The High Lord meets your eyes and you resist the urge to avert that arresting violet gaze. Instead you offer him the ghost of a smirk as you address him again.

“So, I believe it is Priestess to you, High Lord.” The High Lord’s laugh is a wondrous thing as it permeates the air, rich and deep, and shaded with that same dark magnetism you had witnessed that first night.

“Well then, Priestess, I believe we made a bargain,” Rhysand pushes himself from his perch on the armoire and closes the space between you. He’s so close that you swear he will hear the flutter of your heart as he meets your eyes, “and I’ve come to collect.” His voice drops an octave and the words are tainted with an air of seduction that makes you feel anxious even if you’re certain he doesn’t mean it. Even if you see the morose darkness behind those violet eyes.

Rhysand studies you carefully and you feel his eyes on you even as you turn to shelve the book that you had cradled in your arms. Your silence does little to calm the air around you as you turn swiftly from him. “You still want to come, yes?” Rhysand sounds hesitant and quiet as he broaches the subject. You swallow thickly and cast your eyes along the long aisle of the library you had called home for the last few years.

“Would it matter if I didn’t?” You laugh lightheartedly, gesturing to the tattoo brandished into your skin, still unable to meet his gaze. The High Lord doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t so much as smile half-heartedly. Rather, the High Lord draws dark, thick brows together as the swell of his bottom lip moves into a deep frown. So mournful and aching that you’re sure you feel your heart ache for him in response.

“Of course it would matter,” The High Lord’s voice wavers once more as he addresses you with a sad smile. He’s so beautiful in this light and you regard him as you do all holy things, with equal parts reverence and anxiety.

“You know that, don’t you?” There’s an uncertain quality to his demeanor that disarms you. He’s always struck you as this enigmatic and confident male, with an almost louche quality to him that seemed to exude and air of rehearsed arrogance. But now. Now you see him for what he is; something dark and beautiful and fragile. There is a hesitancy about him as he steps away from you as though the mere distance between you is enough for him to feel untethered to this plane. Left to drift amidst a vast, starless sky

It is you, who closes that gap once more in a bold display of trust and despite the tremor of your own hand when the heat of the High Lord’s golden skin melts into yours, you smile at him as one might smile at something lovely and full of sorrow.

And he smiles back-- as though you and he are not both broken, fragile things.

“Yes,” You admit truthfully.

There is so little that you are certain of now but you know this: that you and he are made of the same darkness -- born from the same star perhaps -- and that with him, you will always have a choice.

“Yes, I do, High Lord.”

______________________________________________________________

“This will be your bedroom,” Rhysand offers with a wave of his hand before it wraps around the burnished gold doorknob to reveal the room nestled between the nursery and his own chambers “I hope it is to your liking?”

The guest room in the High Lords townhouse is just as beautiful as the rest of the house; sunlight, golden and ephemeral, cuts through the drawn linen curtains and cascades along the dark mahogany floors. Through the open window you can hear melodious birdsong from the garden below and as you step into it’s heart, the view of the dark marble fountain at its center that looks as though it is carved from the same mountains that flank the city. The garden itself is coloured with the climbing ivy and moonflowers that arch up the trellis and is shaded by a thick canopy of cypress and bergamot trees, whose citrus scent seems to bleed into the room itself.

“It’s absolutely breathtaking,” You say, smiling so brightly that you’re sure it must rival the midday sun as it bathes you in its radiant light. The rooms' furnishings are made of rich rose wood and the walls are painted a muted sage blue color that reminds you so much of the robes you wear and the bed nestled into the alcove is adorned with many quilts and duvets of cream and pewter and mauve. You don’t think you’d ever seen anything quite as inviting.

The High Lord crosses the threshold and instead of joining you in the center of the room to admire the view of the gardens in the sunlight he opens the door to the adjoining bathroom. The bathroom itself is almost as big as the guest room, with a beautiful claw-foot tub in the middle of the room and both the walls and floors are made of a champagne marble with decadent flecks of gold. You take a few steps towards the washroom and perch by the door frame to admire the craftsmanship. Rhysand does the same and makes no effort to put any space between you as the quiet settles over you both as the shadowed sunlight illuminates the gold accents in the marble.

“There’s a writing desk over there,” Rhys says, retreating back into the main room, pointing towards a matching rose wood desk and chair with a mirror hung above it so that it doubles as a dressing table. “And an armoire there.” he points at the ornately carved chest of drawers by the desk.

“Though if you find you need more room for your clothes there’s plenty of space for another.”

“I think I’ll be alright with just the one,” You say lightly, eyes traveling to the small, worn leather bag at your feet that contains all of your worldly possessions; a few sets of nightclothes, two dresses that are half as old as you are, four well worn books that you had sequestered from the Library and a small collection of trinkets you’d collected over the last half a century. Hardly an extravagant amount of personal belongings but they were yours.

The High Lord hums thoughtfully at you and for a moment you think that he won’t think anything of it but then violet eyes drift to the worn leather satchel and though he doesn’t speak you see the look in his eyes as it morphs from neutral to something akin to pity.

You don’t want pity, you think, and you feel something dark and ravenous nip at the back of your throat. It’s an ugly thing that you bite your lip and swallow down lest you bite the hand that feeds you.

It had been so long since that anger and pride made itself known in your heart.

“If you need anything you just have to ask,” Rhysand says, offering you a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, he looks somewhere far off and you catch the scent of lilacs and pears when the breeze shifts, “whatever it is you want, you just have to ask.”

“Really Rhys, I don’t need anything else,” You make a move to haul your bag onto the plush velvet armchair by the window but in a flurry of movement Rhy takes it from you and places it on the small end table near the bed for you. “it’s beautiful, thank you.”

The High Lord does not respond, only smiles slyly at you from the end table, turning one of the straps of the brown leather bag in his deft fingers.

“What?” You ask with an accusatory tone, narrowing your eyes at the beautiful male beside you.

“Nothing,” The High Lord holds his hands up in surrender to you, his voice is velvet and lilting with his mirth as he looks at you again, “it’s just the first time you’ve called me my actual name.”

“I wonder what it would sound like in other situations.” He all but purrs and neither you nor he can manage to keep a straight face when you roll your eyes dramatically at him and elbow him sharply in the ribs.

The lull in the conversation comes with the passing of the afternoon clouds. They come in hordes of flowering grey and ivory, undercut with a darkness that spells a coming storm. In those quiet moments you watch as the confident facade that the High Lord wears so well melts away and he reverts back to the male you know him to be, tender and morose as the darkness in his eyes melts into a neutral expression that speaks to how truly tired he is.

“Get settled in and then come and find me later, Love.” Rhys voice is quiet and smooth and he offers you a gentle touch on your shoulder as he slips out into the hallway.

“Yes, High Lord.”

The High Lord’s eyes, iridescent and violet, meet yours and for a few moments while he is looking at you, you and he exist somewhere in the darkness between the stars.

TAGLIST: @awkardnerdd @ladybirdbeetle7 @lalaluch @saltedcoffeescotch @mybestfriendmademe @coisas-da-dani @justdreamstars

#acotar #acotar x reader #rhys x reader #rhys x you #rhys acotar #rhysand x reader #rhysand x you #rhysand fanfic #singledad!rhys x reader

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sexlapis · 6 months

Note

What if y/n and toji got into an argument and like the fans can tell and then they make up 🤭

awwww yesss :(((

making up

actor!toji x actor/actress!reader

parasocial relationships, making up, petnames (‘kid’)

actor!toji masterlist

fans don’t know what happened, but you and toji seem to be so…distant all of a sudden.

one day there were clips of the two of you on set, being all touchy and giggly and happy but then the next…you two hardly touched each other, we’re clearly avoiding one another and barely a glance was spared between either of you.

you and toji’s fanbase had no idea what happened and, being the people in a parasocial relationship with two actors that they were, they descended into panic and chaos.

rumours started flying around the internet, claiming that you and toji have broken up, that the “tojiyn ship has sunk” and “rip tojiyn”. accounts dedicated to you and toji as a couple were in tatters and dispair, threatening to close their whole accounts if this rumour was confirmed. many of your own fans were upset, but others were hoping for this rumour to be true, as they didn’t even think toji deserved you anyway and they had no shame in letting that be known. this could also be said for toji’s fans - they were happy to see you gone so that they could be delusional and hope to have a chance with the toji fushiguro. hell, even some body language interpreters jumped in to analyse the clips of you and toji. it was crazy to say the least.

your mangers had to call you both out on it and they told you both to suck it up and stop making things difficult for yourselves.

the reason for the argument?

it was a silly thing really.

you were just tired and stressed out from work. you didn’t mean to shout and snap at toji even though he was being kind to you. but you did. you’re sure he didn’t mean to shout back at you either. but he did. you didn’t really want to storm out of his house and back to your apartment. but you did.

and you both have barely spoken since.

tears well up in your eyes as you sit on the ledge of a sidewalk outside the building you’re filming in, cars blurring past you, fluorescent lights streamlining across your vision while you hold your head in your hands.

i guess i’ll be working overtime tonight.

the sky is dark and the streetlights suddenly come to life, casting a golden glow around you.

you sigh, resting your head on your knees, mind still stuck on toji.

“hey.”

a yelp leaves your mouth. you turn your head and- speak of the devil, there stands toji with his hands in his pockets, looking awkward and uncomfortable.

“toji! you hiss. “you scared me!” you look away and back at the busy street.

“right- sorry ‘bout that,” toji seems flustered when he huffs out his words, scratching the back of his head and puffing out his cheeks before strolling and plopping down right next to you, “‘think it’s time we talked, kid.”

guilt stirs up in your chest and you pick at your nails, “m’yeah. maybe…”

toji sighs and scoots closer to you, placing his hand over your fidgety ones. he smooths his thumb over your knuckles.

“look, m’sorry, alright?” toji utters softly, his eyes tender as he looks into yours. “‘shouldn’t ‘a shouted at you. i was a fucking dick.”

you bark out a slightly tearful laugh and blink out the glossiness in your eyes. “yeah, no, it was my fault too. i was an asshole. you were being wayy too nice.”

you look at him and he’s smiling, a dimple appearing on his left cheek.

toji looked so sweet, in his cosy, black winter coat and beanie.

humming, you slide a little closer to him, holding your hands out, “forgive me?”

toji scoffs and basically lurches forward, tugging you onto his lap in your arms as he litters your face with kisses, making you cackle and flush.

“yeah, kid, i forgive ya.” toji speaks and places one final kiss on your forehead.

the next day, photos of you and toji sitting on a sidewalk and cuddling flood the timelines of your fans, who (mostly) rejoice in the clear reconciliation of whatever unknown incident took place.

a/n: yeah actor toji is so back woohoo

#📫.toji #actor!toji #srry this took so long #we’re back in business😎😎😎#toji x reader #toji x you #toji x y/n #toji x self insert #toji fluff #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro x you #toji fushiguro x y/n #toji fushiguro fluff #toji fushigro x reader #toji zenin x reader #toji zenin x you #fushiguro toji x reader #fushiguro toji x you

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yandere-daydreams · 6 months

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Title: Idol Worship.

Pairing: Yandere!Devil x Reader (Christianity).

Word Count: 1.0k.

TW: Consensual Sex, Size Difference, Implied (Past) Injury To Reader, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Scarring, and Themes of Religious Trauma.

The path to His throne was paved with salt and brimstone.

Smoldering rock burnt into the soles of your feet like ember, taken fresh from the heart of the fire. Living corpses, their rotting flesh deteriorating further with ever fraught breath, laid motionless on either side of the crumbling archway, their milky eyes watching your every stumbling movement. The air was heavy with smoke and sulfur, but the buzzling of unseen insects, the stench of the decay – that was all kept in your peripheral. It was meant for someone else, someone whose crimes were far more violent and far more damning than your own. Your fate was elsewhere.

The ascent was made no easier by your anticipation, the steps carved from black onyx and made steep enough to warrant your immediate and self-inflicted dehumanization, to force you to your hands and knees in your effort to scramble upward – ever upward, as if you hadn’t yet had enough of the blinding sky. Rough granite tore into the skin of your palms, but the agony was minimal, a shadow something greater that would not numb you to more intentional agony. The heat, too, was distant, rolling over you in tender waves and seeping under your skin to coil around your ribs, to weave in and out of ragged tears in your mutilated veins. Something snapped inside your chest as you finished your climb, fresh blood washing over your aching throat, but any pain you might’ve felt faded away as a great hand descended from the clouds of smog and ash, His calloused fingertips digging into your waist, your stomach as He took you up and placed you, gingerly, on His silk-clad thigh. His touch lingered, a thumb running over your scalp as He spoke. “Oh, my glorious one,” His voice was deep and flat and beautiful. “What have they done to you?”

Anything they could. Everything they could. Your body was still plagued with the phantoms of it, the frigid cold of steel and iron against flesh and bone. You tried to speak, but your voice was gone, muted by means beyond your own. You frowned, more frustrated than you were surprised, but He did not share in your disappointment. “They are sons of the Most High, for he is kind to the ungrateful and the evil.” After a beat, He added, “I will not be so forgiving.”

His hand began to pull away, but you scrambled after of it, latching onto His wrist in a futile effort to hold Him that much closer. An airy chuckle fell from Him unmoving muzzle – His golden, slit-pupiled eyes remaining focused on some distant point as He took you into His hold once again, lifting you first to His own height. For the first time, he moved in earnest – tilting his head forward and resting his forehead against yours. “The reason the Son appeared was to destroy the Devil’s work, for the thief comes only to steal and destroy.” His breath was cool against your skin, even as anger seeped into His tone. “And now, instead, you are asked to forgive and comfort him, so that he will not be overwhelmed by excessive sorrow.”

It was more of a croak than a proper plea, hoarse and fractured at all the wrong angles. Still, you managed it, your own small hands pressed into the swell of His palm. “Please, my lamb.”

He seemed to catch himself, inhaling sharply as He shook His head. “My apologies, I forget my audience. You are altogether beautiful, my love; there is no flaw in you.” You nuzzled closer to Him, and He allowed you a moment of solace before pulling away, straightening Himself to His most dignified stature. “We have been separated for no short time. Tell me, will you not gratify the desires of the flesh?” A note of humor, a forked tongue allowed to skirt gingerly over your neck. “Will you not allow me to show the length of my devotion?”

You didn’t need to answer, it was a given that you would. His delicate tongue ran over the lacerations on your calves, your thighs - smearing dried blood and soothing open wounds. It flicked upward, lapping at the twin scars on either side of your chest, then the bruises painted across your collarbones, around the base of your throat. His hand shifted, wrapping around your waist, His hold firm and steady as He lowered you onto his length. There were other options – as many shapes and variations as a lustful heart could dream of – but His cock was among His most impressive features. The shaft alone matched your arm in length and your midriff in girth, and yet, it pierced you without resistance, filling you to the brim before He was so much as half-sheathed inside of you. Your knees pressed into his lap, your hand grasping for purchase against his broad chest, but you felt no fear, nor was your exertion necessary in the face of His willingness to serve. He let out a raspy breath, allowing His head to lull back as He thrust gently into you from below. “Earthly one, glorious one,” The pet name fell from His lips like milk and butter and honey. “We will lead each other astray. We will be the force by which the greatest love is defined.”

A growl of a moan as your walls clenched around Him, a sharp snap of His hips. “We will be bound together in perfect harmony,” His hand found the underside of your chin, tilting your head back with only the upmost delicacy. “And those who try to separate us will face only the most just of retribution.”

Your eyes met His, that wonderous gold melting into softened mortality. Where there should have been revulsion, there was only warmth, only light. Foolishly, for a moment, you allowed yourself to scorn the shine of the heavens, to loathe all things that were not Him.

You allowed yourself to believe that you would need nothing else, not so long as His gaze fell upon you.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere oneshot #yandere oc #yandere god #yandere demon #yanderecore #yancore

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satanzhole · 6 months

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WHB Satan

Satan’s H- scene and the way he called mc a dirty bitch in his card story inspired me to write this. His h- scene was hot but I needed more fr

Satan x fem!reader

CW: degradation, choking, creampie, squirting, pussy slapping, fingering, coochie being ate, fucked grammar

MINORS FUCK OFF

You were walking in an alley in Gahanna along with Satan, Sitri, and Ppyong when suddenly you felt an immense amount of pain in your chest so much so that you couldn’t properly breathe.

“Solomon?”, Sitri asked with a worried expression on his face as he turned around and saw you collapsed on the ground and holding your chest. Sitri hurried to your side to help you off the ground but you were still panting.

“Oh Mc! I don’t think she can breathe properly, aye!” Ppyong shouted as he floated toward you.

“ Ohh is “that” it?” Satan said while walking back to you. He snatched you away from Sitri and studied your complexion in his arms.

“Did something happen to Mc?”, Ppyong asked.

“It looks like Mc can’t breath”, Sitri stated with an anxious expression on his face.

You could hear the devils around you stirring but due to your current predicament, you weren’t able to understand them properly. At first you felt stifled in the chest and found it difficult to breathe but now, you felt like someone was trying to strangle the life out of you.

“This is a human and we are in hell”, Satan remarked as he looked down at you in his arms.

“Mc. According to your Earthiem knowledge, you’re currently on a different planet”.

“Does that mean… Mc is like this because the environment changed a lot?”, Ppyong asked.

“That’s right”.

“Ooh…! Now I understand, aye! I heard that humans need oxygen tanks or space suits when they go to different planets, aye! But right now Mc…”

“Is completely naked”

“Then if this continues ….” said Sitri.

“Mc will keep struggling to breath until they dry up like a mummy”, Satan explained with a troubled look on his face.

“Mc won’t die right away, but will be in even more pain”.

“Does that mean… that I have to return to Earth. I want to stay here”, you asked Satan as you were still panting from the lack of oxygen. You grabbed the hem of Satan’s clothes and spoke.

“ I’m going to help you until the end.”

“But Solomon, you should worry about your own state”, Sitri commented.

“ Help until the end… I want that too”, Satan said firmly as he looked you in the eyes.

“ I didn’t say there isn't a way”.

Sitri and Ppyong both gasped in surprise at Satan.

“Think of it, descendent of Solomon, humans lived here before you. Solomon. Your ancestor. At that time, there was a method that the devils devised with him. We’ll constantly blow “devil energy” inside of you to make you adapt to Hell”.

“In other words, I think he’s saying that he will give you an oxygen mask, aye!”, Ppyong shouted gleefully.

When Satan nodded, Ppyong proudly wagged his tail. But you were finding it harder and harder to breathe.

“Your Majesty, I think we should use that method as soon as possible”, Sitri suggested.

“Alright” , said Satan, and covered your eyes with his hand to block your view.

“Satan?”

“Think of the place you feel the most comfortable in”

“The place I feel the most comfortable in…”

Your room was the first to come to your mind… No, it was Minhyeok’s room. Where you could be the most comfortable while the sun was up.Where all your precious porn files were …

“ I have it”

“Alright. Before you open your eyes…

You felt Satan look up at the surroundings. Satan started speaking to both Sitri and Ppyong.

“Once Mc accepts the devil energy, she’ll fall asleep for a while. Because humans use their stamina to properly absorb that energy in their body. For those few hours we will have to protect Mc”.

“ Leave it to us, your Majesty Satan”.

“ We’ll do our best, you Majesty Satan, aye!”

“Also, we can never let the angels know that Mc has to receive devil energy intermittently, and that she has to fall asleep because of that”.

“Of course your Majesty Satan”.

“Of course, your Majesty, aye!”

That was the last you heard from Sitri and Ppyong.

“Alright Mc. Open your eyes”.

Satan finished beseeching and lifted his hand from your eyes. Minyeok’s room was spread out before your eyes, and only you and Satan were left in it. You widen your eyes at the surprising and much missed scenery. Satan grinned at you, still holding you in his arms as he supported you.

“Is this really Minhyeok’s room?”

“I don’t care whose room you thought of. But this is a place from your heart where you feel most comfortable. It’s a virtual space in your heart realized”.

You still found it hard to breathe. But when you stood in some place similar, you somehow felt more at ease. The walls with vintage baseball cards that Minhyeok collected. The table with the picture he took with you in the past. Everything was identical to Minhyeok’s room that you knew.

There was one thing that you weren’t familiar with.

“Satan…”

“Hm?”

“Why am I naked?” Pain and impression aside, you couldn’t not ask that question. You thought it was strange how you were the only one who was standing there naked. Standing in front of Satan like this made you feel exposed but it was also turning you on.

Instead of answering your question, Satan took your face into his hands and kissed you deeply. His pink tinted lips were plump, warm and soft. You parted your lips so he took the chance to slip his tongue in. His hands moved away from your face and traveled down to your ass. He grabbed and squeezed your ass in his hands, spreading your cheeks apart enough that your pussy lips spread as well. He released your ass only to slap it and grip it again. You heard a deep growl come from Satan and you felt yourself getting wet. Satan guided you toward the bed and soon you felt something behind your knees. The two of you separated as you began to slowly sit down on the bed. Before you even sit, Satan gave you a cocky smile and pushed your shoulder back on the bed. He leaned over you while his fingers grazed your lips, neck, and breast.

“I thought you were an interesting human. From when I first saw you”.

“Because I’m a descendent of Solomon?”

“No, because the video you were watching was so interesting”

You were now completely laid back on the bed and Satan was on top of you. He trapped you between two arms and it gave you the perfect view of his well toned muscles that were covered with bold veins. He leaned down and gave you a kiss on the lips, jaw, and neck then sat back up and began to slide his clothes off. Each time he took off a piece of clothing, you couldn’t help but look amazed by how perfect his body is. His body has incomparable beauty which is no surprise considering the fact that he was made in God’s image. Your eyes started at his plump chest and traveled past his thick veiny arms and firm abs. He has a bold v-line, a light pink happy trail that matches his hair and even more small veins that lead down to his brick hard shaft. His dick is curved upward and just about reached his belly button. It’s girthy with three visible veins with precum leaking out of the head and sliding down the shaft.

“ You looked at me like that in the beginning too”, Satan said with a red tinted face.

“Hold your legs open. I wanna play with your pussy first”, he ordered in a low tone, grinning. You did exactly what you were told and hooked your arms under your legs and held them up for him. He went straight to rubbing your sopping wet pussy and teasing your hole that. His middle finger slid right in and slowly pumped into you a few times. You were so wet that his ring finger slipped into you with no resistance. He pumped his curved fingers into your pussy to hit that special spot that’d make you cum all over his fingers.

“ I'm not stopping until I make you squirt and your cum’s running down my hand.” Satan declared before taking one of his hands and wrapping it around your throat while his other is thrusting his fingers in you.

“You hear how wet you are Mc? Your pussy’s so noisy. You really are a dirty little human”, he said, flicking his tongue at you.

Satan’s hand around your throat combined with the lewd noises of your hole being finger fucked by Satan’s thick fingers was pushing you to your limit.

“You’re gonna squirt on me huh? Mmm that’s right.. cum on my fingers like a good girl”, he growled, and it immediately pushed you over the edge.

“Wait Satan! I feel like I’m going to-” and that’s when your juices came sprinkling out of your tightened pussy. Satan immediately pulled his fingers out and cupped your pussy with his mouth. He used his big, flat tongue to swipe it up your pussy then latched his plump lips onto your clit and sucked on it. You came even harder with the added stimulation of Satan sucking on your swollen clit. He slurped up your cum soaked pussy and gave your clit one last suck before he sat back up and released his grip around your throat. The lower half of Satan’s face was damp and glossy, covered in your cum.

You flinched at the swift slap to your pussy but it was soon after soothed with Satan caressing you and soaking his hand in your juices. Satan lifted his hand, showing you his glistening fingers then moved them in front of his lips. He parted his lips and flicked his tongue between his fingers, looking you dead in the eyes to make sure you captured the sight of him cleaning your cum off his fingers.

“I want you on your hands and knees for me”, Satan said grinning at you while he reached for his dick. He stood back up, gripped his tip then slid his hand down to the base, wetting his entire length with precum. He couldn’t resist touching himself, seeing you with your ass up, sloppy, wet pussy waiting for him to stuff you balls deep. You wiggled your ass for him in anticipation and he responded with a rough slap to your ass. He slapped your ass two more times before he grabbed your cheeks, spreading your fat, wet pussy lips so he could get a better view of your clenching hole. You felt him slide his dick between your folds and up your ass, picking up your juices and teasing your pussy. The sensation of his tip repeatedly rubbing against your clit and gliding between your lips made you whimper out his name.

“Tell me what you want me to do to you. I’m not giving you what you want until you say it ”, Satan purred in a low voice, pushing his tip into you but only enough to tease you. Satan can really be an asshole. Making you be so upfront about how bad you want him to fuck your brains out. He knows it’s embarrassing for you and that’s why he enjoys it so much. You were hesitating for too long so he spoke again.

“ Come oon. Nasty, perverted human can’t tell me she wants me to fuck her? I know how filthy minded you are mc. What’s holding you back now? ”

You didn’t even have to look at him to know that he had that cocky grin on his face. Even though Satan’s just egging you on, you’ve got to admit he’s right. You are quite dirty minded. He literally saw your porn collection. You’re always so horny that when you first met Satan, you were only thinking about how good he’d fuck you. So there shouldn’t be a problem with telling Satan how bad you want him, right?

By now, Satan has started slowly pushing his tip further in. He was getting antsy. Your pussy looks so wet and sexy, he could cum just looking at it. You wanted Satan to just fuck his whole length into you so bad that it made you finally gather the courage to come out with it already.

“ I want you to fuc-”

“Look at me in the eyes and say it”

Your face was burning up but you did as you were told. You turned around to look at him in his scarlet eyes and repeated yourself.

“I want you to fuck me Satan” , you said in a shy, sultry voice. Satan growled and flicked his tongue at you. There was a loud “squelch” coming from Satan entering you as he bottomed out. You both let out a moan at how amazing it felt. You’re so full of him right now. There was the pain of being stretched out by his girth but it hurt so good. He moved his hips back and his dick came out glossy, covered in your pussy’s juices. Satan slowly pushed himself balls deep again forcing another “squelch” sound to ring out. He still had a grip on your ass, spreading your lips so he could see your wet pussy gripping him as he went in and out of you.

You felt a sudden pain in your head due to Satan grabbing a first full of your hair, forcing you to arch your back for him. Now he can start fucking you into next week.

Satan loved the view of your ass jiggling and bouncing off of his hips. As he was fucking into you, his balls repeatedly slapped your clit and gave you extra stimulation. The feeling made your pussy clench around his length.

“Mmm fuck. Trying to make me cum already hm? You’re squeezing me so tight mc” , he purred as he kept his steady pace of pounding into you.

“I wanna see you fuck yourself on my cock. Be a good slut and make yourself cum all over this dick ”

He gave you one last deep stroke then pulled out, leaving his tip inside you.

“Go on. Start moving”, Satan ordered in a deep, seductive tone. The strong grip in your hair was still there forcing you to keep your back arched. You first slowly took in his length all the way to the base then slowly moved your body forward, taking in the feeling of his veiny cock sliding in and out of you. You were throwing your ass back on him while rolling your hips then felt his tip tapping your g-spot. Your slick was starting to build up and cream his cock.

“You should see how creamy your pussy is right now mc. It’s so sexy. Keep going just like that until you cum”, he said as he watched your pussy lips wrap around his cock and swallow his length over and over.

You began feeling a heavy tingling sensation as your walls spasmed around his cock.

“Fuck! Satan” , you whimpered.

“You did really well mc. But I'm still not done with you yet.”

He pulled your body up against his own so that your back was against his chest. You felt his dick in you so much deeper in this position. Satan wrapped his right hand around your throat then used his left hand to rub your clit while he stirred his dick in you. You were so wet now that your juices were dripping onto the bed sheets.

“Plop plop plop” along with your and Satan’s lustful moans filled the air.

“Mmhh your pussy’s sucking me so good. Keep taking my dick like that and I’ll let you have my cum”.

The hand that was clasped around your throat forced you to turn your head toward him and look at him in his vibrant red eyes. Satan looked at you with hunger, as if he’d devour you right then and there. He glanced down at your lips then went in for a rough, but passionate, sloppy tongue kiss. He took his time digging his cock deep inside you, almost deep enough to nudge your cervix. The way he was steady rubbing your swollen clit and stretching you out like this made you gasp and break away from Satan’s plush lips.

You were feeling that familiar tingling sensation you felt earlier built up again. You were so close to cuming and you could tell you were going to cum hard this time.

“Satan I’m so close I’m gonna cum ”, you whimpered.

“Yea? Then go on and cum on my dick you dirty bitch. I want your creamy pussy soaking my cock in cum. Do it now you fucking slut”.

Satan’s command was all that was needed to push you into a state of intense ecstasy. Your eyes were rolled back, your legs were shivering, and you were babbling nonsense but that didn’t stop Satan from fucking you through your orgasm.

“Aaah shit mc. Keep squeezing me just like that. You’re gonna take all of my cum like the nasty little cum slut you are”.

As Satan moaned with his gruff, husky voice in your ear, his pace became faster and sloppier.

His cum mixed in with your juices and cream and overflowed in you, causing it to drip down his balls and your legs. Satan pulled out his dick, making a wet sucking sound leave your pussy. You were so exhausted from how fucked out you were that you fell onto the bed once Satan released you. Your eyes were getting extremely heavy. Satan laid beside you then gathered you in his arms to cuddle as you drifted off to sleep.

“Go ahead and rest, Mc. I know you humans need it after being worn out like that. I’ll be waiting here for you”.

That was the last thing you heard as you drifted off into some much needed sleep.

Omg y’all this was my first time writing smut. It’s probably cringey garbáge but I’d appreciate feedback or whateva

#whb #whb satan #satan whb #whb smut #what in hell is bad #whb satan smut #what in hell is bad satan #what in hell is bad smut #what in hell is bad satan smut #whb x fem reader #whb x fem reader smut #whb fem reader #whb satan x fem reader #x satan #Satan x fem reader #x fem reader #fem reader #Satan x reader

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chuuyrr · 11 days

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𝐢. 𝐀 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋, 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐖𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄 ‧₊ .ᐟ

series masterlist | next chapter

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִ 𓆩 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔, 𝐈 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄 ‧₊ 𓆪 fallen angel! dazai osamu , f! angel! reader . . .

𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 ⊹ 𓂃 ₊ i can fix him (no really i can)

𝐂𝐖(𝐬) ⊹ 𓂃 ₊ angels! au, religious themes: inspired by éloa (1824), a poem about a f! angel falling for a "stranger", which is also inspired by the hades and persephone myth. submission to @kentopedia's event !

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ⊹ 𓂃 ₊ sfw. in which he sought to reclaim his lost light, and like a moth to a flame, he found it in you, an angel of light

in the tapestry of stories you've heard high and low, dazai osamu's name profoundly echoed in the heavens, tarnished by fame. you've heard it time and time again, like a broken record from the moment you were given life from the tears of the god above.

he was whispered to be akin to the devil himself, once counted among the highest-ranking angels who succumbed to the depths of disgrace.

so profound was his descent from grace that even the mere mention of his name invoked a shiver of fear. branded as fallen, unworthy, and a symbol of shame, his very existence became a testament to the consequences of betrayal in heaven.

and you were such a curious little creature of the cursed tale, almost like an innocent lamb to a wolf, as they say. however, even as an angel from above, you contemplated the prospect of getting condemned and branded unfit. the so-cursed fallen may have made mistakes, but you still stuck to this very principle.

is not everyone deserving of grace? a second chance at forgiveness? those questions plagued your heart and soul, feeling you with a sense of trepidation that you had struggled to shake, yet you somehow longed for it. how strange.

you delved to question the morality and rationale of it, therefore you were warned not to seek what is unlawful or even question the greatest order among the heavenly creatures you all are, or you would be labeled the same as the devil, dazai osamu, the fallen angel.

not only were you a curious thing, but you were also frequently admonished, such as not flying too low on the ground or you would no longer be able to stay above, but you dismissed it as a stupid scolding.

besides, how could you not? the earth was as lovely as the sky above. every corner was a breath of life, born of a miracle, just like you.

so, you descended from heaven, disregarding the warnings of your fellow angels and higher-ups, and found yourself floating across the line that connects the sky and land, your white feathery wings flapping and gliding along the breeze of the air.

unbeknownst to you, a pair of enigmatic eyes somewhere from the shadows was.. watching you—your every move.

you were like a delicate swan, far from the coast, giving its white wing to the passing waves of the ocean sky.

their gaze was solely affixed on the purity of your smile, the way your [color] eyes shone with light, and the way your danced in the skies with your wings akin to a dove's as if it was your ballroom, and those same eyes easily recognized you as one of the angels from heaven, and you were undoubtedly a pure soul.

and this light you had, your very purity, it was tempting those eyes, like a moth to a flame.

instead of avoiding temptation, he welcomed it with open arms, gazed wistfully at you from a distance. the urge was strong. just seeing you for the first time elicited a wide range of feelings in him. he wants your luminescence.

he wanted you, and he will get what he wants.

he purposely comes into your view, making sure to catch your attention, and it doesn't take long. no one could resist him anyways. not even a pure soul like you, even if you were not one of those mortal women that loves him so much so, they were the reason why they talk in their sleep.

your gaze catches sight of a young man, who is undoubtedly beautiful, and the feel is too celestial to be real. his eyes sparkle almost like dazzling diamonds in the night like stars, and his skin is so beautiful that he could be mistaken for an angel like you.. or perhaps he was?

"my, my," his voice was sweet as honey, and rich and deep as it is he spoke to you with a smile hoping to tug on your heartstrings, "where did you come from, beautiful archangel?"

"you came down from heaven and sent me lightning, but you are so beautiful in my eyes that i don't know why. you, too, have come from above, beautiful angel, to confront me? what an honor," he continues to sweet-talk you while admiring your figure, taking in your delicate features up close, from your eyelids and cheekbones to your torso, which was cradled by a white garment that suited your purity.

the first pale glimmer of twilight bled into the horizon, your wings arching gracefully behind you as the golden light of the setting sun bathed you and the man in a warm glow. the following words he uttered next sent a shiver down your spine as he approaches you closer.

"and who you might be?" you ask softly, a small quiet giggle escaping your lips that makes his smile grow wider as he shakes his head at the sides at your innocent question.

"i am the one we love and don’t know," he says, his voice wrapping around you like a silken thread, his eyes gleaming with a hidden fire, "on man, i have founded my empire of flame, in the desires of the heart, in the dreams of the soul, in the bonds of bodies, mysterious attractions, in the treasures of the blood, in the looks of the eyes."

you feel your wings twitch, your controlled elegance slipping for a minute. you clenched your hands into closed fists, attempting to steady yourself against the draw of his words as he moved closer, and closer, his presence entrancing you.

"i make wives speak in their dreams, learn happy lies. i give them nights which console days.. so you can say, i am the secret king of secret loves, dear angel," his gaze bore into yours, unyielding and magnetic, piercing your very soul as a light blush colored your cheeks, and you lowered your gaze, "i am no man with ill intentions, i am but a comforter.."

"i give to the earth the pleasure of the evenings and the goods of the mystery," his voice softened, almost tender as he saw the expression on your face.

the sun starts to set, and as darkness fell over the soil you walked on, you felt the shadows come alive around you, and when the final rays of sunlight vanished, your surroundings changed.

countless spirits appeared from the growing shadows of the trees. the night seemed to vibrate with an unusual energy, scented dew began to drop on the orange trees, lilac, and thyme, and he held his arms wide to encompass the entire scenery before you.

you stared in a daze as a nightingale rose towards the now-starry sky, its song heralding the young man's beloved hour. every creature and flower appeared to come alive in response to his presence. your breath caught as voices whispered among the trees, their words melting into the night's music, and it filled the air, with trees and bushes adding to the midnight chorus.

you couldn't help but tremble slightly at the change of surroundings, the aura now present in the air in his midst. your wings folding tightly behind your back as you look up at him.

he stepped closer once more over to your frame, his dark enigmatic yet sharp eyes never leaving your face as he speaks in a soothing whisper that caressed your very soul.

"do not fret me. i understand it completely, it is natural to be drawn to the unknown, to the mysteries that lie beyond the daylight's reach. you are not alone in this curiosity. many before you have felt this same pull, this same longing." he coos in a coaxing, gentle tone.

"you've always been a curious little thing, hmm? well, it's the same for me, dear," he chuckles softly, comforting you, as if he knows you, which he does. he is quite familiar with you.

"i, too, am curious. i, too, question what is unlawful or even ponder about the greatest order among the heavenly creatures like you. perhaps that way, we too, share a similar nature in that sense?" he says, causing you to shiver, the warmth and blush on your cheeks deepening as he reaches out to cup your face in his palm.

he leans in closer, his face hovering near yours, not quite touching but close enough for you to feel his warmth, his hot breath, trickling your skin, "angels like you, like us, have always been meant for purity, for light."

"wait, what are you saying?" you sputter out softly in disbelief. his name was oddly similiar, familiar, as he takes his other hand, now fully cupping your face so delicately in his palms, holding you as if he has the world in his own very hands.

"what i'm saying is that even the purest light casts a shadow," he gently squeezes your face, his eyes drawing down to your innocent yet curious, baffled gaze, and plump lips, "it is what the higher angels above us are so afraid of, hence they brand the curious unfit and unworthy of grace. they deny the parts of themselves that are curious, that yearn for something more, but it is not a sin to feel, [name]. in fact, it is what makes existence so beautifully complex."

"and that's why they labeled the fallen angel before as such?" you whisper softly, your gaze faltering.

"you are strong, [name], and oh so loving, i can see it clear as the day," he says softly, his voice like velvet, adding more fire to the flame of your inner conflict, "but even the strongest hearts can be softened. i do not seek to destroy you, or lead you astray, but to show you the beauty that lies in the shadows, the wonders that the night holds, the very same one that you have heard of dared to step upon of."

he presses his forehead against your own before he leans into your ear, whispering like the snake that tempted eve to take the forbidden fruit, "i offer a reprieve, a moment of solace. take my hand, dear, and step into the night and discover its secrets. i know you wish to seek out the same thing that condemned your fellow angel."

with quivering palms, you gently raised your gaze to meet his. your heart pounded in your chest, echoing the internal conflict you were fighting.

his dark eyes were gentle and welcoming, promising understanding and comfort, reminiscent of the fallen angel you've heard of over and over back in heaven.

"how do you know all of this? just, who are you?" you stammer out softly. your resolve was weakeneing, and for a brief moment, you were on the verge of giving in, letting go of your fears and entering the unknown, the same unknown into which the previous fallen angel had descended from grace to.

"i go by many names, but call me shuji.. at least for now," he chuckles, seeing the conflict in your eyes, reminding him of the power of his words, the allure of his presence, and he knew that, eventually, even the strongest of hearts, the purest of pure, could be coaxed into the embrace of the night.

you furrow your brows, and you can't help but feel such tension as your wings twitched. you wanted to resist. this seems all too much, all for someone you just met. it was never too late to draw yourself from the temptation that 'shuji' presents, but he was right. you have always been a curious little thing. you longed to know. you longed the offer.

"i don't know, i don't think.." you say softly, fidgeting your fingers as you look down at your feet. the night air hung heavy with the darkness of the starry sky pressing in with a strange tangible weight.

"aww, it's alright. you don't have to decide anything right now, sweetheart," he murmurs, his tone of voice a soothing balm to your conflicted emotions, "it's natural to feel hesitant to delve deep into the unknown.. i should know."

you look up at him, your eyes meeting his for a brief second before pulling away, the intensity of his gaze too much to take. he reaches a hand, not to touch, but to give, a sign of silent understanding of your turmoil.

"would you like some company instead?" he asks gently, his words wrapping around you like a warm embrace, "you don't have to agree to anything beyond that. how about it?"

such a strange man, but persistent. your fingers halting their anxious dance at the prospect of companionship. however, a part of you remains apprehensive, aware of the perils of his charm and the tempting draw of his words.

seeing your hesitancy, 'shuji' softens his gaze even more, his face one of genuine concern. "it's just for now."

and he promises you with a smile that masks a hidden intention, "no commitments, no decisions. just two souls sharing a moment in the quiet of the night. we can talk, or sit in silence, whatever brings you peace, sweetheart."

a part of you yearns for the peace his presence appears to offer, the comfort of another's company in the middle of your turmoil. you lift your gaze to meet his again, looking for any hint of deception, any trace of the manipulative charm you fear.

but all you see is patience, an invitation without pressure, a promise of understanding with no strings attached. you take a deep breath, feeling the weight of your uncertainty lift just a little.

"okay, but just for a short while.." you say quietly, barely audible.

thus, his smile widens at your acceptance, and for a brief moment, his little facade almost crumbles at the thought of effectively persuading you. just a little more, he thinks to himself. it was only a matter of time before he received what he desired from you.

after all, he was already drawn to you.

he extends his hand to you. you stare at his hand for a moment before placing your hand in his, sensing the warmth of his touch. you stroll in silence, the route lit by the faint glow of starlight and the distant sounds of night birds.

when you follow him, the land surrounding slowly vanishes that hums with a distinct eerie force. he pauses and returns your gaze with a comforting smile, "trust me," he adds quietly, his eyes showing a mix of eagerness and affection.

taking a deep breath, you nod and allow him to lead you, and before you know it, the world swirls around you, but when the swirling light fades, you find yourself standing on the outskirts of a peaceful, terrestrial scene.

the air is crisp and fresh, with a subtle aroma of budding flowers and earthy tones from a neighboring forest. the sky above is a deep, velvety blue, speckled with stars that appear close enough to touch, and a leisurely river flows through the landscape, its surface like a plethora of small diamonds in the moonlight.

he walks you to a grassy knoll that overlooks the river. the ground beneath your feet is soft and welcoming, making it the ideal place to relax and enjoy the scenery.

he sits down and motions for you to join him. as you lower yourself to the ground, a sense of calm comes over you.

"this place," he says, "is a hidden gem on earth. far from the heavens, yet it holds its own kind of magic.”

you gaze around, taking in the soft sway of the trees, the rhythmic murmur of the river, and the peaceful symphony of the night creatures. it's a spot that feels both unspoiled and ageless, a haven where the stresses of the world appear to fade away.

you close your eyes and let the sounds of nature wash over you. the subtle rustle of leaves, the sweet crooning of faraway night birds, and the flow of the river all combine to form a lovely lullaby, and you sense his presence beside you as a steady, comforting anchor.

after a while, you open your eyes to look at him. "this place is beautiful. every bit of this just reminds me of how lovely the earth may be, just as it is above."

he grins at your naive yet honest comments as you continue to speak, "i can't help but wonder, your majesty," you say now, giggling now as you are more relaxed, as you address him as such since he names himself the king of secret loves.

"wonder about what? what's going on inside that pretty little head of yours?" he muses you.

"you seem to know a lot of things. you even know about fallen angels.." you mutter quietly now, recalling his words earlier, his offer to you, "but i suppose it's only natural. you do call yourself a king of secret loves, and a king does know a lot, for a king carries both a crown and a burden after all."

you fiddle with the hem of the white dress hugging your body as you look at him, asking him the very same thing you question in regards to the gods and celestials above, "but do tell me, shuji. is not everyone deserving of grace? a second chance at forgiveness?"

'shuji's' gaze darkens for a brief moment as he contemplates your thoughts. he shifts slightly, turning to face you more directly, his stare incisive but compassionate. he bites his lip for a brief moment before he speaks his truth.

he says slowly, as if weighing his words carefully, "forgiveness, it is a complex thing. it's not just something that can be given or taken; it has to be earned, understood, and sometimes even fought for."

he pauses, gazing up at the starlit, night sky, as if he was looking for answers in the distant lights just like you, "i have seen those who have fallen, who have made mistakes, and who have sought redemption.. so if you ask me, my dear, the path to forgiveness is not always certain."

your eyes widen at his words, every word hitting a deep part of your heart. you lean in closer to him, your interest peaked as you can't help but question him," do you speak from experience? have you ever known someone who has walked that path?"

a shadow covers his face, momentarily yet noticeable. he returns his smile to you, albeit with a trace of melancholy, "hmm, perhaps you can say that? hah, we all have secrets and burdens to bear.."

"one thing is certain though," he says, reaching out to you once more, his fingers brushing against yours, "we are all searching for our own paths to grace. after all, we all long for grace. do we not?"

"that's true," you nod slowly at his words, finding solace in them.

however, his fingers tighten around yours, his voice tinged with longingness, "but sometimes, it is not all we long for. sometimes, we all long for something else.."

your eyes widen once more as you lock eyes with him, seeing an intensity of emotions in them, a depth you've never seen before in those brown eyes of his.

he pulls you closer to him, his touch firm yet gentle as if he was handling such a delicate flower, afraid to let it go or wither away. your body presses against his, and he feels warm.

"stay the night with me, pretty archangel," he whispers to you in such a way that sends a shiver down your spine, "just for tonight."

you feel your heart race, the closeness of his body against yours was making you acutely aware of every sensation. the warmth of his hand and breath mingling with the night air, and the longing in his eyes, a silent plea that tugs something within you.

"but, why?" you ask softly, blinking in confusion.

"because i long for you, dear," there it was again, the seduction in his voice, the honeyed tone he used on you before when he made you an offer, and this time it was filled with naked honesty.

you experience a plethora of emotions within you, including dread, exhilaration, and.. a strange yet evident attraction to him, but you hesitate nonetheless at this second, other offer he asks of you.

he reaches up, gently brushing a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear as he reassures you, luring you in secret, "come on, sweetheart. just for tonight. i won't keep you for too long.."

there was a deep yearning in his eyes that mirrors your own, and this time you were unable to turn away from the temptation this offer unlike earlier. slowly, you nod your head, allowing yourself to lean into the moment, into him.

"okay, just for tonight.." you mutter softly, finally giving in.

he pulls you in closer, almost wrapping his arm over you, almost too possessively, and the next thing you know, he's guiding you somewhere more private, away from the outside world.

he walks you to a much darker, almost secluded path. it was as if the scenery was shifting again into something else again. the stars above appear to dim, their light absorbed by the dense canopy of trees.

the air becomes cooler, and a sense of gloom permeates the night's peacefulness. eventually, you come across a concealed cabin, its shadowy silhouette just apparent in the darkness.

he opens the door for you, his movements deliberate and controlled, and ushers you inside, almost desperately.

the room is dimly illuminated, with the flickering fire creating long, dancing shadows on the walls. he leads you to a massive, imposing bed, with dark sheets and heavy blankets that nearly swallow you whole. you sit down, feeling the smooth, enveloping fabric under you, as 'shuji' stands nearby, his presence looming and intense.

you look around, the shadows appearing to close in around you. there's an inescapable intimacy here, a refuge from the world but also a trap from which there's no way out.

and he looks at you with triumphant eyes, as if he has finally found what he has been looking for.

he reaches out, his grip solid, and grabs your hand in his, "you have no idea just how glad i am to have you here."

his voice was possessive as he looks at you with the same longing from earlier, "having you right where i want you... it's what i long for."

you look at him with a mix of fear and excitement in your eyes. the moment has an electric intensity to it, as if it were a dream on the verge of becoming a nightmare.

the look in his intensifies as he leans into you, his warm breath up against your skin. without warning, he suddenly pulls you down onto the bed with him in one swift moment that you barely had time to react as your wings twitch and flap in surprise behind you.

he grips you tightly with the same possessiveness as you feel his body press against yours, and this time the look in his eyes was almost predatory. he stares down your delicate face, from your [color] eyes to your form, just as he had when he first lay eyes on you, this time relishing the moment even more because he was so close to you.

his fingers trace goosebumps on your arm as the air between you and him now cackles with an unspoken tension, with an unbearable anticipation, especially for him.

and so, with a sudden decisive movement, he tilts your chin up to him and he presses his lips against yours, and it was a fierce and possessive kiss that leaves you breathless, yet breathlessly wanting more.

the outside world fades away as he claims your lips, leaving you with the mere sensation of his lips and body pressing against yours. he tightens his grip around you as you let out a soft whine, but you do not let go or even struggle against him at all.

instead, you find your fingers entangling themselves in his messy locks of brown hair as he kisses you with such need, as if he's imprinting himself on you.

you feel the roughness of his breath and the urgency in his touch as his arms envelop you like promise and a warning, and it was overwhelming your senses.

after a brief moment, he pulls away from your lips, ragged gasps for air escaping his breath, but he doesn't let go. he's never letting you go. his hold on you was firm as ever and you can see the satisfaction in his eyes, taking dark pleasure in having you like this, at this very moment, completely and utterly his.

"stay with me, alright? let me have you, sweetheart," he murmurs against your lips.

you slowly nod your head, unable to find your voice as you lose yourself in his intense gaze and the sensation of his kiss, and as he leans in to capture your lips in another kiss, you know that tonight, you're his.

and then, with a dark glint in his eyes, he suddenly says, "call me osamu."

the name sends a shock through you, causing you to pale. osamu. the same name as the fallen angel you had been warned about, dazai osamu. your heart pounds against your chest at the realization, hitting you like a bolt of lightning, and finally, you see it. the flicker in his eyes, behind the tender facade he had been holding.

"osamu?" your voice trembles at the utter of his name.

he smiles a knowing smile towards you, "yes, osamu. call me osamu."

the unspoken truth hangs heavy in the air. the man holding you was no ordinary being. he was no king. he was no mere mortal. this man, he used to be an angel of the highest grade. he's the fallen angel you heard of, the one who had been cast out of heaven, and now he was the one who craves to touch you.

osamu brushes his fingers against your cheek in a gentle touch, "i told you earlier, didn’t i? you shouldn't be afraid. i'm not even here to hurt you at all, my beautiful archangel."

your mind and heart became in conflict with one another, but your body responds to his presence, the same way this fallen angel was drawn to your embrace. and besides, didn’t you think so yourself? everybody is worthy of love and grace. even if it was dazai osamu..

so, this was alright. it should be.

"then, what do you want from me?" you ask softly.

"i just want to be with you." he whispers before kissing you again, and his name echoes in your mind, sweeping you with a dark allure.

"i long for you, [name]."

𝐀.𝐍. ⊹ 𓂃 ₊ it's been a long while since i've written anything, so consider this as my comeback stage after being beaten up by my major, so i'm glad to have finally published the first chapter of my latest series, wahoo <3 <3

𝐏.𝐒. ⊹ 𓂃 ₊ osamu disguising himself as shuji was on purpose. it's a reference to the real dazai osamu's name, shuji tsushima. i also took some lines from the inspo/reference of this fic from the poem of eloa, from the second song/stanza. the next part of his chapter is just gonna be some smut, so feel free to skip it. okay? okay !

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ⊹ 𓂃 ₊ @little-miss-chaoss @anonymousewrites @chaiifluuf @sosograndii @anqelically @blueberrisdove @cheriiyaya @avocate-assia-dazai @yushiba-tsukyoh @cupidszvlvr @snowsilver2000 @cvidy @dummytwo @kissesmellow21 @angelofdarkness2 @muichirolover23 @milky-aeons @pompompurin1028 @pe4rl-diver @dzaisamou @iloveemiatas @kentopedia @aureatchi @its-vante @haesify @fyorina @atlasnessie

#bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #dazai x reader #dazai osamu x reader #bungo stray dogs x y/n #dazai x y/n #dazai x you #dazai x fem reader #bsd dazai #dazai osamu x you #dazai osamu x y/n #bsd x you #bsd x y/n #bsd imagines #bsd fanfic #bungo stray dogs dazai #bungou stray dogs dazai

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ohmyeyesmyeyes · 1 year

Text

lover of mine - n.hischier

nico hischier x f!reader

warnings: swearing, angst, description of injury/bruises etc, sad nico, mentions of vomiting/dizziness, medical inaccuracies

word count: 21k

You were in your room, having just got back from a late trip to the store for some last minute bagels and milk – you weren’t doing anything in particular. You were sitting on your office chair, eyes occasionally drifting to the essay waiting for your corrections on the table, but you found it hard to tear your attention away from your phone. There wasn’t anything specifically attention grabbing that you were scrolling through, mainly just browsing Instagram and replying to some messages from friends.

There was no jeopardy surrounding the evening: it was dark outside, around eight – so not too late that you felt like you had to rush to sort things out, but late enough to deplete your energy levels completely to the point where you couldn’t really bring yourself to work.

Your bedroom door was open, vague chatter from the Devils match playing in the living room – your roommate, Maisey, wrapped up in the whirlwind that seemed to accompany any fan of hockey. The last time you’d seen her she was leaning towards the TV, her elbows on her knees as she shouted words every couple of minutes.

It was a routine quickly becoming familiar to you both; usually you’d be sitting next to her, both yelling profanities at the TV in synch, but in an attempt to distance yourself from the drama in your relationship at the moment, you’d decided to take a step back somewhat. You could still watch the highlights and every now and then you’d sit in and watch with her, but there was only so much of watching the matches anymore that you could take without being reminded of your recent heartbreaks and tribulations – all because of a certain captain.

Needless to say, when her shouting stopped and an eerie quiet descended from the living room, the commentating getting louder as though Maisey was trying to listen even more carefully to what was being said, it didn’t escape your interest, and your curiosity peaked. You paused, your thumb faltering as you threw a cautious glance at your door, still no sign of any rustling or movement that indicated she’d only turned it up to take the bins out or have a quick toilet break. In fact, apart from the occasional flickering from the light of the TV, the only thing you could see was the ajar bathroom door from across the hallway.

You furrowed your brows, ears straining to pick up the quickfire chatter as something ugly and dreadful settled itself in your mind and chest. You tried to dissect the sensation, but the tightness of your chest and the cold chill of your bones could only pull you in the direction of foreboding.

“Maise?” You called out, slowly hauling yourself off your chair, phone switching off as you turned into the hallway.

When you looked down the corridor to the sofa just in sight, you could see Maisey’s worried gaze peek over the back, and you gravitated towards her, “Yeah?” She asked, blindly fumbling for something as you got closer.

It was only when you rounded the corner to cast a glance at the TV, heart thudding against your sternum in anticipation of seeing something you didn’t want to, that the commentary cut off, the screen turning an abrupt black. You could see your reflection looking back at you, the momentary flicker of people in black tracksuits crowding around a horizontal figure crumpled against the boards.

You looked to Maisey on the blank screen, who was looking at you with an essence of anxiety, awkwardly spinning the remote in her hand, her eyes burning holes in the back of your head as though she expected you to react.

To what?

“What’s wrong?” You spun around, moving to take a seat next to her, completely unaware of what had been playing out before your entrance.

You knew there was a Devils game tonight, she’d been watching it when you came back from your little trip and unloaded the fresh produce into varying cupboards, and you’d even cast curious glances at it when you were looking in the general direction of the TV, but you’d immediately hidden yourself back in your room with the honest intent of finishing some work before bed.

She shrugged, acting nonchalant as her shoulders drooped, “Nothing.” She mumbled, “I thought you were working?”

You nodded slowly, feeling some tension begin to wear off at her lack of urgency, “I tried to, but I can’t concentrate. It’s too late to think.” She nodded, twisting her mouth awkwardly, “Why’d you turn it off?”

She shrugged again, pulling the remote away from you before you could even move to turn the TV back on, “Just…Nico was playing.” You fought a wince, a wave of sadness clenching in your chest, “I didn’t want to upset you.”

You were grateful for her consideration, but her subdued, almost too-casual demeanour was off-putting and quite frankly irritating. You could tell she was hiding something from you, that much was obvious from the way she hid the remote out of your sight and made no move to turn the TV back on even despite your reassurances. You’d seen some of Nico’s games recently, she knew that – and she also knew that you had nothing against her watching them in the front room.

And it wasn’t like you and Nico were over – even if it had felt like it recently, although that was the definition of being on a ‘break’, wasn’t it? You’d agreed (after much deliberation and many tears on both your behalfs) that a rather reluctant break was needed; little to no communication…it was rough. It was also the first time in two years that you hadn’t gone two weeks without speaking to Nico, or even seeing his face on FaceTime, and you were kind of dying. Or, at least it felt like it.

It was difficult trying to sleep lately, hence why you’d been trying to get into bed earlier – mind seemingly intent on torturing you with images of Nico and replaying conversations and moments.

You’d lost count of the number of times you’d had to remind yourself that this break – although temporary – was essential for your relationship, and it was no secret neither of you wanted to break up. That had been made abundantly clear the last time you had spoken when you were both speechless in his front room before you’d reluctantly left him there.

And Maisey knew this, she respected this, which was why you found it so hard to believe she was telling the truth.

“You know I don’t mind watching the games.” You said, tilting your head in interest when she squirmed under your gaze, “Are you okay?”

Your heart was hammering in your chest when she turned to look at you, brows knitted together and eyes wide, chewing on her bottom lip, “I–” She hesitated, “The game wasn’t very interesting.”

You nodded, attempting a smile even despite the thick atmosphere. You had been friends with Maisey since high school, so you knew when she wasn’t telling you something, but you brushed it off, respecting whatever reasoning behind it – you trusted her, so if she was avoiding telling you something, you knew it was within reason.

“Do you want some tea or a drink?” You asked, switching the topic of conversation to avoid maintaining the awkward tension.

When you looked at Maisey she was eyeing your phone. And almost as though she’s willed it into existence, the screen lit up.

Her eyes snapped to you, where you’d frozen half-lifting yourself off the sofa, and there was an immeasurable panic in her face. It had something dropping in your stomach, dread pooling throughout your body, and you swallowed anxiously, your mouth drying.

“You should answer it.” She said, thrusting it towards you.

You blinked, taking it numbly and without allowing yourself to dwell yourself into a pit of your own panic, clicked the answer button.

You sat back on the sofa, vaguely aware of Maisey switching the TV back on, muting it instantly, but you were too focused on trying to hear what someone was saying on the other side of the line to even glance at the TV.

“Hello?” You asked, voice somewhat shaky.

“Hi, is this Y/N L/N?” The voice on the other side was stern, and at the mention of your name you paled. Usually if someone began a call like that it was to schedule an appointment of sorts, but judging from Maisey’s sombre reaction and prediction, you knew it was something worse.

“Yes.” You replied, tucking your hands into the arms of your hoodie to stop them from trembling.

“My name is Oliver Crosby, I’m one of the physios from the Devils Hockey Team.” You closed your eyes momentarily, before opening them to the TV, your eyes frantically scanning the ice for any sign of Nico’s familiar #13 C jersey. The sluggish movements of the players immediately had you guessing something had happened, because the Devils players seemed to be hanging around near the bench, and even the Capitals were skating absentmindedly. You shared a look with Maisey – she was sympathetic, biting her lip, “I’m calling on behalf of Nico Hischier, you’re listed here as his emergency contact–”

“Has something happened?” You interjected, horrified at the mere prospect.

It seemed Oliver had expected a reaction of sorts, because he responded without hesitation, “He’s alright, not in any immediate danger. He made contact with another player and we’re waiting for an ambulance. He’s in a lot of pain and we’ve assessed him as thoroughly as we can; we think he’s got a concussion, a separated shoulder, and a broken collarbone.”

You let out a breath, “Right.”

“See, he keeps asking for you is all, won’t really let us do anything until he sees you. We would ask you to come to the Center, but with the amount of pain he’s in, and the severity of the concussion, we think it’s better if you could meet us at the hospital, is that alright with you?”

It took you a beat to answer, the information overwhelming, but Maisey was already holding out her car keys towards you, a reassuring smile on her face.

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Was all you could manage, briefly fighting the urge not to hurl.

“Okay, thank you, we’ll tell him you’ll meet us there. If we get there before you – oh, the ambulance is pulling up now – I’ll wait by the entrance.”

“Okay, yeah, that’s fine. I should be about fifteen minutes.” You were trembling, not allowing yourself to look back at the screen, instead focusing on your lap. You honestly didn’t know how you hadn’t at least stuttered through the entire conversation, let alone not started crying.

His reiterations of Nico’s pain only escalated your concerns, and you already knew you wouldn’t be coming home tonight.

“Great, that’s amazing…” Oliver paused, and over the commotion in the background, you could vaguely hear him talking to someone else in the background, before his voice became clearer – at the same time, Maisey had climbed off the sofa, and was rooting around to pick up your coat and a pair of suitable shoes, “I know this is all pretty scary, but he’s gonna be just fine.”

You nodded, shivering, “I just–He’s kind of…This is the first time anyone’s rung me as his emergency contact–”

“–We tend to enact that protocol when injuries require immediate medical attention, i.e. the hospital – even more so when it involves a head injury.” Oliver’s tone was grave, but understanding, and his ability to read you even through the phone had you guessing you weren’t the first…whatever, that had said that to him.

His honesty was refreshing, but it did little to ease your churning stomach.

“Fuck.” You whispered under your breath, a hand going to rest on your stomach, “Yeah, okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“See you then. Please drive safely.”

“Always will. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

And then you were pocketing your phone, and shrugging your coat on from where Maisey had held it up ready for you, struggling with the zip as you fought to calm your nerves. You wouldn’t be able to drive if your hands were shaking, let alone your brain firing off warning signals.

Maisey placed her hands on your shoulders, steadying you, “Do you want me to come with you?”

You shook your head, “I think I’ll be okay. You don’t need the car tomorrow do you?”

“No.” She offered you a small smile, squeezing your shoulders in a reassuring manner, “Text me when you get there, and feel free to ring me at any point. If you want me to, I can start getting a bag ready–”

“No, that’s fine, most of my stuff is still at his anyway, and I don’t know what’s gonna happen after the hospital, so don’t bother.” You inhaled through your nose, thanking the universe for sending you an angel like Maisey and planting her on your timeline of life, “Thank you, though.”

She brought you closer, wrapping her arms around you in a much-needed hug, which you reciprocated, not really wanting to pull away.

“I love you.” You said, not really knowing how else to convey your utmost appreciation.

“Love you too,” she pulled away, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead, “Let me know how he is.”

You nodded, pulling away completely before snatching your bag from the table by the door before walking out and into the car park – your mind so completely stuck on Nico’s condition that you bypassed Maisey’s car entirely, having to double back and press the unlock button to pick it out of the sea of vehicles.

When you switched the engine on, the sudden blaring of the radio had you automatically smashing your fist against the control panel, turning it off and calming your racing heart at the shock of the sudden sound. The car remained silent the entire ride to the hospital, you not really able to stomach listening to whatever songs were playing at that particular time, which, realistically, would only irritate you – and drove with the passenger window half down, needing to distract yourself with the white noise of the road.

And when you pulled into the dark parking lot of the hospital, the first thing you did was seek out Oliver near the side entrance. He was a familiar silhouette – one you recognised as having seen around the Center on game days before, and he was standing in front of the door, his eyes jumping over empty faces until he saw you above their heads, immediately meeting you halfway and placing a comforting hand on the crook of your elbow, already talking your ear off before you could spout a greeting.

“We’ve got him scheduled for an MRI–” he opened the front door, and you lent closer, trying to hear him over the busy corridors of the ER, “it’s not for another fifteen minutes, though.” He pulled you to one side, stopping short of a curtained off room.

You gulped, not expecting it to have been so close to the entrance, and felt your eyes naturally drift to the gaps in the curtains. You could see there was a low light – possibly from a bedside table. There was a head of hair directly next to the door, one you could just make out. You let out a sigh you hadn’t known you’d been holding, and turned back to Oliver.

“He was on our gas and air and when the ambulance came they got him an IV of morphine.” Oliver started, glancing at a clipboard you hadn’t realised he’d been holding, “It looks like we were right; definitely a concussion, a pretty serious one – but it doesn’t look like they’re wanting to keep him for overnight observation; it also looks like he’s broken his collarbone, but the MRI should confirm that, and he’s definitely separated his shoulder, too.”

You paused, “How long will he be out for?”

He winced in response, and you felt something tighten, “It depends on the results of the MRI. Purely from the separated shoulder, it could be anything between two to at least ten weeks.”

You let out a breath, brows shooting up your forehead, “Shit, he’s gonna be so bored.”

Oliver nodded in agreement, “Oh yeah, you’re gonna be sick of him by the end of it,” he joked, “I can talk to you afterwards about treatment, but he hasn’t stopped asking for you.”

You nodded, your anxiety spiking as your attention flickered to the closed door on your right, “What’s he like?”

“He’s been complaining of dizziness and he’s a little bit confused – doesn’t remember what happened, but it’s expected with his grade of concussion.”

You nodded, making a mental note of his symptoms, before thanking Oliver and heading inside. Like you’d seen through the blinds, there was only one light on in the corner of the room, and you made sure to shut the door softly, not knowing if any particular sounds would trigger something or irritate his head further.

Honestly, you were a little weary of his confusion, and it had occurred to you that the reason he’d been asking for you consistently and diligently was because he didn’t remember what exactly had happened between you both, but at the end of the day, you didn’t really care if that was true or not, because the first thing you did was look at him; his entire left side strapped and braced up, his right arm home to an IV. His eyes were shut, a deep frown on his face as he winced occasionally, a cardboard dish resting on his heaving chest.

He wasn’t wearing his game pads, but his leggings were still on, and there was a hospital gown draped across his body, tied at the back, you suspected – easy access for the doctors to look and assess his shoulder.

You didn’t really want to look at it, mainly because you’d never been the best at looking at injuries deeper than a surface scratch, but also because you were fixed entirely on his face. His brows were pulled together, his mouth twisted to keep a groan at bay. He’d scrunched his eyes up, and you could see his uneven breaths from under the gown. His hair was wet with sweat, and he still had that post-game glow, his cheeks red with exertion.

As you shut the door behind you gently, your attention switched to the person sitting on your right, who – upon noticing your arrival – stood up, flashing you a comforting smile as he walked out straight after you. You cautiously placed your bag on his empty chair, taking a seat on Nico’s uninjured side.

He made no reaction as the doors opened and closed, and although you desperately wanted to soothe that ache and touch him, you didn’t want to startle him and make him tense his shoulder at a sudden touch, or overstep your boundaries.

“Nico?” You whispered as softly as you could, fearing something in the room would break if you raised your volume even a little more. You shrugged your coat off onto the back of your chair and lent as far forwards as you could without making contact with his outstretched arm.

At your whisper, something flickered across his face, and he slowly peeled one red eye open. Your fears seemed almost irrational when he attempted a shaky smile, before immediately snapping his eyelids shut and pushing himself further into the mattress.

His palm opened, and you took it as a signal to touch him, one of your hands holding his as tightly as you were comfortable with, and your other going to rest at his wrist, not daring to touch anywhere higher on his arm out of fear you’d knock his IV.

“How’re you feeling?” You cringed at the question, having already been debriefed on his symptoms, but he showed no protest, squeezing your hand.

“Fucking hurts, ‘nd missed you.” He struggled, almost fighting for breath.

Your heart seemed to shatter in your chest, and before you could stop yourself, you were reaching up for him, eyes stinging, as you ever-so-carefully threaded your fingers through his sweat-ridden hair, peeling it off his forehead. His brows softened slightly at your delicate touch, and before he attempted to move into your palm, you spoke up.

“Don’t move or open your eyes, you’ll make yourself dizzy.” You whispered, leaning closer to the bed and fighting with yourself. The last thing you wanted was to cry. Nevertheless, you couldn’t help the watery laugh that escaped you when Nico grunted in protest.

“But I want to look at you.” He complained, eyes still screwed shut.

“You can look at me plenty when we get home, okay?” You negotiated.

He hummed, seemingly content with that promise, even if the ‘home’ had slipped from your lips unconsciously. He didn’t seem to notice, though.

“I missed you too.” You pressed a kiss to his free shoulder – the skin hot and salty under your lips, finding some amusement in the way you were practically stretched across him, one hand in his, your other in his hair, and your head near his.

His mouth curled up, lips twitching somewhat at the contact, and you breathed a soft, quiet laugh against his skin at the momentarily emotional relief you read on his face.

“Didn’t think you’d come.” He muttered after a while of silence, your hand still gently working his hair, not wanting to intrude too much in case his head was still sore.

But at his comment, you froze, hand stilling, and you had to look at the ceiling to suppress the tears that almost broke free, “Don’t be silly…” The chastise was half-hearted, before you resumed your previous motions, “I’m always gonna show up when it comes to you.”

“I really wish I could look at you right now.”

Even despite his condition, Nico was managing to compose himself a lot better than what you’d originally imagined. Sure, his speech was a little slow – as though he had to think hard about talking and thinking, and you could tell the small conversation was beginning to wear him out a little. He’d softened, relaxed, a product of a comforting touch and the effect of the painkillers.

Then, almost as if he’d lulled himself into a false sense of security, he seemed to pale, and before he could control himself, he was opening his eyes, and you could sense something was wrong purely because he’d tensed, and your body seemed to know what he needed before your mind had even registered it, because you’d lifted the cardboard bowl from his lap right under his chin, rubbing a soothing hand down his arm as he chucked up the contents of his stomach – not that there was much left to spew.

He groaned, clamping his eyes shut and breathing heavily as you reached for the box of tissues on the side of the table, hastily wiping his mouth. You couldn’t tell if the groan was from the dizziness or the pain from having moved his shoulder fractionally.

He groaned something in German, squeezing your hand even tighter as his face screwed up.

“I take it that’s not the first time that’s happened tonight?” You asked, carefully placing the carton on the side, not really knowing where to put it – you were sure there was a protocol for human waste in a hospital, but you'd have to ask someone when they’d come to pick him up for his MRI.

He grunted in response, slowly lowering himself back on the propped up mattress with a sharp wince, “Twice in the ambulance.”

You sighed, brows knitting together, “Oh, baby.” There was a small part of you that felt a little guilty for not going to his recent home games, let alone watching them all on TV live.

Maybe if you’d have been there, he wouldn’t have been so alone in the ambulance. You knew that Oliver and his partner were a capable set of hands, but there was nothing as daunting as travelling to the hospital by yourself, dazed and in pain, and lacking a familiar support network.

Before you could say or do anything to ease him, the door was creaking open, Oliver offering a polite smile – eyes inevitably drawn to the carton – with a string of people in uniform following behind him.

They all ensured to keep quiet, not wanting to disturb him too much – though you knew as soon as they’d wheel him out of there that that effort would be wasted, because the corridors in the ER were anything short of quiet. The lighting was harsh as well.

Oliver gently explained what they were going to do, though you both had an inkling none of it really mattered to Nico, considering he remained stoic, a firm grip still on you, and you took the liberty of digesting the information, a cautious glance thrown at his shoulder. It was strapped against his chest, his arm in a compressed sling of sorts. You imagined the contraption was fitted around his back, keeping his separated shoulder in place, and the sling at the front could only be to stabilise his suspected broken clavicle.

You nodded along to Oliver, only when it was time to wheel Nico out, he gripped you even more, a groan of disapproval passing his lips as the porters attempted to wheel him. It was safe to say they didn’t get too far.

Despite his eyes still being closed, you could sense the panic across his face. His brows were furrowed, and where there was a wince on the bottom half of his face, now it looked more like someone had drawn a smiley face and rotated it 180°, because that was the frown now decorating his mouth.

“Come with me?” He mumbled, gritting his teeth.

You shared a look with Oliver, already knowing there wouldn’t be much point, “I can’t. By the time you’re in the room for the MRI, I wouldn’t be able to touch you anyway, and Oliver says it’s going to be a quick in and out procedure until they get the information they need.” You squeezed his hand.

“Stay here?” He all but whimpered, brows dipping in question. His mouth quivered – he wasn’t about to cry, but you could tell the separation (both of your relationship and of the current moment) was having him doubt your whereabouts.

“Hischier, I’m coming home with you.” You laughed softly, placing a kiss on his forehead when the tension in his face seemed to dissipate slightly, “I’ll stay here until you get back.”

“M’kay.” He grumbled, the right side of his mouth quirking upwards.

___

It was a dire struggle trying to get a well-built, 6’1” hockey player into the passenger seat of your car when he was half-conscious, unable to use an entire shoulder, and exhausted. Oliver had wheeled him out of the hospital, promising to email you a report of exactly what to do with him as soon as he found himself in front of a computer (which you were incredibly grateful for), but he’d had to scuttle off and ring management with the updates, which left Nico blinking tiredly, a cardboard bowl on his lap and unable to move properly for you to sort out.

It had taken a long three minutes trying to wrestle him in through the door, you being incredibly careful not to bang him against the frame or hurt his shoulder in any way – your heart practically leaping to your feet every time he groaned or grunted in pain.

Nevertheless, you’d managed, arms aching after the exertion. You switched the engine on, casting a short glance back at him as your car lit up, but he’d lent his right shoulder against the side of the door, his cheek pressed against the glass.

Neither of you had said much when he came back after the MRI scan – there wasn’t much of a need to considering all your questions had been answered by Oliver, and the ones you had for Nico would be pointless considering he wasn’t entirely there enough to even process your words, so you’d stuck with holding his hand, his grip tight against your own, until he had to be coaxed to change into spare clothes that someone had thoughtfully packed when they were all waiting for the ambulance.

And in the car, as you pulled out of the car park, taking extra precautions to turn corners slowly and braking gently, trying your best not to disturb him. He was asleep, or at least trying to, his right hand cradling his left to his chest, that telltale furrow of his brows and crease on his forehead letting you know he was still in an immense amount of pain. You kept the radio turned off, and you tried to keep the heating in the middle, not wanting to freeze him or cook him – he’d had concussions before, and he always had trouble regulating his body temperature, so you’d negotiated.

When you pulled into Nico’s parking spot and killed the engine, there were a few seconds where you kept your hands on the steering wheel, leaning forwards slightly to rest your forehead on your arms.

You’d tried to keep everything bottled inside before you made it into the apartment, but the stress of the last few hours, most of it sitting and waiting for results, had taken its toll on you. You were exhausted, but the worry for the man curled up next to you overwhelmed you to the point where you couldn’t decipher the heaviness in your chest when you glanced at him, even out of the corner of your eye.

You felt your breathing hitch, eyes pricking for a second before you pulled yourself together. It was no use sitting and moping in Maisey’s car when you had to attend to Nico. You’d barely let yourself feel it properly for thirty seconds before you were taking a deep breath and leaning across the console, placing a hand on Nico’s thigh.

“Honey, you need to wake up.” You said, hand gently squeezing him.

He shifted, frowning, and before you could give him a little nudge, he blinked, “I-Can we stay in here? I don’t really want to move.” He muttered, trying to tuck himself further into the crevice he’d nestled himself in.

“No, we need to get you into bed. Lots of pillows, too, because you need to be propped up, and if you stay in here, you’ll only end up more uncomfortable.”

You waited, but it took a while for him to answer, seemingly gathering the courage to actually move.

“Okay, then.” He sighed, straightening up in his seat, eyes still glued shut.

You moved over to his car door, opening it gently. It wasn’t far to walk to get inside Nico’s apartment: he was on one of the top floors, but the walk from the car park to the lobby lift was short. You knew, however, that it would be almost double that time if he couldn’t stand up properly or walk in a straight line with his dizziness.

It was a hobble and a half – lugging Nico into the lobby and then having to shove a paper bag under his mouth if his breathing got heavier and he lent against the wall. You had to stop four times, and out of those four, he threw up once. Thankfully, you’d managed to make it past the desk and into an empty lift, so there weren’t any wandering eyes or nights ruined by the sight of someone hurling in the corridor.

It shocked you to know that his inability to remain upright and walk fluently in a straight line wasn’t because of an injury to his legs, but sheerly due to the fact that his concussion was that bad, and he was that drugged up on painkillers, that he couldn’t see straight.

It felt like an injustice that the hospital didn’t lend you a wheelchair.

He was almost catatonic when you sat him on the edge of the bed and unzipped the hoodie he’d been given. Only one arm was through the sleeve, so it was relatively easy to remove, but it didn’t stop the twinge in your chest every time he groaned or made a noise of pain.

You felt it almost inhumane to force him to clean his teeth or put on his pyjamas when he couldn’t keep his eyes open for longer than three seconds in one go, so you worked quickly in propping up his pillows like you’d seen them do in the hospital, and took his hat off his head once more, running your hands through his hair so it wouldn’t bother his nose.

You had to clench your jaw when, even in the darkness, you could see how pale he was, how he fought to keep his head up straight. It made you feel nauseous looking at his half-conscious state.

“You still with me, hm?” You whispered.

You were as soft as you could be with your touches, as quiet as your voice would allow you for it, and you hadn’t turned on any lights on entry. Trying was all you could do considering the fact you didn’t exactly have the knowledge you were comfortable with in looking after him in the state he was in.

His lashes fluttered against his cheeks, and he hummed halfheartedly.

“I’ve put up your pillows behind you, but you need to shuffle back a bit.” You started, halting when you heard his breathing get ragged for a moment, fearing he was about to be sick again, “You good? I’ll help you.”

He sniffed, eyes opening enough to see the room around him, and he turned, anchoring his shoulder to his chest as he looked back at the shadow of his pillows. You let him manoeuvre himself, not wanting to intrude further, but ghosted a hand on the back of his t-shirt just for precautions, until he slowly lowered himself onto the pile, huffing a contented sigh.

You saw his entire body relax, and you reached towards the foot of the bed and draped the duvet over him. He didn’t react, so you left the room to fill up a glass of water and took out some of the medication Oliver had given you in a plastic bag before placing them on his bedside table. You were about to leave the room again to take off your own coat shoes when you heard him grumble something under his breath.

You paused initially, not sure if he was complaining about something or just huffing and puffing, but upon hearing your silence and stillness, he cracked one eye open.

“Stay here?” He whispered clearer, his good shoulder twitching in the direction of the space on the bed you usually occupied.

You swallowed nervously. You wanted to. You wanted to crawl under the covers with him and just watch him like a hawk the entire night for your own peace of mind, but you were also aware of the looming black hole in your relationship.

You guys were on a no-contact break, and something felt wrong about climbing into his bed before having a conversation about the entire thing.

But then again, he’d been advised not to think too hard – literally. And by doing what he says, you guessed it’d spare his thinking…for arguments sake.

Truthfully, you also wanted to make sure he was okay, and if you were across the hall, he wouldn’t be able to shout for you as easily as he would if he just reached out across the mattress.

He must have sensed your hesitation, even through the darkness and with his eyes closed, because he reached his hand out, just catching yours, “Please.”

You sighed, squeezing his hand in a way of reply, and you could tell from the slight smirk that momentarily flashed over his face – almost like he’d forgotten his pain for the briefest moment (and that alone made you cave and crumble completely) – he’d known he’d win you over with that simple action.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” You gently untangled your hands, lifting your bag over your shoulder and making your way around to your usual side of the bed, “Will you be okay if I go for a quick shower?”

Your side hadn’t been touched. Some books you’d left behind but knew you wouldn’t miss were still stacked on top of each other; your digital clock was still there, as was the empty dish for your jewellery. Though, contradicting your previous observation of untouched, organised madness, you could tell he’d dusted around it. Two weeks meant dust was inevitable, yet there wasn’t a single speck of residue on your fingertips when you swiped your finger across the top.

Your bag found its usual home on the chair next to the radiator, and you turned back to him. He was watching you. His eyes were open wider, and you could see them glisten in the dark.

“I’ll be fine.” He whispered.

You attempted a smile, taking your coat off and placing it next to your bag.

You could still feel his eyes on you as you made your way to the chest of drawers at the foot of your bed, taking out a pair of your pyjamas, which – in your rush from leaving before – consisted of an old pair of Nico’s boxers and a Darth Vader long-sleeved t-shirt.

The thought of shooting him one last look before you left the room hurt too much to dwell on, so you left the room without saying another word, not turning on any lights until you reached the bathroom on the other side of the house. You knew he’d have questions as to why you didn’t just use the en-suite, but…you needed the privacy – somewhere to just let a few tears slip down under the water, because as much as you tried to deny it, it hurt even being in the same room as him.

Not only had he almost sent you to an early grave because of sheer worry and panic, but two weeks felt like too soon, and you’d already made your decision, but you didn’t want him thinking you were taking advantage of him needing someone to look after him to just pop back into his life again, much less if he hadn’t even made a decision yet.

Being back in this house, this area, this car, this stupid bathroom, where – even if it wasn’t the one you’d primarily use – he still had your body wash and hair care bottles lined up, like he was waiting for you to come back – and that tangible taste of knowing exactly how easy it would be for you to just infiltrate back into his everyday life, for both of you to coexist around each other like it was the easiest thing apart from breathing, felt like torture.

And you knew if you got back into bed with him, you might not even be able to sleep properly. You’d be terrified that he’d stop breathing through the night and you wouldn’t be awake to notice it.

The only thing that seemed to solidify the whole situation was the endless texts from Maisey and Jack, not to mention a few other friends too, and the entire ESPN page raving about how long he might be out for.

That was another thing: if Nico didn’t have hockey, what did he have? Sure, he’d find some way to get himself back in the gym and near the ice at least, but he’d miss the general euphoria and adrenalin of playing with his guys.

“So…” he was crying, a hand over his mouth. His eyes were red, and tears were dripping down his cheeks, but his shoulders weren’t heaving. He was sitting on the sofa, his elbows resting on his knees from where you were sitting on the floor, your hands resting on his kneecaps, not much better than him, “How long should w…we do it for?”

You shrugged, not really finding an answer. You weren’t sure if there was a correct answer to that question. It couldn’t be too soon, or else you’d both still be fresh from whatever had blown up here, but if you left it too long, neither of you would have the courage to rehash everything.

“A month?” You suggested weakly.

You didn’t want to do it for a month. A month was too long. Please say a month is too long–

“A month?” His brown eyes flickered up to yours, brows furrowing somehow even more, and his expression crinkled after holding your gaze, “I don’t–It’s too long.”

You sniffed, “What do you suggest, then?” It hadn’t meant to come out so sharp, and you hated that it did, hated it about a hundred times more when he looked at you again.

“I’ll miss you too much.” He admitted quietly.

“I think that’s the point of going on a break.” You laughed bitterly, squeezing his knee.

“I already know what I want, and four weeks won’t change that.”

You sighed, retracting your grip on his knees and sitting back on your heels, “Nico–”

“Do you not want me anymore?” He sounded so wrecked in himself you had to do a double-take, your own tears beginning to melt down your cheeks.

“Come on, you know that’s not it–”

“Then what is? Because I really don’t see the issue. I want you, I love you, and I think you feel–”

“Of course I fucking love you, but this is different–”

“Explain it to me, then!”

“I’m trying! Only every time I do you interrupt me.”

You were both glaring at each other, frustrations rising to a boiling point as the pain of the past few weeks all emanated through the fiery stares. He sighed, leaning back against the sofa and flourishing his hand for you to go ahead.

“I want this to work so badly, but we both come home after work, and we don’t talk to each other. Sometimes we can barely stand looking at each other because it’s just another thing to maintain after an exhausting day, and that’s not right. It’s not healthy for either of us, and I don’t know about you, but it really fucking hurts me when that happens.” You took a breath, watching him carefully. You knew he understood what you were saying because he’d softened and his chest was hitching as though he was forcing himself not to break again, “I miss when we used to come home and not feel like being with each other was a chore. I want that again; I want us to hang out here and not get drained just forcing conversation.”

He didn’t say anything.

“I don’t want a break,” you admitted, voice soft, “but I think it’s the best thing for us.”

“Three weeks,” he interjected, making eye contact with you, “and then if we decide this really is worth it, then we go to couple’s counselling.”

You turned the handle, and the shower stopped. You made sure to take as long as humanly possible, using a towel to squeeze your hair out and taking what was left in the cupboard and using it on your skin. Then you took twice as long as usual in cleaning your teeth, and slowly put on the pyjamas, taking extra care not to slip on the water that had gathered on the tiles.

On your way back to Nico’s room, you made a quick detour to the living room, pulling his laptop out from under the chair. Oliver had told you he’d emailed the recovery plan to Nico, only you didn’t know where his phone was, and his laptop was the next best thing. You lugged it back to the room, quietly shutting the door behind you upon noticing he was asleep already.

You had to tiptoe to the bed, gently lifting the covers so the draft wouldn’t wake Nico up, and you settled yourself in, making sure to plug your phone in to charge, and lifted the lid of the laptop.

The screen was bright but after dimming it and logging onto Nico’s email, eyes eagerly drinking up every work Oliver wrote, you found yourself almost hypnotised by it all. Oliver’s report was brilliant – very informative – but it didn’t stop you from obsessively googling the actual injuries so you could visualise what had gone wrong in his body and where.

Each word you read only seemed to send your heart plummeting, and made you cast anxious glances to Nico, who’d slumped slightly against his mass of pillows.

He wasn’t snoring – he never did. His chest was rising and falling rhythmically, the action pulling the sheets each time he inhaled, but you could hear his heavy breathing. The lack of silence you’d become accustomed to was oddly comforting. It was something you hadn’t realised you’d gotten used to in the past three years of living together, but that first night in Maisey’s house only seemed to highlight his little idiosyncrasies, or lack of them.

Were you being dramatic?

Two weeks was all you’d spent apart, and in hindsight, it wasn’t a lot of time at all – especially not in comparison to the four years of previous dating history, but four years of Nico and then a day without made you realise how other-worldly it felt not being with him.

Maybe you were, in a way, being completely rational?

____

You woke up to the feel of a draft against your back and the sound of retching.

You barely had time to wipe the sleep from your eyes before you registered what was happening, leading Nico into the bathroom by the crook of his elbow, his good arm clutching the bedroom bin under his chin.

It was difficult trying to navigate in the dark, but you could still make out the gleam of the toilet bowl. You hesitated, flushing it first just because boys aren’t the most hygienic of people, and then knelt on the tiles, aware of the fact that you were currently on his injured side.

Nico followed suit, sitting on the cold floor and passing you the bin as he hovered himself over the toilet, breathing slowly as his eyes fluttered shut.

You were operating automatically when you placed the bin in the bathtub, and then turned your attention immediately back to Nico, his hair hanging in his face.

Headband.

Your eyes looked to the sink station just above him, trying to pinpoint where your other dish for hair ties was, and you stood up, carefully sidestepping him as you blindly reached a hand out, fingers tracing the marble surface until…bingo. You snatched up an elastic headband, before crouching back down on the floor next to him, rubbing a soothing hand across his back.

“The room’s spinning.” He said, clamping his eyes shut, gripping his own leg with his hand.

At his admission you faltered, retracting your hand, “Is it okay if I touch you?”

“Yeah.” He took in a deep breath, his entire body shuddering.

You’d been dizzy before – it was an oddly recurring thing you’d grown out of, and it was horrible. Waking up dizzy completely threw off your balance and sense of the world around you, and the fear of it all had you shaking – not just because you were cold. It was a genuine shock to the system. You hadn’t had one in a year, but whenever you did, Nico seemed to have a sixth sense because he’d do what you were doing for him right now.

And him saying he’s okay with you touching him only cemented the idea that actually having someone to touch you anchored you to solid ground.

So you replaced your hand on his back, your other playing with the elastic headband you’d acquired, silently waiting for him to calm down before you asked if you could move his hair out of his face to stop it getting drenched – both from sweat and the other alternative.

You could feel his heart hammering in his chest through the palm on the back of his ribs.

“I’m gonna put a headband on you, okay? You don’t have to move or turn your head, just let me know if you’re gonna be sick.” You said, shuffling yourself on the floor so you were somewhat facing him – again, incredibly conscious of the sling contraception taping his entire left arm to his chest.

You were slow with your movements; sliding the band over his head and letting it drop to the base of his neck – the speed of your usual movements might have overwhelmed him – before slowly dragging it back up his face, careful not to clip his nose as it brushed his fringe out of his face.

How you’d not managed to notice it in the hospital was beyond you, but when you lifted his hair up, there was still a visible redness from where his mask had dug itself into the corner of his head. Usually it meant the sponge stuck to the skin or whatever, but this one looked different. There was a bruising quality to it, and you found yourself inching closer to get a better look at it.

“Boards.” Was all he managed.

You knew he wouldn’t be able to see it, but you nodded.

Oh.

___

It had been about fifteen minutes since then, and both of you had nearly fallen asleep against various surfaces: Nico against the cupboards, and you against the side of the bath.

It was Nico straightening and hovering over the toilet again that caught your attention, but he paused, brows furrowing.

Then there was a grumble and a groan, and almost comically you saw him look at you out of the corner of his eye.

You’d frozen, sure you’d mistaken the sound for something else, but with the way he’d eased up and gradually gotten to moving his head and eyes around without getting caught in a bout of dizziness, something had undoubtedly changed.

“Are you hungry?” You asked, fighting a smile.

“Yeah.” He answered, visibly confused as he placed a hand against his stomach.

You lifted your watch up to your face, the screen illuminating the room.

7.18am.

You almost laughed at the hilarity of it, because you knew his morning alarm was always set for 7.20, and without fail, he’d always end up waking up a few minutes before – partly due to routine, and also partly because his stomach always woke up before he did.

“It’s nearly twenty past seven. You good to move back into bed?” You began to stand up, offering him both of your hands, but he groaned and without hesitation you were kneeling in front of him again, brown furrowed as you searched his face for some sign of discomfort.

He could do with taking some painkillers if he’s finished throwing up.

“What’s up?” You asked, your eyes darting across his face from his pinched brows to the slight curl of his upper lip.

He was clearly in some sort of pain, not that it was entirely surprising, but you asked anyway, preferring to have a rundown of his symptoms instead of guessing.

“Shoulder, head, chest.” He listed, squinting up at you.

You furrowed your brows.

You’d accounted for his head and shoulder, but his chest…Did they miss something on his MRI?

“Your chest?” You sank to your knees, level with him.

He seemed to be breathing normally, his chest wasn’t hitching when he inhaled and exhaled, and his breathing wasn’t rattling. Truth be told you didn’t really know what you were supposed to be looking for, least of all through a t-shirt — which would be another challenge to overcome when the time came for him to shower.

“Chest.” He repeated, nodding as his hand came to rest right over the source of pain.

You were sure you were pulling a face, and when you made eye contact with him, it was clear he was implying something else. His eyes had softened, the creases having faded out, and he swallowed nervously when you looked at him.

It had you wondering if it was the first time he’d realised you were there since last night; he was so out of it from the painkillers and concussion you didn’t know how much he’d have remembered, but the intense way he was gazing at you had you faltering, your brain going blank for a moment.

You knew what he was implying. It was hard not to once he’d moved his hand right over to his heart, and you were pretty stunned to say the least.

Honestly you wanted to talk about it as well, the elephant in the room that you’d pushed to the back of your mind after prioritising him over your own wishes, and you knew now wasn’t the time to discuss it, even if the look on his face had your confidence dwindling by the second.

“I can’t do anything about that right now.” You mumbled, twisting your mouth to the side rather regretfully as his face fell.

“Why?”

“Because Oliver said you’re not supposed to be thinking much for at least another day or two. Something about the concussion and it inhibiting your ability to think and do.” You weren’t lying, it had been part of the recovery plan for his concussion, something you couldn’t quite understand the specific logistics of, but it seemed reasonable.

You also weren’t too sure how much you should believe what he was going to say until you were certain he was back to his usual mental activity.

“I can think clearly.” He insisted, frowning slightly as he pushed back at your excuse.

“I’m sure you can, but that’s a discussion for a later time.”

“Later, when?”

“When you’ve had painkillers, eaten and drunk something, had a shower, called Luca yourself and updated him, had a good few days of rest…”

“Why?”

You sighed, beginning to get a little frustrated with him. You’d given him a reason backed up by medical advice and a list of priorities and he was still fighting back — albeit not with his usual vigour and quick wit, but it was to be expected.

“Because you don’t need to stress yourself out—”

“I’m not stressing myself out. If anything, dragging this conversation out is stressing me out.”

“And arguing on the bathroom floor knowing you don’t have any painkillers in your system and aren’t in bed with a plate of food is currently stressing me out.” You pressed a hand to your cheek, refraining from rolling your eyes.

It was still dark in the bathroom, the automatic lights fitted under the sink gently illuminating the tiled space, but your eyes had gotten used to the darkness after a good amount of time, so you could see the lost look on his face.

It made you feel guilty, but you weren’t about to break doctor’s orders if it meant following them would help him get back on his feet quicker — even if this one little factor might not play a large role in his recovery.

You yawned, deciding to change tactics seeing as you were both a little hurt from that topic of conversation, “Do you want to shower first or eat?”

The rumble of his stomach answered for him.

—

Nico had only stayed in bed for eight minutes before you heard his feet enter the kitchen from where you were leaning over the hob, scrambled egg cooking in the pan.

You hadn’t expected him to stay still much but you’d hoped he would. He’d had some more painkillers and you left him with the TV remote but he’d clearly gotten bored of early morning programmes and wandered out into the hall, even despite your stern advice.

That’s all it was, really. Advice. You knew it would be futile trying to tell him exactly what to do, because it would only frustrate him, knowing his entire day was set out by your concerned orders, and at the end of the day, Nico did what Nico wanted.

And he clearly wanted to stand as close as he could to the pan. You heard him take a deep inhale from over your shoulder, and a moment later the familiar rumbling of his stomach could be heard even over the noise of the extractor fan.

“It’s only gonna be another two minutes.” You promised, dodging around him to take the four slices of toast out of the toaster and making quick work of spreading butter onto them.

It was a routine you weren’t entirely used to, but one you’d seen Nico follow countless times before, and you didn’t want to seem too proud of yourself, but it was easier than what he’d made it out to be. Whenever he made eggs on toast he’d manage to splatter some egg all over the countertops and he’d fall over himself in an effort to take the toast out of the toaster but then remember he hadn’t gotten any plates out. It was always an awkward dance of wrong timings but it used to be your favourite morning entertainment.

That, and he always used to cook without many layers of clothing on.

Now, however, it was you performing a similar routine, only this time having to dodge him as he remained standing in between the island and the hob. You guessed he did it on purpose because every time you had to pass by him, you had to brush last slowly so as to not disturb or accidentally knock his arm.

He only moved when you were dishing out the egg on top of the toast, and even then he seemed to stretch his back before wincing and making his way back into the bedroom, the sound of the TV turning off following a moment later.

You paused, waiting to see if he’d decided to stay in bed or was simply turning off the TV before choosing to eat at the island, but when he made no reappearance you were forced to carry both plates into his room. He was settling himself against the cushions again, and although you hadn’t noticed it when you were cooking, his cheeks seemed to have regained a little more colour.

He always got pale when he was hungry, but this was something else. Did pain make people lose colour?

Maybe.

As he was leaning back against the cushions another thought occurred to you, and you stopped where you were, mind racing to come up with an immediate solution.

“What?”

“I’ve just realised now that you can’t actually cut up your food.” You replied, and it seemed Nico had only thought of that issue then and there because his gaze slowly trailed from you to his arm and then back to you, “It’s okay, I’ll leave mine in the microwave—”

“You can eat yours first—”

“Your stomach says otherwise.” You laughed softly, placing his own plate on his lap before replacing yours in the microwave to keep warm.

When you got back, Nico was looking at you expectantly, a proud smile on his face, “We can share both plates. That way we both eat now.”

Admittedly, it was probably one of the most effective ideas he’d ever had.

“Sure.” You nodded, climbing onto your side of the bed. You’d turned on your bedside light before you’d gone in to the kitchen, not wanting to startle his eyes too much and give him another headache, but you both knew he’d have to get used to a little bit of light, and even though it was on the dimmest setting, you could tell he was trying his darndest not to look in that direction.

You took a seat directly next to him, your front angled towards the side of his torso, and took the plate off his lap and placed it into yours.

Neither of you said anything as you took it in turns, carefully balancing each forkful before feeding him a bite and then taking one for yourself. It stayed that way until both plates were demolished and both your stomachs were significantly fuller.

It was the sound of your phone dinging that caught your attention, and you leant over to your side of the bed, reaching for it.

Jack: Do you want me to drive Nico’s car round?

You: Please. When do you want to come over?

Jack: Does 11 work for you?

You: Yeah, see you then.

You switched off the phone, pushing yourself back up and into Nico’s line of sight. He had an eyebrow raised and you rolled your eyes at his nosiness.

“Jack’s coming by to drop your car off at eleven. It gives you enough time to shower and maybe have a nap if you feel like it.”

He nodded, and you took the silence as an opportunity to stack up the plates and take them into the kitchen, leaving them to soak in lukewarm water as you headed back into the bedroom. You had every intention of asking what Nico wanted to do next, whether he’d rather shower or sleep before Jack came over, but you’d found yourself facing his back, his t-shirt half taken off as he struggled to lift it over his shoulders.

You waited for a moment, wanting to give him an opportunity to at least try to undress himself so you couldn’t be accused of coddling him, but it was clear from the way he huffed and then audibly ‘ow’d’ before relaxing his entire body, part of his t-shirt somehow wrapped over his head that he was having a particularly hard time.

He stumbled, blindly spinning on the spot, and you found yourself automatically reaching for him – God forbid this man hurts himself even more – and steadied him with a hand tugging at the band of his shorts and on his good arm, the one that happened to be caught up in the shirt he was trying to take off in the first place.

“I’m stuck.” He grumbled, and the shirt moved, exposing the tired bags under his eyes through the neckline.

“I didn’t notice.” It was a half-hearted attempt at trying to conserve some of his dignity, and he huffed in response, rolling his eyes at you through the neck of his t-shirt.

All it took was one quick glance at the knot of material to figure out what he’d done, and it did leave you glad that you’d shot down his previous attempts at The Talk in the bathroom earlier, because he clearly wasn’t anywhere back to his normal range of thinking – Nico was intelligent – seeing as though he’d forgotten to take his sling off in the first place.

You pulled his shirt back down before reaching for the clasp – a big, bulky plastic thing that looked as though the arm pinned to his chest would fall into a usual sling, the kind that someone with a broken arm would usually wear – and turned to him, a stern glint in your eye.

“I’m gonna need to unplug this to take it off so please,” you emphasised the last syllable, “keep it held with your other arm.”

He nodded, wordlessly moving to grip his elbow, before steeling himself by closing his eyes and screwing his face up. You could see the steady, controlled rise and fall of his chest, as though he knew to keep himself breathing regularly because no matter which way you approached this, it was gonna hurt like a bitch.

Your fingers found the clip, and squeezed.

The tension keeping his arm to his chest slackened, and Nico bit his lip in pain as it fell away, before you pulled the material over his head – quickly snapping the headband off his head as well.

He peeled open one eye, looking straight at you expectantly, “What now?”

Your eyes widened, “I don’t know. Don’t you know?”

“No.” He shrugged with one shoulder, before his jaw dropped and he fought a sharp intake of breath at the discomfort shooting across his back. “Why don’t you know?”

“Because it didn’t come with a fucking instruction manual, I–” you halted, trying to recall if Oliver wrote anything, “Okay, you’re gonna have to drop your arm.”

“I don’t want to do that.” He shook his head.

“Then I’ll have to cut you out of your shirt.”

“No.” It was a fierce protest, one that left little to no room for argument – and was remarkably stroppy.

“Do you want to stomp your foot, too, and get it all out of your system?” You were smiling now, and you saw Nico’s eyebrow twitch upwards slightly at having caught you, before he slowly drew his sore shoulder down.

You pressed your lips together, trying to maintain a front that wouldn’t let him know that his pain was beginning to make you uncomfortable, because even though his mouth remained shut, you could tell from the way he seemed to tremble and the way the hairs dangling in front of his face were being blown, that he was having to force some exertion into not groaning out loud.

He did it, and looked straight back at you, his smile a little wobbly. Even though it had only been a matter of seconds, it looked like he’d worn himself out after hours of practice. The bags under his eyes seemed heavier and more prominent, and any trace of previous amusement had melted from his features, leaving nothing but the expanse of someone that desperately needed to sleep, and even more desperately needed a shower.

You wanted to smile at him, offer some comfort, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it just yet.

“Okay,” you cleared your throat, not sure if you could feel your heart beating or breaking in your chest, “if you slip your right arm through the sleeve and over your head, you should be able to just pull the rest of the shirt off your other shoulder.”

Instead of jumping to undress himself, he inhaled, tilting his head in your direction, a question clearly written on his face. You tried to brush it off, instead reaching forward to brush your hand along the hem of his shirt, trying to encourage him to take it off, because the quicker he did, the sooner he’d be able to sleep, but he didn’t budge.

“What?” You asked, retracting your hand. You were still standing pretty close – enough so you could see his mouth twitch and something flicker across his face. “Do you want me to leave you…?” You trailed off, feeling a haze of uncertainty wash over you.

“No, I need you to help me shower–”

“Shower?” You laughed.

He nodded slowly, his good hand going to cradle the hand on his bad shoulder, as though he was itching to pin his arm back up.

“Okay…” you swallowed nervously, “Why were you looking at me like that?”

“Did you Google how to take a shirt off with only one functioning shoulder?”

You breathed a short laugh, hand going back to tug at the hem of his shirt, this time internally cheering when he lifted his arm up, allowing you to lift the shirt up with it, purposefully covering his face with the material so he couldn’t see you blush. You guessed your silence was enough of an answer, though, because when the shirt popped back off his head, coming to hang around his injured one, he was attempting a grin.

His dimples were the first thing you noticed. It was funny how you didn’t truly realise how much you’d missed seeing them when he smiled until he was smiling at you for the first time in a while.

Nico’s dimples meant he was happy, even if it was momentary, and you’d take that over the melancholy any day of your life.

Which was why you found yourself smiling silly at him without even realising it.

“You looked it up.” He said, his voice a little higher in excitement, and you swore his smile widened because his dimples looked deeper, and something in your chest fluttered and then clenched, and it seemed that entire internal reaction was synonymous with the fact that your eyes had trailed from his face to the deep blotches on his skin – blotches that were so dark and so large you’d noticed them when you were looking the opposite way.

Holy fuck.

Your brows knitted together, your smile no longer on your face as you gently dragged his shirt off his injured arm, letting it drop by your feet.

It was a horrific sight. You’d never seen gore or many injuries on other people in your life, and even though Nico had been injured before, it wasn’t anything like this. Looking at his shoulder – generally speaking – was like looking at tyre marks on a race track. The bruises were so dark they almost looked like dirt in the night, and they crawled right from the back of his neck, down across his collarbone, and followed in a left movement until the colour seemed to fizzle out just below his shoulder joint on his arm.

You knew it was bad; a broken collarbone with a separated shoulder – yet the visual confirmation seemed not to do the diagrams of what had happened to the inside of his body any justice at all. This was real, and it was…ugly. It turned your stomach to know the lump on his collarbone was where the bone had snapped, and that the bump on the top of his shoulder was where it had separated.

“I’m okay.” He reminded you gently.

You hadn’t noticed it, but you were squinting when you’d seen the blossoming legion, trying to block out the sight to some extent – a natural reaction to stop yourself from crying, too, because it was difficult looking at the mess of it all.

And when your gaze all too gratefully slid back to his face, he was regarding you with an element of shyness. He’d crooked his jaw, eyes flicking awkwardly between your face and reaction to the shirt on the floor, and you wanted to just gather him up in your arms and not let go, because he had no choice but to be vulnerable with you, as much as you wished it was a choice, he didn’t have a say in the matter. The truth was that he only had one good shoulder, and he used that one to hold the broken one with – meaning he couldn’t really move.

Couldn’t cook eggs, cut the bread, butter the toast, take his shirt off, shower.

It was a big adjustment for someone usually so capable, and you knew then and there that he was in for a tough recovery – not only because of the frustration, but because he was bound to forget and then he’d work himself up.

“I know.” You replied, biting the inside of your cheek, “What does it feel like?”

He took a moment to gather his thoughts, “It feels like someone’s wrapped really tight tape around the underneath of my shoulder…but then it feels like the only thing keeping everything in place is my skin.”

___

You were in for another shock when he’d turned around to step into the shower. You hid it better this time, managing to keep your mouth shut as your eyes trailed over the slightly paler marks on his back, and recovering your shock in time to smile back up at him when he turned back around, dipping his head under the water and letting out an audible sigh of relief as the warm water bounced off his skin.

You had to laugh at the fact that he kept his shorts on, but you understood why he did it, even if he didn’t voice it. You almost made the comment about how it wasn’t anything that you hadn’t already seen, but he was making an effort to respect the break you were both still on, even if he had pinged the elastic band and looked at you with raised brows, as if to say ‘this is your own doing’.

“Is it warm enough?” You asked, cheek leaning against the side of the glass door as you watched him step further under the water, the droplets streaming down his body, darkening his shorts.

There was a moment where you thought he hadn’t heard you over the roar of droplets from the shower, but when you looked back up at him, it was clear he’d caught you staring. You rolled your eyes, knowing you were blushing, and stepped into the shower, closing the glass door behind you.

You’d opted to stick to wearing your clothes too, and the slight frown Nico had tried to hide as you stepped in with him wasn’t lost on you, but you hid your smile well when you reached for the rack in the corner, picking up the shampoo he was still using from when you bought it three weeks ago and piling a good amount onto the palm of your hands.

Nico was tall, that fact remained quite obvious, especially when he couldn’t lower his neck down to your exact height because of the shooting pain he’d get emanating from his back and shoulder, but you made it work. There wasn’t that much of a height difference between the two of you, even despite his hulking frame, so you were able to reach up fairly easily to take your time to rub the sweat and grease from his hair, your nails raking deliciously against his scalp. By the end of it, his forehead was resting in the crook of your shoulder, and if it weren’t for the way he lifted himself back up, blinking slowly in the process, you would have assumed he’d gone to sleep. His good arm was still holding his sore one, and after you reached up to rinse out his shampoo, his hair practically squeaking between your fingers, he looked just about ready to collapse.

“You know how you said if you didn’t have hockey, you’d have probably stayed in school?” You found yourself asking, desperate to keep him awake so he’d be able to sleep properly before Jack came.

He hummed, head still tipped back into the shower, exposing the veins in his neck and bob of his throat in a way that had you not really knowing where to turn your attention. You didn’t want to look at his shoulder, but you also didn’t want to get caught looking at the softened contours of his stomach, because you’d already been caught checking him out earlier…he was making it difficult, though.

You supposed the water didn’t help, either. He always looked sort of romantic when his hair was wet and droplets of water were rolling down his skin.

“What do you think you’d be doing as a career if you stayed on?”

You retracted your hands from his hair, figuring the shampoo was washed out enough, and tucked some of his hair behind his ear before you reached for the conditioner. You were drenched to the bone; the clothes you were wearing were soaked, the material clinging to your skin, and you could feel your hair frizzing up with the humidity, and although the water was warm, you could feel the cold air picking at you seeing as though you weren’t entirely under the rain of the water.

Nico’s cubicle was pretty big – a half-frosted glass cube with a rain shower and a bath attached at the end, just below a silver rack of products, both your own and his.

Nevertheless, it felt as though there wasn’t enough space between you both. Especially not when he reopened his eyes and slouched a little in your direction so you could reach to lather the conditioner into the ends of his hair.

His brows furrowed, a crease forming in the middle of his forehead as his mouth pouted slightly. His eyebrows always seemed to accentuate whatever emotion he was feeling, and usually when he was confused, or thinking hard about something, he tended to look…sad – something he was doing right now.

“I think…a teacher?” His eyes slid down to yours, almost as if searching for some form of validation in his answer, considering he’d phrased it as a question, not entirely certain of himself.

You nodded, mildly impressed. He’d suit being a teacher, he already had the authority from his Captaincy, but would he still have that same trait if ice hockey was completely out of the picture? You couldn’t possibly know.

“What subject?” You’d finished putting the conditioner in his hair, your fingers now twirling at the ends, purposefully curling his hair against his forehead and resisting the urge to smirk at the baby curls plastered there. Only, when you could tell he was getting suspicious of your repetitive motions, you turned back to the rack, taking the comb and spinning back to him.

“Maybe Literature…o-or…” he stuttered, and when you turned your attention to his direct eye line, you blushed.

Your t-shirt. It was stuck, displaying…everything. Everything being the lace bra you’d found left in your drawer, not the same colour as the grey t-shirt you were wearing.

Funny.

He was blushing too, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he awkwardly fought to look anywhere else, his eyes fixating on something behind you. Despite the unavoidable awkwardness, you found yourself smothering a smile, reaching the comb up to straighten the curls you’d created, until his hair hung in thick curtains past his eyes, his nose poking out.

You laughed softly, finding his new look amusing, “Literature or…” You trailed off, encouraging him to carry on.

Just as his chin bobbed – a sign he’d opened his mouth to resume talking – you combed his curtains sideways, having way too much fun with the whole thing than you probably should.

“Latin.” He was smiling, his cheeks a healthy rosy colour, “Are you enjoying yourself, there?”

“Thoroughly.”

There that damn dimple was again.

You pressed your lips together, sucking in one cheek to try and stop yourself from smiling, but as soon as you’d registered the dimple, you could feel your smile slowly slipping from your face. He seemed to acknowledge the fade, because his dimple disappeared again, and the creases around his eyes unwrinkled.

“I’ll just head outside,” you pointed to the door, “let you wash.”

“Wait,” his voice interjected, just as your hand touched the cool glass door, and you turned, “before you do, please could you wash my right side? I can’t with my left—”

“Sure.” In hindsight, you maybe did agree a little too quickly, but over your own ministrations of ‘how did I not think of that before?’, you didn’t particularly notice the way Nico’s brows shot up his forehead, his mouth parting slightly at your supposed eagerness.

___

Nico had fallen asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, his body freshly rejuvenated and feeling significantly more comfortable than he did hours earlier. He’d initially snuggled as far down into the duvet as he possibly could, with every intention of asking you to stay with him when he slept, knowing you could use both the rest and relaxation after everything, but it had escaped his mind entirely when his eyes shut of his own accord.

He supposed he was grateful for the quick onset, because ever since he’d woken up in the early hours of the morning, head feeling like it had been used as a jackhammer for the inside of a bell, shoulder on fire and numb, his stomach rolling, and the desperate and sudden need to extract himself from the bed and make his way as quickly as he could to the bathroom in complete darkness, and his own perspective on what was up, down, left and right entirely skewed by the dizziness that caught him when he’d so much as even opened his eyes – he was feeling guilty. It had gotten to the point that every time he looked at your tired eyes or caught you looking at him in a way that had him feeling like he was going to throw up (for different reasons), he felt like he might combust with it.

Every time he looked in your direction, all he could do was picture you in his position, and imagine himself in your place: he imagined the extent of his concern, so much so that he’d probably be less able to keep his cool around you, unlike you. He’d be in a constant state of panicked frenzy, asking you questions the entire time, adjusting your pillows, repouring you a glass of fresh, cold water every five minutes so there weren’t any bubbles clinging to the inside of the glass. He’d be a complete mess.

He’d have called his brother, parents, Jack, Maisey, Oliver and anyone else he could get his hands on to ask for a second, third and fourth opinion on whether or not he should adjust the thermostat because you might get too warm when you were sleeping.

Quite simply, he wouldn’t know how to function, and he knew that although the roles were reversed currently, you were probably just as clueless as him.

You tended to have better coping mechanisms and ways of dealing with it that he wouldn’t necessarily even be aware of. That was where the two of you contrasted: he was more outgoing and vocal, tending to think out loud and not mask what he was feeling as easily as you, whereas you would gather in on yourself and just…deal.

And he hated that he knew he was the source of such stress. He didn’t want to burden his incapabilities upon you in any way, let alone confine you to his apartment (although you seemed to do that willingly) and act as his personal carer. He didn’t know why you hadn’t complained – scratch that. He did. Because he knew you’d rather make sure he’d be looked after properly than leave it in the less trusted hands of someone else.

He definitely didn’t know why you were acting as though nothing had happened before the incident. How you were able to be in such close quarters with him without feeling like your heart was getting ripped out of your chest, because he had that going for him on top of everything else. Or maybe you did, and just hid it better.

He didn’t dare voice it, and he was a little ashamed of his own wants and needs, but whenever you looked at him, the actual motion: how your eyes would slide casually over something and then they’d lock with his like some sort of magnetic force, he just wanted you to kiss him and tell him he’d be okay. Granted, you’d already done the latter, many times this morning, but he wanted you to kiss him and tell him you loved him, because when you didn’t do that – when you refused to even venture into that area of conversation – he was forced to think the complete opposite, and then he felt truly broken because he felt betrayed by his own body being so fragile, but his state of mind and brain went haywire as he was being pulled in every sort of emotional direction.

It all boiled down to confusion, though. Maybe it was the concussion, maybe it was the painkillers, but at the end of the day, Nico felt confused. Your tender actions: a hand on his back, making him breakfast, washing his hair – your damn teary smile in the shower played on a loop in his mind – he felt loved. You made him feel like he mattered, like you cared about him, but what came out of your mouth juxtaposed it so ridiculously that he felt like you didn’t love him.

He knew what he wanted from you, and what he didn’t want, and he needed to tell you before something happened, because he felt like he was constantly on the precipice of something happening – jeopardy. He feels like he’s running out of time to tell you, and that if he doesn’t let you know as soon as he can, something irreversible is going to happen, and then you’ll be gone for good and he’ll have to leave New Jersey because every street corner has some sort of memory attached to you, and he doesn’t want you to leave and he doesn’t want to leave New Jersey.

It’s a constant, crippling sense of panic that he needs to get under control before he says something and ruins it all.

But he knows you won’t listen to whatever he has to say – not for at least another couple of days – because something Oliver wrote has you thinking he can’t think properly or something. All he knows is that it has something to do with his brain and the fact that he has a pretty serious concussion, and that you’re too fucking stubborn to even jest with him about it.

That had been made pretty clear.

It was also that sense of inevitable doom that had him startling from his nap, the tensing of his entire body as he somewhat lurched in place sending an agonising stab of pain everywhere. It hurt so bad sometimes that he couldn’t decipher if he'd hurt something else; it seemed to dissipate across the rest of his body in an effort for him to cope with the level he was enduring.

He noted, however, that his head didn’t feel like it was being used as some sort of carousel. His dizziness had faded, at least for the moment.

And just as he was about to haul himself out of bed, that shot of adrenalin having woken him up, he heard the distant sound of voices filtering in through the crack under the door.

It was 11.13; Jack must be here.

Then he stopped his motions, because the voices sounded muffled, and from experience, that meant the both of you were whispering about something, and knowing he was supposedly asleep and in another room, he guessed you were talking about him. Which is why he cautiously lifted the duvet off himself, careful not to make too much of a sound as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and crept – avoiding the squeaky floorboards – to the door.

He wasn’t about to open it – not when the noise would catch your attention, but he knelt on the floor and pressed his ear to the handle.

He was curious, and in desperate need of some sort of confirmation from you because he knew Jack would at least try to coax some answers out of you, and probably embarrass him in the process by revealing how mopey he’d been in training or something.

“–don’t believe you.” It was Jack, his voice lowering at the end, playing into his statement.

“It’s not a matter of belief, it’s the truth.”

Oh. You were frustrated already.

“Do something about it, then.” Jack protested. Nico could imagine him rolling his eyes, but given the unexplained context of the situation he’d found himself listening in on, he couldn’t gauge the mood.

“No.”

“Why not? You can’t coexist, care for, and live together for what’s probably gonna be at least for a few weeks, and not talk about it.”

“I haven’t even thought that far in advance, I thought you were talking about immediately.”

Jack scoffed, and Nico could hear him splutter a small laugh, “Not immediately, no. But better sooner than later, before you both get the wrong ideas and end up hurting each other even more.”

Nico heard you sigh, and he pressed his ear closer against the metal, “Is this the part where you fulfil your duties and tell me–”

“–That he’s been moping–” there it was, “and sad for the past two weeks? I hope so. He’s been insufferable, not in the overbearing way, but he looks like a kicked puppy and he’s not been smiling at me as much, and I swear every time he gets a notification on his phone, he teleports to it or something. I’ve never seen him move faster over a News app notification before.”

There was a beat of silence.

“What?”

This time it was Jack’s turn to groan, “You’re both depressed over the entire thing, okay, and I know for a fact, that the only thing that would solve it is if you just talked about it.”

There were some words exchanged that Nico couldn’t quite make out, and before he could make his way into the bathroom to flush the toilet and make it known that he was awake, something caught his ear.

“Why did you phrase it like that? ‘He’s not been smiling at me as much’?”

Jack laughed sheepishly, and Nico grinned.

“Usually when he sees me he smiles. He’s just been doing this half-smile thing, and it’s really, like, jarring.”

He heard your laugh tinkle through the door, and something throbbed in his chest, “Oh, you poor thing.”

“Shut up.”

“But how are you going to survive not seeing him in training for at least a couple of weeks? Is it going to affect your performance? Do I need to arrange FaceTime calls so you can see his face and let yourself be inspired?” You quipped, and Nico could imagine clearly the mocking concern you had on your face, maybe even a comforting hand to Jack’s arm, fully playing into the narrative.

“You know what? FaceTime sessions seem like a good idea.”

Then there was another round of silence and mumbling. Once more, Nico made to heave himself off his knees, but he was stopped once more.

“–Kicked puppy–”

“–It’s the eyebrows!” You both chimed, and Nico rolled his eyes, this time moving himself into the bathroom, not before making a quick stop at the mirror.

He furrowed his brows. Then pouted. Then smiled, lifting his brows up.

He didn’t know what you were talking about – kicked puppy? No way.

Anyway, it seemed like the two of you had stopped talking about a subject pertaining to Nico’s own desires, and despite being a little disappointed with the lack of ‘what-are-you-thinking?’ he received from your end, he decided to flush the toilet and wash his hands, schooling his tired face in the mirror before picking up a pair of socks and wandering down the hall into the living room.

Jack was sitting at the kitchen booth, his chair spun around to face the sofa, where you were leaning across the back.

Jack grinned at him, though Nico didn’t miss the way his eye slid to the sling, but you only offered a small smile. It looked like you weren’t really in the room with him, your mind clearly occupied to some extent

“Back from the dead?” Jack stole his attention, and Nico nodded, trudging to take a place next to you on the sofa, once more feeling guilty when all he did to greet you was hand you a pair of socks he couldn’t put on without your help.

“Something like that.”

You put your mug down on the coffee table, happily taking his socks—

“No coffee.” You stated sternly, Nico’s eyes zipping straight to yours in protest.

The protest died on his lips when he saw the hardness in your face, not a single part of you budging until he’d rolled his eyes and turned to Jack; then you put his socks on for him, seemingly satisfied with his compliance, even if he was a bit bitter about it.

“You okay?” Nico found himself asking, arching a brow at Jack, who (despite his best efforts) was watching the entire exchange with a broad grin painted on his face, and as much as Nico tried to deny it, Jack looked as though he knew something he didn’t.

He saw how you shook your head out of the corner of his eye, and Jack’s smile dropped a little. Nico could still clearly read it in his eyes, though.

Something was up. He’d missed something.

Instead Jack took a deep breath, composing himself, “I think I should be asking you that.”

Nico shrugged with one shoulder, ignoring the sharp pain across the expanse of his back, aware of the fact that both you and Jack were watching him with eagle eyes, trying to deduce if any movements caused him any sort of pain. He was used to attention to some varying degree, but this length of detail and scrutiny made him want to go back to bed.

He knew it wasn’t the effect either of you desired, but to Nico, it felt like you were pitying him. Granted, he was pitying himself, but to have it come from a teammate and close friend and you was a little

overwhelming. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

“I’m fine.”

Jack raised a brow, disbelieving.

“It’s painful, but I can manage it.” He tried again, and Jack nodded, pulling a face.

“Did they say how long you’d be out for?”

“Six weeks for the shoulder and maybe up to twelve for the collarbone.” This time it was Jack’s turn to shrug, and Nico’s turn to pull a face as an unspoken, mutual agreement seemed to pass through them.

“So about seven weeks, then?” Jack asked casually.

You paused, mid-sip of coffee, your eyes darting between the two of them with an obvious confusion written on your face. You knew Nico would have been eager to get back to playing, and the twelve weeks recovery isn’t even guaranteed in the first place, but it was still quite optimistic – especially considering the extent of his injury. Shoulder and collarbone? Mad disaster.

Fucking hockey lore.

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t say anything.

It was Nico swinging his head to look at you that caught your attention, and when you swivelled slightly to look at Jack, who was already awaiting some sort of answer to something. He raised his brows, and you cast an unsure look back at Nico, who swallowed nervously.

“Sorry?” You turned back to Jack, who’s smile had dipped, and you got the awful feeling you’d done something wrong. Nico had looked at you with something akin to anxiety, as though the answer to an unheard question was so important that something hung in the balance depending on what you were going to say.

Jack’s eyes slid over to Nico momentarily, “Did you see it?” He asked softly, and it briefly flashed through your mind that the reason you hadn’t heard him in the first place was because he’d asked it in such a gentle tone it sounded like a whisper of white noise.

Dread punched in your stomach, and you felt yourself stiffen slightly. You knew what he was insinuating, but you still furrowed your brows, trying to hold off from seeing the inevitable hurt that would crumble on Nico’s face when he heard the answer. Something had been hanging in the balance – you rarely missed one of Nico’s games; if you weren’t there in person, and even if you were busy with work, you’d have the game on mute in the background – something to occupy your mind with and show your support.

Dread because Nico could tell when you were lying, and because there was no way you could get around this unless you just told the truth. You wished Jack wasn’t there to witness the awkwardness that was about to envelope the entire room and dash the previous light-hearted atmosphere Jack had unintentionally created with his casual conversation.

You didn’t say anything, afraid your voice would give you away before you could actually tell the truth, so you let your brows speak for themselves, in the hopes that Jack would repeat it for a third time and once more allow you to stall for a little longer.

You wouldn’t feel so fucking guilty if Nico didn’t already look like a kicked puppy.

“The game last night, did you watch it?” He hesitated, and you could see that he’d read between the lines on your face and was already regretting asking it in the first place.

Jack was close with Nico, which also meant he was also pretty close with you. He was beginning to see the downside of that, knowing he’d asked a question that was about to tear a rift in your already rocky relationship. The way Jack could see it, you and Nico were hanging on by a rope – one that he’d just severed a few strings of, completely unintentionally – and he also knew that it would be due to some sort of misunderstanding: that Nico would just assume that the reason you weren’t watching his games was because you’d decided that you were going to leave him…something that kind of broke Jack’s heart because the two of you had just talked about it before the toilet flushed, and he knew for a fact that you didn’t have any intention to leave him.

Of course, with Nico’s recent ramblings in training, he wouldn’t exactly let himself see past your answer, and would probably spin a reality based on nothing but baseless words put together with no context at all.

You swallowed, Nico already yawning out of the corner of your eye – probably a pre-established escape tactic to excuse himself.

“No.” You paused, trying to remain steady as you held eye contact with Jack, fighting with yourself not to look in Nico’s direction, “I had to do a last-minute shop, and catch up on some work. Maisey was watching it, though, and I could hear the commentary.”

It was a slight lie. You couldn’t hear much of the commentary – just the mumble of it in the background and through the walls.

Instead, Nico nodded, as though he’d been expecting that answer, and when you looked at him, he was offering you a sad sort of smile, a crease between his brows and a dimple on his cheek. You were watching him closely, trying to decipher exactly how he felt about your admission, but he wasn’t giving you much to go on.

“It’s probably for the better.” He said weakly, yawning again.

You shared a look with Jack.

“Yeah, it was pretty rough.” Jack agreed, shrugging at you behind Nico’s back.

You nodded, feeling the need to contribute to the conversation before the awkwardness consumed the room and sucked out any chance at maintaining a normal conversation for the sake of Jack’s own comfortability, “Maisey switched it off after it happened so I couldn’t see anything. Then my phone rang.” You took a sip of coffee.

There was an unspoken kind of heaviness that settled over the room – Jack looked at the floor, and Nico’s sad smile dropped into a frown.

If you were being honest, it felt like they were both mourning something you were unaware of.

“Are you guys okay?” You asked, a little tentatively. You were definitely missing something.

“Yeah.” It was Nico who got to answering quickest, shocking you, “Just…I kind of hoped they’d never have to use the emergency contact. It’s just–It must have been–I’m sorry.” He stuttered, before yawning.

You couldn’t even tell him it was okay, whatever he was apologising for, because the next thing you knew, he was pushing himself up off the sofa and walking back to the bedroom, muttering something to Jack under his breath, to which he smiled and nodded understandingly.

You waited until the door shut behind him before you turned to Jack, pressing your lips together.

“He’s not offended.” Was all he said, and you could tell just from the tone of his voice alone that he knew something you perhaps weren’t quite aware of yourself, “It’s just in his head.”

“What is?”

“This idea that you’re gonna leave him.”

___

You waited three hours after Jack left, trying to gain the courage to go back into the bedroom, cursing yourself because you hadn’t possibly thought that Nico would have ever doubted that you loved him. You’d tried to convey that through your actions recently, but looking back on it, you didn’t entirely give as much of yourself away as you’d thought you had, so not reading the subtle signs were understandable.

And you had avoided the conversation of your relationship as much as possible, and you knew how dejected he was over it, but you were following orders. He wasn’t supposed to think about complex things for some reason, because his concussion was so severe, and you really did want to talk to him about it all.

It just scared you, but you’d face that fear head on right now if it meant that he’d stop hurting and wallowing or whatever the hell else he was doing in that room. You knew he wasn’t asleep, the TV could still be heard through the wall. Brooklyn 99. An easy watch – good.

You’d been sitting on the sofa, trying to do something with your hands to fight the urge to bite your fingers, not able to switch the TV on in the living room just in case he needed something from you. Your book was on the cushion next to you, the pages splayed out because you kept picking it up and putting it down, not able to focus on anything else.

You hadn’t felt this anxious in a long time. Your heart was thudding, and it felt like there was a hand gripping your lungs.

He was afraid you were going to leave him.

Fuck.

Jack’s words kept thudding around your mind like they were put on a spin-cycle, and you alternated between feeling slightly relieved at the fact that the thought of you leaving him scared the shit out of him, but then feeling guilty that you were the cause of that insecurity.

It had you doubting your mutual decision – emphasis on the mutual – to take a break because life was pretty much getting in the way of your relationship, and there was a void of…real comfort and love, almost, and you both felt yourselves dwindling and drifting away from each other.

Fuck.

You were going to have to do something about it before all this uncertainty consumed the entire house and left you both too scared to talk about it. If you let it fester too much it would only come back to haunt you and then it’d ruin you both to completion and past the point of no return, and that was the last thing you wanted – ever.

You loved that man, sad eyebrows and all, and if you had it your way, you’d go into the bedroom this instant and tell him that, but something was stopping you.

His injury, for one. That because he was hurting, he was vulnerable, and you hated that your mind made you think that because of that, he’d be relying on you because he just needed somebody there with him.

Ultimately, if the roles were reversed you knew you’d want him to be there for you, to look after you and provide some sense of comfort when you needed it the most.

Fuck.

Your fist pounded the end of the sofa, once, twice. And then you pushed yourself up off the cushions, not allowing yourself to freak out before you reached the door, and you twisted the handle, opening the door just a crack. He might have fallen asleep with the TV on in the background, and if that was the case, you weren’t about to wake him up for what you were about to say.

Somehow the sight before you was even worse.

You stepped through the door properly, making a beeline for the bed, trying to focus on anything other than the sound of your own heart shattering inside your chest. He was slumped down under the duvet, his free arm slung over the top of his head, but it wasn’t that that caught your attention.

It was the deep set bags under his eyes and the way he blinked like he was using all of his effort to keep himself awake. It was also the way his mouth was pulled down into a sad, crestfallen frown on his face – one that he didn’t have the chance to change when he initially looked up after you opened the door – and the tissue he had crumpled in his fist.

When he saw you, he sighed, but didn’t protest when you moved over to lay next to him, your cheek pressed into your pillow.

He’d been crying.

He didn’t make a move to show you any attention, and you were glad for that – he couldn’t see the way you blinked to prevent yourself from crying, or the way you had to fist the pillow in your hands to refrain yourself from reaching out to touch him.

“How’s your head?” You asked lightly.

He blinked, “My head’s fine. I’m fine.” He replied, somewhat grumpily, his jaw clenching.

You were unphased; he was frustrated and tired, so you didn’t take it to heart, “Do you want to do something tomorrow?”

The question seemed to pique his interest, because his jaw slackened and he tilted his head towards you, allowing you to see his red-rimmed eyes, “Like what?”

You shrugged, “A walk? Get some fresh air.”

His eyes flicked to the screen briefly, seemingly considering something, “Sure.”

Your chest contracted at what you were about to say and ask him, anticipation lingering in your tense muscles. You fought with yourself, what you were about to submit to going against all professional advice and all rational thinking on your behalf – the same kind of thinking you’d made a point of reiterating in the past twenty-four hours – shit, you couldn’t even last that long without giving in to him – and a part of you felt a little sheepish and almost embarrassed because your insistence had been heavy.

“Um…” you hesitated, blinking harshly, before turning back to his awaiting eyes, “Do you maybe want to talk tomorrow?” You pressed your lips into a line – there was absolutely no going back from this.

He swallowed, his lips parting in shock, brows furrowing slightly, “About what?” He was a little breathless, and you had the sneaking suspicion he already knew what you were talking about.

“Us–”

“Yeah. I’d like that.” His mouth twitched up slightly, accentuating his tired eyes.

You pushed yourself up with your shoulder, nodding, “Okay.”

You were unsure of where to go or what to do, so you let yourself stay in that position – watching the TV. It was one of your favourite episodes.

“Do you want to watch it?” It was Nico, hand holding out the remote.

You couldn’t read his face properly, and you hesitated, “You need to sleep.”

“I can still sleep if you want to watch it.”

“Okay.”

___

You couldn’t speak for Nico, but the fresh air on your face felt like a godsend. The stuffy air of the house – no matter how many windows you’d opened and shut because it got too cold – was no match for the way you felt infinitely fresher once you’d reached the local park. You could practically taste the air it was that refreshing, and you honestly just wanted to drink the entire thing up, because you didn’t know how long Nico would be able to last before the pain meds wore off.

He’d told you earlier that his head felt better – the dizziness had worn off, his vision was clearer, and he felt less cloudy. He just had a constant headache, and honestly, you could tell he felt better – he was more with it than he had been.

You were both sitting on a bench overlooking the giant pond, you sitting sideways with one leg on the floor and the other tucked under you, and Nico with his back straight. Neither of you had spoken much on the walk over, either too immersed in the fresh air or entirely overcome with nerves for the impending conversation, so the silence enveloping the both of you was a little uncomfortable.

“How’s Maisey?” Nico started, clearing his throat.

The question was clever, a sly way to work up to the main topic of conversation.

You smiled tightly, swallowing nervously before you answered, “She’s good, been watching every Devils match…I think there’s something going on with her and Jack, you know? She hasn’t told me much but they’ve been ‘hanging out’ quite a lot.”

Nico turned his head, the hat shielding his face somewhat, but you could tell this was the first he was hearing of it because he frowned, opening and shutting his mouth as though he wasn’t quite sure what to make of the situation, “They have?”

You nodded.

“Jack’s not mentioned it, but I guess I’ve been a bit distracted lately.” He cringed, looking down at the floor to avoid looking at you, “They’d actually fit each other well.”

“She balances out his madness–”

“A voice of reason–”

You both spoke at the same, and the synchronisation elicited a small laugh that seemed to break some of the awkwardness, lighten the atmosphere slightly.

Until Nico spoke.

“So, you haven’t been watching my games?”

It felt like the air had been stolen from your lungs. It wasn’t that you felt confronted by the question: it was one you’d been expecting since the conversation yesterday with Jack, and even with the way Nico asked it you could just tell he was as hesitant at approaching the conversation himself.

It was just a bit of a blunt transition from Maisey, and your nerves seemed to come crumbling down almost instantly – as soon as he asked that.

You shook your head, embarrassed but already knowing inklings of what he thought, “I haven’t watched every game. The highlights – I watched some of those.” You took a breath, steeling yourself to look at him. When you did, you took in the kind eyes, intent on soaking up every word you spoke, and couldn’t help but smile – albeit a little bitterly, “It just hurt seeing you.”

He nodded, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the limp sleeve of his hoodie. He looked devastated, but the nod of agreement eased you slightly.

Then Jack’s words echoed through your mind. This idea that you’re gonna leave him.

Somehow remembering that little slice of the conversation put everything in perspective. Admittedly you hadn’t really believed Jack when he said that, but when Nico wet his lips and looked directly away from you, his chest rising and falling a little faster in the material of his hoodie, only seemed to paint this heartbreaking image of him right in front of you. He didn’t look surprised by your admission, but he was on the verge of saying or doing something, and it had you wondering if he’d honestly expected you to leave him after it all.

He had been expecting it, hadn’t he? He’d been looking at you differently the last couple of days. When you left the room to fetch him something, you could always feel his burning gaze on your back watching you intently from where he was sitting – afraid of something.

And the shower?

He’d thought this entire time that you looking after him would be the last time for everything, and you felt silly not having caught onto it before.

You opened your mouth to speak, tell him your true intentions, but he moved jerkily, and you paused. The hand that was playing with his sleeve suddenly stuck up, and he produced a piece of paper. It was lined and crumpled, as though he’d balled it up one too many times before reopening it – as though he’d changed his mind. You could make out the indentations through the folded up paper on the back.

What the fuck? Did he write notes, or something?

He took in a shuddery breath, rolling his eyes at himself, and you leant forwards unintentionally, curious as to what it was. You expected him to recoil, hide it from your view, but he did the opposite. He turned a little towards you, and he must have misjudged how quickly and how close you’d suddenly placed yourself, before the rim of his hat knocked into your forehead, the cap falling onto your leg.

He stopped, eyes flicking between your blushing, retreating figure to the cap that you’d made to pick up. You took the liberty of resituating it on his head. You knew it was cruel considering where his mind was taking him, but you couldn’t help swiping some strands across his forehead.

He drunk up every single motion you made.

“I–” he cleared his throat, “I wrote something that…I don’t know how to say everything that’s going on in my head, but I wrote this a while ago, and I,” he pushed it in your direction, his eyes lingering on the lines, “I want you to read it – not out loud, but just read it, please.” He rushed it all out, blinking at you with something akin to desperation, his jaw clenching and unclenching as the side of his mouth twitched upwards unconsciously.

All you could do was nod, “I can read it.”

He sat backwards, seemingly relieved, and turned back to face the park, just as you unfolded it and looked at his familiar scrawl at the top of the page. The writing was a little shaky–

“I’m sorry if you can’t read it. My hands shook the entire time…I’m sorry.” He shrugged, swallowing, not looking at you.

You turned your eyes back to the page, and you swear your heart stopped for a millisecond. The date. The fucking date was the day after you agreed to go on a break.

“You don’t have to apologise.” He’d been doing that quite a bit lately, “Why were you shaking?” Was what came out of your mouth.

He muttered something under his breath, shaking his head as though he thought it was silly, but over the wind and the chirping of birds, you didn’t quite manage to catch his mumblings.

“Sorry?”

“Because I think you’re going to leave me.” He admitted, keeping a straight face and refusing to look at you.

The honesty was startling, and you knew you should have said something to alleviate his clear anxieties about the whole thing – tell him you weren’t going to – but the words caught on your tongue. You so desperately wanted to let him know, but your body couldn’t physically function the way you intended it to. You felt stuck, trapped inside your own skin – claustrophobic, even – at the weight of his words. So you swallowed nervously, turning your eyes back to the paper.

You read it four times.

The first to read it. The second to double-check your eyes weren’t deceiving you. The third to make sure you hadn’t missed anything. The fourth to commit as much of it to memory as possible.

You were oblivious to the way his fidgeting seemed to worsen the longer you continued to stare at it. You knew Nico was intelligent, and despite him not writing this in his native language, it was incredibly eloquent. He was honest, straight to the truth – and parts of what he mentioned scared you, but in a good way. A really good way. It was a short passage, not even half a page, but it said everything it needed to say and more.

Your eyes kept snagging onto the last line, and you had to fight with yourself not to cry at what he’d said.

I can’t predict what decision you’re going to make, but I want you to know that I’m always going to love you. Even if you break my heart – especially then.

You had to take a while to digest what exactly he was saying in that–

“I’m always gonna love you too.”

Your mouth moved faster than your brain, but upon immediate reflection, you didn’t think it was the wrong thing to say. You didn’t know what else you could have said. You were so overwhelmed by the mere presence of him sitting in front of you, the way your chest ached at his written words, and the way your eyes pricked when he nearly snapped his neck to look at you after you’d spoken. You’d never seen anything like it – never felt it.

You wanted to press pause on the entire thing just to dissect it, but you knew any refusal to answer his questions and figure the mess out would be crucial – and you didn't want to put him through it even more, not when you were spending an unknown stretch of time in such close quarters like you were.

You had to sort it out, and it was looking like the bench was where you’d be doing most of that.

He didn’t say anything, just watched you closely as you used your sleeve to wipe your eyes. You weren’t exactly crying, but water was slowly trailing down your cheeks, and you sniffed, taking the time to gather your thoughts.

“I don’t know what to say…” you hesitated, and he took a sharp inhale, about to say something, “but I don’t want to leave you–I’m not leaving you. I pretty much decided that the second I left.”

“You did?” He huffed a watery laugh, hurriedly swiping at his own eyes. His brows were furrowed slightly, but he was smiling shakily.

You both felt it, that release of weight that had been hanging over the both of you like a dark cloud. It was remarkable the way the pressure seemed to lift off your chest.

“Yeah.” You felt your chin wobble, and you folded and unfolded the paper in your hands. The irony in the fact that it was your hands now shaking was amusing.

There was a moment of silence, the both of you absorbing exactly what it all meant, taking in the simple complexity of the fact that you weren’t ending things with each other – very much the opposite, if his letter was anything to go by.

“I’m not leaving you either, by the way. I didn’t actually say it.”

“The letter said plenty.” You replied, resting your arm along the back of the bench, your chin sitting on your fist, “But it’s nice to hear it.”

He smiled, and unlike yesterday you took comfort in the fact that his red rimmed eyes weren’t because he was feeling down.

“So we try again?” He sniffled, angling his body so you were both sitting directly opposite each other. His positioning was awkward – his uninjured arm mirroring you by resting his head on his fist, his elbow on the back railing.

You nodded, watching as his cheeks flushed in excitement, his smile lines cracking through his demeanour. You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to stop yourself from blushing at the sheer excitement and overwhelming sense of adoration coursing through your body. You were sure your pupils were as dilated as they possibly could be, and despite wanting to pull your attention away from Nico – a bit of breathing room – you couldn’t quite bring yourself to do it. It was when he raised an eyebrow, beginning to laugh that you remembered you’d forgotten to answer his question.

He didn’t mind, though.

“Yes.” You smothered a smile by tucking your face into the crook of the elbow on the railing.

You weren’t sure you’d been this flustered around Nico since you first started dating four years ago.

“Could we take it slow?” He asked, his hand reaching out to pull the material of your hoodie away from your face.

You nodded, resurfacing again, “Counselling?”

You felt fingers brush strands of your hair out of your face, and when you looked at him, you found he was nodding, brown eyes scanning every millimetre of your face as though he was drinking you in. Other than the shower, this was the first instance you’d both freely been able to look at each other in minute detail – to the extent you both desired. Sneaking glances when the other wasn’t looking didn’t exactly count.

For example, you could see that there was a splodge of red under his bottom lip, presumably from where he’d been tugging at it between his teeth all of last night. You’d opted to sleep in the spare bedroom, sure that he’d be able to make it through the night – besides, you both knew that you needed your space if you were to have the discussion the next day.

You could also see that he was refraining from doing something, because there was a small crease between his brows – a crease that told you he wanted to do something badly. You had a feeling you knew what it was, but you’d let his need linger a little longer.

“I think counselling is the right way to go, yeah.” A beat, “I want to do things right, take it slow, talk things out more. I don’t want a repeat of…this.”

He twirled some of your hair around his fingers, his eyes marvelling the movement, until he followed the strands to your face, and you broke out into a smile – not holding much back as you let out a short, breathy laugh.

“We’ve already made that mistake.” You agreed.

He sighed, “You know in that letter?”

You hummed.

“I meant it, you know. When I said I think you’re the only thing I got right.”

You rolled your eyes, feeling smaller under his gaze, “What about hockey?”

He grinned, “Hockey doesn’t count.”

“Why not?”

“Hockey chose me. That’s different from me choosing you.”

You narrowed your eyes, still smiling, “How?”

“Because…” he trailed off, “I had to make choices when it came to you, ones that might have ended differently if I, say, hadn’t looked in the front window of the cafe that day, or hadn’t kissed you for the first time after the third date–”

“You took way too long.” You laughed.

He smiled, denying it as he waved a hand, “I think I waited just the right amount of time. I made all the right choices when it came to you. Hockey I didn’t really have to think about; it was all laid out for me – there weren’t as many things to think about compared to when it came to you.”

You sighed, pressing your lips together momentarily, before trailing your eyes to his smiling face and red-tinted cheeks still covered in some scruff. Your hand reached up and touched his chin, then his cheek, feeling the prickle that left your fingers tingling. It was a nice contrast he’d grown into the past couple of years, one that you’d grown to love, though you missed seeing what his face looked like clean-shaven.

You still loved him the same – that never changed.

You seemed to be reminded of that fact when he tilted his head into your palm, placing a kiss there and taking your wrist in his hand and gently tugging you closer. You obliged, of course you did.

“I love you.” You said.

His smile softened as he gently slid his hand from the grip on your wrist to be clasped between you both, “What happened to taking it slow?”

You shrugged, “I just haven’t said it in a while – I wanted to let you know that hasn’t changed.”

He blinked, his smile unwavering, “I love you too.”

There was also an unspoken acknowledgement under that reminder. There was still a lot you both needed to sort through before you even ventured into the realm of dating each other again – though the material left of each other that defined ‘dating’ was limited. There was only so much you could talk about without having heard it all before.

“I was thinking,” he started, his eyes flicking up to yours to catch your reaction as you raised a brow, “you don’t have any plans tonight, do you?”

You were toying telling him you did, that maybe you’d already organised something with Maisey, just to see how he’d react, but it was a little too soon to be teasing him like that, “My plans…involve making sure the captain of the Devils is recovering nicely.”

He nodded, pulling a faux inquisitive expression, “That’s incredibly convenient for me, actually. I happen to be the captain of the Devils–”

“No way.” You laughed.

“And, as the captain of the Devils, I was wondering if you’d like to hang out later. Maybe watch a movie and have dinner?”

You tilted your head, “Like a date?”

“Your words not mine.”

“What happened to taking it slow?”

He shrugged, “We can still cuddle, right?”

“I don’t know.”

He scoffed, “It’s a yes or no.”

You rolled your eyes, “I’m talking about your shoulder. Cuddling is going to be pretty fucking limited.”

He nodded, his mouth forming an ‘o’, proving he hadn’t exactly thought that far ahead, “Kissing?”

You laughed, “Out of the question.” The comment was verging on being sarcastic, and the roll of his eyes proved he got the message, but you carried on, “We’re taking it slow. You need to focus on recovering in time for the playoffs–”

“Actually,” he held up a playful finger, “when you kiss me, my body releases endorphins, and they contribute to better mental health, and also reduce pain levels in the body. Lucky me,” he gestured to his shoulder, “I’m in a good amount of pain and in need of some endorphins to reduce th–”

You reached a hand up to take off his hat in the midst of his educated rambling, and you saw he could read what you were doing because the earnest protest in his eyes dimmed, and he swiped a tongue delicately over his bottom lip, a smile growing on his face. You could hear the thoughts beginning to fall away in his mind when he followed you with his eyes, his free hand settling in your hair on the side of your head. You had to praise him for it, because he didn’t for one second falter in what he was saying, but the mischievous twinkle in his eye gave him away almost immediately.

He angled his face towards you, and you both leant forwards, connecting your lips. It was short – the kind of kiss you’d usually share after he’d win a game and you were both in public. Celebratory – happy. You barely felt the gentle scratch of his scruff on your chin or the warmth of his mouth before you were pulling away. He didn’t let you get that far, the hand entangled in your hair keeping you nose to nose with him.

You were both smiling, and you weren’t mad that the only thing you could actually see properly were his eyes, staring directly into yours. You bit your lip – half trying to stop yourself from laughing, and half-trying to keep yourself from doing it again.

As much as you didn’t want to, it was essential to keep things slow – it was the right thing to do, despite the annoyance that came with it.

“So, kissing is on the cards?” Nico joked, unwinding your hair from his fingers gently to tuck the curtain that had fallen behind your ear.

“To compensate for the lack of cuddles? I might have to think about it.” You pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, replacing his hat back on his head.

“Remember: the endorphins.” He smiled, though you knew he’d let you actually think about it.

“I’m still thinking about it.”

“How long are you going to think about it, though?”

#nico hischier oneshot #nico hischier imagine #nico hischier x reader #nhl fic #nhl imagine #hockey fic #hockey imagine

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boop-le-snoot · 1 year

Text

masterlist

cherry pt. 1 🍒

gif by @taiturner

touch-starved!fem!reader x touch-starved, shy daryl dixon. this is pure tooth-rotting fluff with protective daryl, set somewhere in alexandria. the reader is a medic, this is a sweet build-up to smut which is going to be in part 2.

3.5k words, suitable for everyone. reader is referred to as "she", written in 3rd person, mostly daryl's pov, all lowercase. title from the lana song cherry because lana + norman = *author barks incoherently and descends into insanity*

her knee landed between his legs with a soft thud. the meat of his thigh surrounded by her legs as he sat under the yellow overhead lamp, daryl's chest rose and fell steadily, caramel skin marred by a deep red welt.

he stunk like bloody sweat, moist soil and gunpowder and lead.

"I'll inject a local," she mumbled, tapping on the glass vial before inserting the syringe and filling it up with a clear liquid, "you gonna need some twenty stitches, boyo."

"you dun' hafta," he, nonetheless, winced; the welt went across his chest, over his pectoral and almost to his collarbone. all and all, far from the worst he's had.

painkillers were a luxury, better spent on someone else, someone not like him. but he knew better than to argue with a medic (or someone filling the position of one, for that matter).

the woman's scent enveloped his senses in an opaque fog of sweet summer sweat over sharp, cheap laundry powder. something bitter, like rosemary and thyme, something sweet, like cherries and wine.

daryl's eyelashes fluttered as the needle pierced his skin: once, twice, five times, all around the jagged edges of the torn wound. the breath he was holding in left his mouth in a humid huff.

her hands, so gentle, prodded at the edges of his hurt until he could answer her question of 'feel anything?' negative, honestly. briefly, the acrid stench of rubbing alcohol overshadowed everything else as she sterilized everything, the tools and him, to the best of her ability.

he opened his eyes.

"now," she lifted her clever eyes, surveying the scene, "I'm gonna perch myself here," she moved that much closer, one knee between his legs, the other on the side of his leg; hovering over the same leg, facing his reclined torso, "you tell me if you're uncomfortable. that's the only light here, I don't mean to invade your personal space like that."

he could have laughed, if not for the risk of disrupting her careful stitching of his flesh.

"don'tcha worry 'bout it, pretty girl," his voice gravelly low, daryl did his best to stay still.

she chuckled softly, "bet you say that to anyone who can stitch you up in an even line."

"no," he scoffed, surprising himself, "jus' you. rick's hardly a pretty girl."

her hands stilled, eyes momentarily darting to his. the yellow light reflected in them, giving her pupils a red-hot gleam, as if devil himself had taken a sharp turn and went to seek refuge inside her instead of coming down to georgia.

he studied it, studied his own blurry, open-mouthed, panting reflection in the pupils of the woman currently perched atop his lap. then the realisation hit him, like a derailed runaway train, and he immediately withdrew to count the cracks in the ceiling.

she cleared her throat, resuming the rhythmical push and pull of the needle.

"didn't know rick could do that."

daryl attempted to shrug - stopping it before the motion reached his shoulders - and grunted instead.

she continued to stitch, the suddenly pregnant silence punctuated by the crinkling of a wrapper. an extra large, sterile bandaid was placed over the wound after she applied something green and foul-smelling atop the now-closed gash; his grunted query was met with a curt,

"antiseptic."

and he was let go with instructions to return the next day for a dressing change.

he lied to himself. he waited until it was dark to show up the next day, well into the summer night, just to be placed in the same position - under the lone hanging lamp, under her.

cherries and wine, rosemary and thyme, complimented by a trail of herbal tea. she smelled like peaches, too, this time. or, perhaps, it were the blooming trees outside her window that snuck their sweet aroma indoors.

"healing nicely," she remarked off-handedly, seemingly oblivious to the rising level of his tension and his inner turmoil. "the pain not too bad? you seem grumpy. grumpier than usual."

this time, he waited until she removed herself from his form to bark a terse laugh.

"no, pretty girl," he eyed her in the dusky, dusty room and received a crooked smile for his troubles, "long day 'is all."

"tell me about it," she huffed, shoulders sagging a bit more than he would have liked.

"who's the prick bothering ya?" he couldn't help it, his mind immediately went... places. surely, he wasn't the only one who noticed her pretty.

"no-one but my own damn brain," she scoffed, seemingly at herself, "and maybe the dick from number 17. it's like he's doing it on purpose."

"doin' what now?" daryl's voice dropped, his eyes squinted. his palm migrated to the handle of his knife, a gesture utterly subconscious.

"gettin' injured," she grumbled, no real heat behind her words, "got shot with a dart last week, sprained his ankle on a routine perimeter check today. how did that man serve 6 years in the army is beyond me."

daryl's head tilted as his chest tensed, heart thudded uncomfortably against his ribs.

"isn't carol taking care of all the broken bones?" he asked, tone laced with suspicion.

she turned to face him; he felt, more than saw, the annoyed roll of her eyes.

"he demands a real doctor," the woman shook off the wrapper before leaning back into him and placing it over his wound in one swift, irritated gesture, "how come nobody's told him I'm just a good faker? everyone knows by this point. all he does is waste resources-"

"woah, woah," daryl's voice rose briefly as he attempted to halt the incoming ramble. not that he didn't want to hear what she had to say, it was just unusual to see the quiet woman so... not herself.

"sorry," she shot immediately, looking away, "he just gives me the creeps. I know it's mean but-"

"no," daryl shook his head immediately, "if he's botherin' you, he's botherin' you and he needa back off."

she chuckled as she leaned back to observe the results of her work. her eyes were tired and a little ashamed. "say whatchu want but you southern fellas are real gentlemen," her smile was soft.

nobody has ever spoken to him like that, much less referred to him as a gentleman. through the momentary awe, daryl let the corners of his lips tilt up in a closed-lipped, shy smile.

he didn't return the next day, and the day after, having been deemed healthy enough by rick to be sent off to hunt some game - all activities classified as "takin' it easy" by the community leader. people needed food, growing kids needed the protein.

the gash on his chest bled a little, not much, and the scab that formed afterwards looked proper, thick and healthy.

as he reached the gates upon his return, he could make out some shouting just on the border of the little gated town. a few voices did their best to be heard, one right over the other.

"whazzat?" he quizzed the guard.

"lil doctor lady," the guard responded, frowning, squinting into the distance, "and big john, arguin' over something. dunno what. rick's there too."

daryl did not like the sound of that. he didn't like that at all. he dumped the three deer right there on the muddy ground as soon as he crossed the threshold of the safe zone, powerwalking towards the arguing trio.

"... 'm tellin' ya, rick, she's makin' shit up! I risk my life every day goin' out and patrollin', getting the damn supplies so she could patch me up like she's s'posed to!" big john, red in the face and fists clenched, stood looming over rick as he defended himself to the unimpressed sheriff, "'s'not like I broke my damn arm on purpose!"

immediately, daryl's bullshit meter went off as alarms blared in his head at full volume. big john's words were a little too loud, a little too passionate.

rick's eyes darted towards daryl's rapidly approaching form; that was all he needed to know about the situation.

"if that were true, you'd have no problem with carol attending to you, man," for the time being, rick successfully played the good cop.

"she's not even a real doctor!"

"neither am I!" the woman finally spoke up, shooting a glance at daryl, too, as her shoulders dropped slightly.

"hey, what's your fuckin' problem?" daryl finally stomped close enough for big john to jump at his words.

"none of your damn business," he shot back immediately, switching to stare down at the woman. it wasn't hard for him to make her shrink: his name was big john for a reason.

"don't bother tha nice lady," daryl scoffed, straightening up, "least you want a fuckin' knuckle sandwich. first and final warning."

"oh, fuck you man," big john turned to daryl, taking a step towards the archer, chest puffing out with the force of his rage. his left hand was in a makeshift cast; the right one rose, rapidly flying, aimed at daryl's face.

it didn't take the archer much effort to side-step the large man. he was immediately responding with a punch of his own.

big john staggered, taking a couple of unsteady steps back; within the next second, another punch connected with his face, sending blood and snot flying as he fell on the ground noisily.

"that's enough!" rick yelled, pulling on daryl's shoulder.

for the time being, the archer was content to let himself be steered away from the fight.

somewhere behind him, a feminine voice mumbled something less-than-polite, sighing, as she joined rick in pulling him away from big john.

"you stay away from her, dipshit!" daryl added hotly, "fuckin' weirdo."

"c'mon big guy," she cooed softly, nodding to rick as she steered him towards her house, "let's get you cleaned up."

he let her drag him indoors, towards the kitchen sink where the smell of herbs was the most potent. throughout the dirt and grime that always followed his hunts, it was a welcome respite. earthy and natural in the best, the most tender of ways.

the woman checked his knuckles, tugging on his big, meaty hand to place it under a stream of cold tap water; his skin was clear, once the grime and blood and dirt was washed off. a coupla punches was nothing, his knuckles too seasoned to sustain an injury from something as simple as a fistfight.

in broad daylight, there was no need for her to perch atop him to check the wound on his chest.

daryl swallowed, following her hands with his eyes. in her pristine, clean kitchen, he'd never felt more out of place as she moved aside the neck of his sweat-stained shirt and touched the soft skin of her fingertips to the scab, checking for infection.

the corners of her mouth finally, finally tilted up. an angry, upset expression had no place on her face; daryl could feel himself deflate as the cloud over the head of the little doctor lady finally, finally dissipated.

"you didn't even tear the stitches, I'm impressed," she complimented him softly, brushing the shirt collar back in place and smoothing it out with her palm, "they're dissolvable, luckily. go wash up and come back, I'll put some antibiotic ointment on it just in case. okay?"

her touch burned, but it was a sweet sort of fire. the kind that remained in his mouth after a particularly delicious batch of spicy wings, blooming as he took a deep breath.

he wanted to chase it with his tongue.

his nostrils flared as he exhaled.

"okay, dar?"

she had a nickname for him. she stared at him with those round, trusting eyes, not knowing that in truth, he was no better than big john.

daryl's cheeks flamed.

"okay," he mumbled, unable to refuse her anything when her eyes.., "dun look at me like dat."

"like what?" she frowned again and oh no, this was so much worse than the earnest concern written plain as day on her face just seconds ago.

his heart hammered in his chest. his fingers twitched. he swallowed the lump in his throat, shuffled his feet.

"cya," finally, his legs cooperated! he ran out of the house like the coward that he was.

he didn't come back as she'd requested. he couldn't. instead, he stubbornly stood under an ice cold stream of water, as long as could manage - and it did exactly nada for his racing thoughts or his traitorous body.

the soap carol had made smelled like herbs.

it smelled like the kitchen where tender fingers prodded at his skin, where soft hair briefly brushed his cheek, where the overhead lamp illuminated a halo around the head of the woman that found a home inside his head on most nights.

dusk fell over the settlement as a knock disturbed the miniscule amount of peace he'd managed to find for himself in the darkness of the basement.

"daryl?" rick's voice yelled, "I gotta favour to ask!"

he was there in an instant. "whassup?"

"the doctor lady. big john's bin runnin' his mouth since dinner, ion like it. I think he's gonna be up to no good."

what daryl liked about rick was his straightforwardness and common sense. such concern had place to be. daryl nodded, walking inside to put on a clean shirt and pick up his crossbow.

"I appreciate it," rick clapped him on the shoulder, "I'd stick around myself but judy is teething and michonne has been up for three nights already, m'afraid she's gonna..."

"no probl'm, rick, ah get it," daryl cut off the rambling man, "you go take care of your baby girl."

as daryl made way to the woman's house, his mind switched to defense mode effortlessly. he knew just the perfect spot to perch himself in, away from prying eyes and well within the observation range of the entries to her house. it wasn't the most comfortable of spots but summer nights were warm and the birdsong from the trees provided a childhood sort of comfort under the clear, dark skies.

as he prepared to settle in, the main door to her house cracked open.

she wore short, thin cotton shorts and a worn out t-shirt and nothing else, a steaming cup of tea clutched securely between her palms. her eyes immediately landed on his dark figure attempting to blend into the dusky underbrush.

"I thought you'd be a no-show," she remarked, a playful tone colouring her voice.

daryl had enough conscience to look sheepish. "uhh," he replied, eloquently, taking a hesitant step towards her house. the light breeze blew the hot fumes of her tea right into his nose, momentarily clouding his judgement. he barely could tear his eyes away from the soft, unblemished skin of her legs.

"c'mon," she waved him in, and he followed, obedient, quiet, like a puppy. she made a brief stop at the stove before pushing a cup into his hands, "I made some tea. not terribly sweet for you, I hope. you seem like a black coffee kinda guy."

the upbeat, companionable chatter sent daryl's head reeling. it's like she was completely oblivious to his clumsiness, to his bluntness, to the awkwardness that seemed to take deep root in his bones whenever he was in her presence.

he took a sip, a courtesy, as she made him sit in that recliner chair again, her body warm and comfortable above him. isn't that what you wanted, moron? his head screamed at him, the annoying voice eerily similar to his late brother's.

"it's okay to let me know you're uncomfortable," she spoke quietly as she moved aside the collar of his shirt once more.

he shivered, it's not like he could help himself. "wha?"

"not everyone likes to be... touched," she briefly looked up, then back again as she rubbed the salve around his scabs, sharp chemicals and plastic disturbing the peaceful aroma of her herbal tea, "my ma used to yell at me to, like... stop hugging random people. sometimes I forget that not everyone is perfectly fine with jus' bein' groped."

"hmm," he managed, struggling not to sound like all of his christmases just had arrived at once. she wanted to touch him. well, not just him-

"these days, I'm not particularly keen on that either, but eventually, the touch starvation catches up to me. I'm just glad that, like, carol and rosita don't freak out or anything, when I play octopus with 'em."

"it's... okay," he had to drink to clear his throat, inhale to clear his mind. "ion mind, pretty girl," daryl tried for a smile and was sure it came more like a grimace. he desperately needed practice in that department.

she chuckled, a dulcet little noise, before her eyes shot up to his. whatever she was looking for, she found it; her hands, done with healing his external wounds, stroked slowly over his shoulders, mapping the broad, muscular expanse of them in one fluid motion. the tips of his hair tickled the tops of her palms.

with only a thin cotton barrier separating daryl's skin from hers, it was as close to heaven as he will ever allowed to be. the cup in his hand scalded his rough palms, hot ceramic burning through the callouses: it was like an afterthought of pain and nothing more.

her fingers connected behind his neck, the pads rubbing over the tense muscle there. the groan left his mouth unnoticed by him, until he could feel the smile on her face bloom just like the flowers outside her window.

"you like that?"

"mmm," he managed, weakly. something inside of him was crumbling. maybe it was the tea that had filled his veins with melted sugar and liquified the strong resolve to not let someone like her be tainted by someone like him.

she kept on kneading his neck and shoulders, like a damn cat working graveyard shift at the biscuit cookie factory.

daryl's deep inhale moved his whole body.

she staggered, brief and sweet, tilting heavily into him to keep up her balance and stop herself from falling over. graceful, she was not.

he was met with a parted mouth, so sweet and red and plump, like ripe cherries; right over his nose, just out of reach, sinful and tantalising in it's own right. the pink, moist meat of her tongue was tucked into the corner of it as her eyes narrowed, something between relief and concentration.

seeing him look, the mouth stretched into a smile, making it that much sweeter. she was looking at him, again, like- like that.

her hands faltered, she swayed in place; daryl's instincts got the better of him and he secured her, one hand holding her body by the hip to steady the sudden bout of clumsiness.

"m'sorry, imma klutz," she looked away sheepishly.

he squeezed her hip on response, letting her know it was okay. and it really was more than that: much to his wide-eyed wonder. he felt like he was the one who should be doing the apologizing. but not only did she not shake off his hand, oh no, she leaned further into him, her belly almost touching his bent forearm.

it took a gargantuan amount of effort just to not pull her in all the way. she was most inviting to touch, all soft curves courtesy of semi-regular meals and tender skin despite the blazing summer sun.

daryl's thumb moved up and down the cotton of her shorts absent-mindedly. the sweet little sighs falling from her lips were hard to miss. almost as if it was someone else pushing her into his arms, a well-meaning ghost perhaps; she tilted in on herself to soak up the warmth of his large, hot body.

a trail of goosebumps ran across his scalp, starting from the place she was rubbing gentle circles into it - at the back of his head, where his hairline met his nape. if he was capable of purring, he would.

instead, he groaned again, eyelashes fluttering, casting a moving shadow on his sharp cheeks. his reward was an equally-content sounding sigh as it drafted into his nose, warm and earthy.

the empty cup thudded against the table where he placed it.

her fingers parted his hair gingerly, taking great care to avoid potential tangles. some finer, smaller hairs still pulled, taking some of his self-deprecation and resolve with 'em as the motion traversed his body in a jolt and settled somewhere deep inside the pit of his belly.

this was getting dangerous.

daryl opened his eyes and stared up.

#daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon #daryl dixon fluff #daryl x you #daryl x y/n #daryl x reader #daryl x female reader #twd fanfiction #daryl is so puppydog #i wanna pet him

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justblades · 1 year

Text

⌕ SUCK HIM DRY, 18+

⟢ CHARACTER : jing yuan x afab! reader WC : 1.7k

⟢ WARNINGS : EXPLICIT, MDNI. dubcon, succubus! reader, hypnosis

⟢ SUMMARY : a succubus preys on a luofu general — a battle of wits, who will outsmart the other given that both parties should not be underestimated? perhaps only time can answer.

the mara-struck, the ambrosial arbor— the legends drift to outsiders once they set foot on the xianzhou luofu. almost everything is possible in this setting, it was natural for devils who feed on sins to exist along with these species, and so you descend into the ship undercover, looking for a particular victim.

your interest was piqued by a distinct foxian lady whose ears are tall and in tan color, especially the notable, fluffy tail wagging just behind her. she has a little wooden table set in front of her and atop the birch surface are multiple pictures of a silver long haired male, smile as cunning yet blithe at the same time. the most notable feature however is the angel mark just below his left eye, followed by his long onyx lashes framing his aureate irises.

from the clothing he dons, it was clear-cut he's someone of a high ranking. you were not to be underestimated now that you're running low on your fill, so you opted for unconventional methods: by buying intel about the person and immediately found almost everything the luofu general does. a small price to pay for your deprivation.

apparently his name is jing yuan. it rolls off your long tongue smoothly. his charisma, his aura and his name: he's a perfect target. your adrenaline levels spike as you envision what you'll do to him once you lay your hands on the male, dozen scenarios flashing from one to another.

at present with a remarkable entrance, you finally emerge out from the shadows and make an appearance for your victim. although jing yuan's eyes are heavy lidded as he was a second apart from completely dozing off, he manages to brandish his weapon in an instant, hoisting it at your figure. the indolence he displayed from earlier immediately dissipates into thin air, his masculine voice cuts through the thick ice of tension lingering in the vicinity.

"you finally showed yourself. i've been waiting since earlier." it was just 10 words but he exceeds your expectations. never have your presence been sensed by anybody as that is one of your skills, to be able to conceal yourself and your true identity. jing yuan isn't to be taken too lightly, it appears. but no matter how he was able to anticipate your arrival, he still fell prey on your yearning hands.

he suddenly grunts in struggle as his limbs get pinned down on the sculpted, hazel chair before him. jing yuan loses control of his own body and you continue to stride towards him, a lecherous smile carved on your lips. "general jing yuan . . you're quite an attractive man." you whisper as you lean closer to his face, your hot breath ghosts a caress on the very shell of his ear.

the general was addled at first, trying his best to discern what kind of creature you really are. "you look confused, i'll grant you the privilege of knowing what i am." your words were honeyed as your eyes lock a wary gaze with his golden hues. "i'm just a demon who feeds on people . . the sin of lust particularly, and i'm here to claim your life once i successfully do so."

forcing a kiss on his sultry lips, your fingers grab a hold of his chin, making sure to deepen further your tongue in— making you feel more tantalized than before. jing yuan's brows furrow, continuing to struggle to break free from the curse you laid upon him. quickly breaking the seal of the kiss, you couldn't help but chuckle, "you taste so delicious general! i wonder if it's the same down here."

jing yuan glances at where your other clawed hand trails, his vision landing on his erection, all exposed from how you swiftly ripped his pants open. slowly gliding your digits against his prominent veins of a reddish tan mixed of violet shades, you merit yourself with the general's grunts of arousal as he closes his eyes shut.

he grinds his teeth, "i've heard of such creatures but i never would've imagined they were true." he struggles to speak eloquently like he always does now that he's under your teasing touch. suddenly, a warm feeling envelops his twitching length, only to realize you were sucking his girthy cock. "does it feel good, general?" you query, bobbing your head up and down while making a vacuum like suction as you suck all of him in, your tongue fiddling his dick's folds.

the silver haired throws his head back in defeat, unable to budge a movement as he was stuck in a sitting position. with a succubus pleasuring him, he couldn't deny it was a wonderful sensation. he eventually lets his guttural moans come undone and follow suit one after another, sounding into your ears like awards or prizes for doing your job well. amidst of this, he starts to think of a way to free himself from these invisible restraints but you heeded no mind and continue to indulge yourself in carnal desire.

however as you didn't underestimate jing yuan, the same could be said for you. after all, you meticulously planned to draw away everyone's attention in jing yuan's office just so you can prey on him. time flashes by rather quick and liquids of release sprawl into the hidden depths of your throat as you also toy with your sloppy cunt, growing eager to lap all of him even more.

"one out of three. once you cum thrice, it's a bye bye." the sentence cut off jing yuan's rowdy train of thoughts, but as he was powerless before such specie, you were able to insert his dick in, straddling his thigh, facing the male. he flinches as your tight walls coil around his shape, the head of his dick meeting with your cervix, " . . you're big!" you exclaim, your eyes widening into two full moons, shock coursing through your veins.

resting your hands on his broad shoulders, you begin to bounce on him, raising your ass and push your hips down on his thick, heating dick. your eyes never left jing yuan's, and you swear you could feel how much he's been thinking in spite of the low mewls he lets out— "yes, just keep looking at me like that!" taunting the general even more, his piercing, brazen stare sharpens, almost penetrating right through your soul.

"oh, general . ." you call out to him as you moan his name, "general jing yuan . . xianzhou luofu is such a pretty place!" naughty, squelching noises reverberate inside the vast space, accompanied by you and jing yuan's bit back moans of satisfaction. now locking your hands around his neck and fingers ruffling his long, luscious, ashy strands, you give him another open mouthed kiss, one that is much more gentler than the other, eyes closed to engage with the sensation.

noticing the littlest details of a person's body language, gifted to every succubus or incubus birthed into this universe, you could sense how his dick throbs, signaling for his release soon. the corners of your lips lift, displaying a smug smile once you pick up your speed and add more force on your movements, shaking your hips slowly to earn more sounds from the male's mouth.

"i— i'm—" jing yuan groans and the second round of his climax dawns, filling your velvet walls with his muddy white seed to the point that a good amount seeps into your womb. you feel your body lighten and improve in condition, "i wasn't wrong in choosing you at all. even your cum tastes refreshing— i can also make you do this."

the general's body moves by itself as he bends you over the table this time with one push, your face slapping against the varnished surface. his hand tightly clasped on your shoulder blades, you wiggle your pelvis so his head meets with your lips— and prods through your fluttering folds once more. he heaves deep breaths, more waves of pleasure crashing on him, even though it was against his will, he couldn't deny that he feels good from it.

your head spins as his thrusts were far more powerful than you expected. you didn't take into account how raw power works in these instances but it made the experience hundred times better— you were starting to lose your mind as he fills you with his cock, beads of his satisfaction trickling down past your thighs.

"what a naughty general!" you remark with absolute mockery, "is this what you fantasize about while you keep the luofu's peace, jing yuan?" snickering at the end of your sentence, you were surprised to hear him respond. "yes, and it seems like you're a perfect fit." you were taken aback by his reply.

he proceeds to flip your body around, carrying your figure with his mere two arms. he rises from his position and guides your legs to lock around his waist, his cock reaching deeper than before and rubbing on the other parts of your walls. "what— no! how could y—" jing yuan cuts off your protest with a passionate kiss, you could feel his lips tug into a smirk.

"where's your playful nature now?" jing yuan's words exude of irony and sarcasm: having enjoyment at how confusion washes over your facial features. "i'm not an ordinary being either - i'm afraid to say you only set yourself up for failure." the cocky aura from your stature ceases, jaw falling agape and your lustful eyes' gleam die down.

he speeds up his thrusts, intruding your tight cunt with an unrealistic speed. despite of worry gnawing at your perturbed mind, you couldn't stifle the mewls slipping from your lips. "it only took me . . a while to overcome your binds." the general clarifies and with one last stroke, more strings of milky like substance spring out from his cock, painting your walls white.

as soon as he fills you up, he lets go of your body, making a loud thud sound. you were left there unable to move, even more perplexed as to why. even though it didn't hurt you one bit, your mind was just occupied at just how powerful the general is. he exits your peripheral vision for a while, only to come back with new clothing donned as if the ones you ripped earlier weren't busted at all.

the seat of divine foresight's gates swing open, revealing numerous cloud knights in preparation for combat.

"be careful bringing her to the cell, this one's dangerous. i shall pay a visit later."

my masterlist !

#honkai star rail smut #honkai star rail x reader #jing yuan #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan x reader smut #hsr smut #hsr x reader #hsr x reader smut #honkai star rail x reader smut

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fraugwinska · 2 months

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Hhggffffffgg… pweasd.. pweasd more Leap of Faith. Part two of them meeting each other in hell. Pretty sure they’d end up in hell since suicide is a sin, iirc?

Uweh wahhhh. Felt it real deep of losing the only meaningful connection, the big sadness taking over. I’m sobbing. My heart—

Your writing is amazing as always. I eat that shit up.

...The people have spoken. I am your humble servant. Please accept this offering...

Heavy themes, religious trauma, mental/physical torture Minors please DNI

❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️

Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

Like a shooting star.

You looked like a shooting star against the purple, starless sky of the pride ring, a glowing gold and teal line trailing behind you like a tail.

Alastor pushed his shadows faster through the streets of the pentagram, not a care who he pushed, sliced or scared out of the way - he had to get to you, had to catch you and not let you crash into unforgiving ground, like it was mundane, like you were any other meaningless, unimportant, goddamned sinner.

He couldn't allow it. Wouldn't allow it.

Faster and faster your form grew shape, and he realized that the big, heavy radio that was still in your arms - still pressed tightly to your chest - acted like an anchor, accelerating your plunge, threatening to shatter you into the hard, stony streets underneath, or worse: Through.

"Let go!", he hissed desperately to himself, pulling and yanking and gnashing and urging his shadows to work to their limit, whipping them into a speed that could break both, him and the damned radio, if need be, if you would just slow down and gain him a few more crucial seconds to get to you. The distance between you and him shrunk until your fall felt close, so close, too close, as though if you'd only be conscious to just reach out and outstretch a hand to him, his eldritch tendrils could grab it.

"Come on." His dark silhouette growled, partly manifesting and elongating himself more to maneuver around the last alley corner. "Almost... THERE!"

As a streak of blinding light, like a lightning bolt, and with the force of a crashing plane, you smashed into his solid, physical demonic form, as Alastor manifested into an extension of flesh and limbs right beneath your descending trajectory, and swallowed you right there in his arms before both of you hit the ground.

***

The void around you was dark. Quiet. Endless and expanding. You couldn't feel anything other than the feeling of nothingness surrounding you, floating but at the same time... not. No ground beneath, no sky above - you didn't even know when you hit the water. Was it even water anymore? Did it matter?

In the blindness, you registered the vanta black around you fading into white, bright and scorching. And that feeling you previously lacked bloomed to the front of your consciousness: Pain. Like a thousand needles poking out from every corner of your skull, making you yelp out and whimper. You shifted your body, or at least tried, only to cry out and curl up into yourself, clutching whatever the big and heavy thing was in your arms, tight as the muscles in your upper body convulsed, twitched and trembled at the burning pain. Where the hell were you?

"𝓦𝓮'𝓿𝓮 𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵, 𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓭. 𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮'𝓼 𝓭𝓪𝓻𝓴𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓲𝓷𝓼𝓲𝓭𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽.""

A voice made out of a thousand voices spoke, and it resonated from within you – amplified through every cell of your body, booming and mighty and utterly inhumane. You screamed out the pressure it put on your brain, cried as it felt as though something was pouring into you and flowing out all at once, burning, devouring and replacing every fiber, every strand of DNA. You writhed in agony, wanting to beg for whatever it was to stop, but you were in the hands of an infinite power above you, and so, all you could do was howl and weep.

"𝓘𝓽 𝓱𝓪𝓼 𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓮𝓷 𝓻𝓸𝓸𝓽 𝓲𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾, 𝓵𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝓪 𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓷 𝓯𝓮𝓻𝓽𝓲𝓵𝓮 𝓼𝓸𝓲𝓵."

It was men and women and children, high and deep and loud and quiet and screams and whispers and it overwhelmed you to listen to it.

"𝓑𝓾𝓽 𝔀𝓮 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓶𝓮𝓻𝓬𝓲𝓯𝓾𝓵. 𝓘𝓯 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓽𝓸 𝓻𝓮𝓹𝓮𝓷𝓽, 𝓽𝓸 𝓻𝓲𝓭 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓯 𝓯𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓵 𝓿𝓲𝓷𝓮, 𝔀𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓻𝓲𝓹 𝓲𝓽 𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓰𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓻𝔂 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝓗𝓮𝓪𝓿𝓮𝓷."

Your throbbing hands cramped around the object in your arms, nails scratching on the surface. Wood. Soft wood, warm beneath your fingertips.

"Alastor...", you sobbed through clenched teeth, memories slowly pushing through the pain to the front of your mind, clawing their way through the thick haze of the booming voice of the entity. "I want to go to Alastor..."

"𝓜𝔂 𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓭, 𝓭𝓸 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓶𝓪𝓴𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓬𝓱𝓸𝓲𝓬𝓮 𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓱𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮. 𝓓𝓸 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓪𝓬𝓬𝓮𝓹𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓽𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓸𝓯 𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓵."

"He's not..." A low moan spilled past your dry, bitten lips as another wave of excruciating pain crashed down your spine. Tears stained your cheeks as the radio in your arms felt heavier and heavier, dangerously close to slip from your grip.

"𝓣𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓭𝓮𝓶𝓸𝓷, 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓬𝓸𝓻𝓻𝓾𝓹𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵 𝓼𝓱𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝔀𝓲𝓬𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓷𝓯𝓵𝓾𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮 𝓸𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾."

The voice was patient, neutral, not showing any sign of rage or warmth or even condescension. It only held a commanding power, like a pull from gravity, unintentional, elemental, to give in, to accept, to repent. But you couldn't. Couldn't even if you tried. The tears that came to your eyes now weren't out of pain alone, but because you couldn't help the insurmountable longing to leave, to not be held back any longer.

"Alastor isn't evil or wicked...", your cracked voice whispered. "Not to me..."

"𝓓𝔂𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓪𝓷 𝓪𝓬𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓪𝓽𝓸𝓷𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽, 𝓸𝓯 𝓻𝓮𝓹𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮. 𝓑𝓾𝓽 𝓲𝓯 𝓭𝔂𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓲𝓼 𝓭𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓸𝓯 𝓰𝓸𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓪𝔂, 𝓽𝓸𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓭𝓼 𝓪 𝓽𝔀𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓪 𝓸𝓯 𝓪𝓯𝓯𝓮𝓬𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷, 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓭𝓪𝓶𝓷𝓮𝓭 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓮𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓽𝔂. 𝓛𝓮𝓽 𝓾𝓼 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝔀 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝔀𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓶𝓮𝓪𝓷, 𝓒𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓭."

Torture. It felt as though someone was physically digging through you with dull claws, sawing into your very soul, bending, ripping, breaking and rearranging, molding the picture you had of Alastor to a villain, a torturer, a destroyer, a greedy animal without reason, feasting upon human despair and wailing screams, wreaking havoc and taking lives laughing along the way as he rips fangs into flesh that looked like your own.

"That... isn't him.", you mouthed breathlessly, forcing yourself to focus. "You're a liar."

You fought to come back, with the sound of Alastor's smiling voice, molten with static and spoken with feeling. 'And I can most assure you... pretty is a well fitting word to describe you.'.

"Liar... liar... LIAR!"

The illusion the entity conjured around you began to shatter, as did the images it showed you, breaking and tearing away like rotten paper from the ones you wanted to hold on to... The hours and days and nights spent together, the long and entertaining conversations over meals, his teasing comments and your quick-wit responses, the little things that made his voice lift an octave and a tiny huff, which you learned over the weeks was him trying not to chuckle at your banter. The softness in his tune when he realized you were drifting into slumber. The way he called you his dove.

"𝓦𝓮 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓵𝓪𝓼𝓽 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮. 𝓛𝓮𝓽 𝓾𝓼 𝓼𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾, 𝓒𝓱𝓲𝓵𝓭."

the entity said, though their tone had begun to waver, echoing withing the faint sound of breaking glass.

"𝓛𝓮𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓲𝓷𝓷𝓸𝓬𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮 𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓮𝓻𝓿𝓮𝓭. 𝓛𝓮𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓷 𝓸𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵, 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓭𝓮𝓶𝓸𝓷 𝓫𝓮𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓭, 𝓪𝓬𝓬𝓮𝓹𝓽 𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓼𝓪𝓵𝓿𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷, 𝓸𝓻 𝓫𝓮, 𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻, 𝓪 𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓽 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓮𝔂𝓮𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓰𝓸𝓭."

You felt heat creeping up your legs, as if your skin was bubbling, burning and it was hard to speak, as the smell of cauterized flesh and blood filled your nose. Bones were shifting, limbs trembling and twisting as if they wanted to turn you inside out, skin color changing and fading into palish white, nails growing into slender blue talons, something rough and rigid sprouting from your back and shoulders. But you only tightened your arms around the radio, eyes pressed close and teeth grit together.

You've had enough.

"Fuck your lies, fuck your salvation and FUCK. YOUR. GOD."

Gravity returned in an instant, like someone cut a hole through space, the air and heat from your lungs gone as it ripped you from the strange white with unexpected violence – malevolence even - body flaying in the sudden wind of the descend.

Purple and red shades swirled before your eyes, wild strands of glittering golden hair fluttered in and out of your vision, barely recognizing them as your own. The heat of the air and the sight of a black pentagram on a red sun, sinking slowly beyond a tumbling horizon were the last things you noticed before unconsciousness reached mercifully out to claim you again.#

***

“Angel! Get Charlie over here, I found 'im!”

Husk stared down the crater, trying to wrap his head around the sight before him. His ears flicked as he heard Angel shouting something unintelligible to the girls, his footsteps quickly nearing the place where he stood.

“She's comin' in a sec, she and Vagina ran ova' to the maneater colony to get Rosie and... what in Satans left ballsack?!”

The spiders' eyes widened when he saw what Husk saw - Down the deep and wide cavity, right in the middle, was a twitching, faintly green glowing mass of tentacles and limbs. A distorted groan rumbled from below, thick and riddled with static feedback as Alastor's corrupted form slowly receded to normalcy – as normal as he was. He was lying on his back, curled around the motionless form of a naked female demon. Her legs were pulled up, a limp hand with short, teal talons pressed against the side of the radio demons wild, madly grinning face, while the other was trapped and hidden in between both bodies.

Both Angel and Husks hairs stood on ends at the sound he made, not daring to move or draw attention to themselves until Alastor had regained full consciousness and, most of all, reason back. The unknown sinner that was pressed against Alastor's chest had gray, crooked looking wings sprouting from her back, various shades of teal staining the ragged tips. Her skin was white, bordering on cream with some spruce and azure specks that traveled over her neck and shoulders. From where they stood they could see blonde locks tangled in Alastor's claws, shimmering in hell's twilight as if they were made out of real gold.

Angel gave his partner a nervous side glance, as if expecting him to say or do something. "Should we... holy mother of shitballs, this is so fucked up... umm... should we get them out of..."

"̷S̷̷ T̷̷ A̷̷ Y̷ ̷W̷̷ H̷̷ E̷̷ R̷̷ E̷ ̷Y̷̷ O̷̷ U̷ ̷A̷̷ R̷̷ E̷."

Husk had only heard Alastor's voice like this on a few occasions and those instances had almost always ended in bloodshed. He shook his head at Angel in a silent warning, gripping one of his wrists when the blackened pits of the radio demon found his, glaring at him with glowing crimson iris'. It sent a shiver down the cat's back, and Angel, feeling the tremble of his partner and sensing that this was a rare occasion where he should keep his usual, lewd remarks to himself, cleared his throat.

"I-Is a'ight Smiles, we're not movin'. Charlies' comin, and she's bringin' Rosie, so just... chill, okay? No one's gonna hurt y-your uh... girlfriend?" Angel forced himself to remain eye contact, swallowing against the growing lump in his throat.

Alastor didn't answer for a good minute or two, eyes shifting over Husks' grim, but wary face and Angels worried one, before looking back down, the flames of anger and fear dying as soon as his gaze fell on the woman cradled in his lap. Her pale, motionless face was partially hidden by her hair, but the features he recognized were much like the ones she had before she did the unthinkable. Her breathing was slow and shallow - but, above all, she was here, right here, next to him, unbroken from the fall, safe in his arms...

He brushed a few stray strands of her golden mane aside, watching closely as her chest barely heaved and fell, transfixed at the movement, the guarantee that she lived. He lifted one his hands to caress her cheek, the motion much more careful and tender than either Angel or Husk thought him capable of, wiping off tiny pieces of debris from the radio she had carried like a lifeline. It had been burst by the impact, splinters of mahogany wood and shards of metal wiring scattered around them both. The top of her left wing had suffered some damage, no doubt the result of the force of his grip as he caught her, little cuts and smears of dried blood covering her sides.

"My dove. My foolish, silly, lonely girl.", his strained voice breathed, his usual filter missing, as he turned her unresponsive face gently with the tip of his claw, hoping to see any indication that the girl that he had driven to the lengths of sheer, reckless stupidity was still here with him.

The sound of steps on the broken concrete made his head turn with a sickening crack. Alastor was now curled completely over you, his arms wrapped tightly around your figure, hiding your vulnerable and exposed body from view. Rosie had arrived alongside the princess and her partner, all of them short of breath and as shocked and confused as the other two demons to find the radio demon and a freshly fallen sinner, locked into an awkward embrace.

He watched her kneeling next to him, her expression was best described as compassionate curiosity. When he didn't move, didn't talk, didn't acknowledge her presence around him, his form only slightly moving to shield your motionless frame away, Rosie, ever the understanding and pragmatic lady she was, carefully reached over to him and set a gloved hand onto his shoulder in reassurance. Her razor sharp smile was soft as she held his blackened gaze for a heartbeat.

"Seems like I will meet your little dove after all, my dearest friend. But now, let's get you both somewhere safe."

***

You opened your eyes to red. All red. Everywhere red. Warm and bright and comforting.

A sensation tickled your head and nose, feathers, brushing the top of them with a barely there touch. You wanted to brush them away, but your arms felt heavy and warped and strange, unable to be lifted. Slow blinks put your eyes into focus, like the lens of a camera that was getting adjusted on it's intended shot.

You were looking at a red painted ceiling, and when you strained your aching head to tilt a little your eyes slowly wandered over luscious, ornate wallpaper in burgundy's and scarlet's, morbid looking horns and skulls mounted on the walls next to slightly askew, empty picture frames. A heavy, dark bookcase on your right was full of tattered tombs, books and magazines, small models of twisted looking skeletons and an old, vintage... radio...

Everything clicked back into place.

Alastor, gone.

The bridge, dark over the water.

The black and the white.

The voice and the pain and the lies and the fall...

Your breath hitched, and your heart started to pound faster and louder, thrumming violently in your ears as you fell into panic, eyes frantically forcing your body to move, to search, until you realized you were stuck underneath the weighted presence of a head that rested upon your sternum, tufts of soft black and red hair draped over your chest, slightly covering a face hidden away in the crook of your neck. A low, quiet hum of white noise came from the person the head belonged to, sitting at your bedside and upper body half-slumped over you... a sound resonating deep within you, stirring up all too familiar feelings.

He was still, but clearly breathing, and he hadn't moved even though your pulse must've skyrocketed. A raspy gasp of relief and astonishment escaped you. It had worked. You really had done it. And Alastor...

You started to sob, loud and violent, your chest burning and heavy, but not out of fear or panic anymore but the impact of a thousand feelings of pure happiness. The sounds woke the creature slumbering on your shoulder, his shoulders twitched, and you could see him lift his head to slowly look up, dark circles under his crimson eyes.

Your name rolled over this demons lips, not a word, no greeting, only a longingly whispered name, spoken with a broken, ragged, familiar voice. It made you finally cry, tears spilling from you uncontrollably, unable to stop, unable to think. You heard him call your name again, saw the widening grin of his mouth through watery eyes, his arm reaching out to brush your tear-stained cheek. He didn't manage to even fully extend his fingers when your shaking hands reached out to grab his lapels, pulling him into you so that you could finally touch him, feel him instead of just hearing him. Finally tangible, finally underneath your fingers as well as your skin.

"It's you... i-it's you right?", you stammered breathlessly, voice wrought with tears of happiness. "A-Alastor. I found you, I'm not dreaming, You're Alastor..."

"At your service, my dear...", Alastor shushed softly, one hand gently caressing your hair as you leaned into the warmth of the touch. His wide smile wavered for a moment, gaze shifting to something sad and mournful as he pulled himself away to look at you.

"But you shouldn't be here, my dove." He sighed, but as he looked back to you and saw the frightened, horrified expression on your face he shook his head, leaning his brow against your own, a gesture of assurance.

"I never intended for you to be here. You didn't deserve this death, and hell doesn't deserve you."

"H-Heaven can take a long walk off a short pier..." You tried to speak with a steady voice, but failed, as your whole body began to shudder in bubbling anger at the mere implication of this cursed entity. The one that claimed to be merciful salvation but had no problem with cruel manipulation. You blinked a couple of tears away, drawing a trembling breath, before meeting his tired eyes.

"I was... in some strange place. I was offered redemption, if I..."

You frowned, sitting up slowly, careful not to make him withdraw more, holding onto the sleeves of his jacket with stiff, aching hands.

"They wanted me to denounce you. If I renounced you they... would've let me enter heaven. When I didn't want to, when I said I wanted to go to you... They showed me things while hurting me. Horrible, disgusting lies."

Your breath quickened and the corners of your vision darkened, and you realized with a shuddering panic that you were close, way too close to breaking down into sobs again. Your claw-like nails dug into the material of his sleeve as you struggled to compose yourself, ripping tiny cuts into it. You took a deep breath, pushing through the memory, reliving it until...

Your shoulders shook. For a moment, you felt him shifting, as if he'd expected you to burst into tears again. Instead, you laughed. You laughed despite your chest hurt, and even harder when you saw his floored, surprised face.

"I basically told god to go fuck himself."

For a heartbeat or two, silence enveloped both of you. Alastor blinked once, then twice, the third time his grin fell slowly. Another beat later he buried his face in the crook of your neck and...

...the boisterous, unmuted laughter, roaring, insane cackling, so deep and resounding, you could feel it in your stomach, erupted from him. Alastor almost toppled over as he tore himself from you, raking a hand trough his hair as his head shook, a manic, wonderfully impish grin tugging on the corners of his mouth.

"You know I don't think you were honest with me about your name, dove. Your initial answer of 'crazy' seems much more fitting."

Alastor was laughing so hard, his whole body was trembling with the effort. You felt yourself giggle, then unrestrained laughing along, but it died in your throat when his lips found yours in a sudden swift moment. It was full of everything. Full of curiosity, of promises and hope, it was the saving grace you sacrificed heaven for. You smiled into it, moved your lips against his, gentle and chaste, before he pulled away too soon and pressed his forehead against yours. You could feel his warm, slow breathing against your cheeks.

"How fortunate for you that I work best with 'crazy'."

Your beaming smile slowly faded, your hands finding his face to make him look at you. There was one more weight you had to lift off.

"I'm sorry.", you whispered, closing your eyes. “I'm sorry for...”

"Don't be, dear. I was at fault, fearing our connection would... weaken me." He sighed. "You might not understand it right now, but I will tell you everything, once you're fully recovered. Can you wait for that?"

You nodded, a small, grateful curl forming on your lips. You opened your eyes to stare into his, crimson, bright and intense, and yet soft and affectionate. Eyes you always tried to envision, although nothing you imagined came close to the real thing.

"Do you... still think it?", you asked, voice shaking slightly.

Alastor hummed a questioning noise, prompting you to continue, which you did, after a second of hesitation. "Me, weakening you. Do you still think it?"

His quiet laughter resounded in your ears, filling you with warmth and making your heart skip a beat.

"My silly, darling dove. With the woman on my side who dared to throw curses at the face of our very creator - What could ever stop me now?"

And, as Alastor's smile grew wide, and your own mirrored it, you were claimed by red claws and a hot, eager mouth once again, kissed again by those soft, sinful lips, the lips of your friend, your savior, your love - the devil himself, whispering the answer to his question unspoken through your skin right into your heart.

Nothing could stop the both of you now.

Nothing at all.

Taglist for the most awsome people that walk the earth: @littledolly2345 @sleepywritersworld @crescentparadise @rapturenyx-blog @phisen @alastorsgirl48 @mullet-mother @sirens-and-moonflowers

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel fanfiction #fraugwinskawrites #angel dust #charlie morningstar #hazbin husk #rosie hazbin hotel #angst #fluff #happy ending because WE NEEDED IT #TW: dark themes #religious trauma #for the frauchen #I almost died writing this what even is sleep

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tremendum · 1 month

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Me and the Devil; ii

(not my gif) .·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·: Paul Atreides x fem!reader previous next series masterlist

word count: 7.1k

summary: Paul knows that whatever he is feeling, you're likely feeling a hundred times more. So, for both your sakes, he will learn to live with you, and it will start tonight. It will start with the box to his right.

warnings: allusions to smut, knife kink if you squint very hard, still the same familial trauma, descriptions of blood/violence, Paul and reader are beefing, fear, Paul has one (1) almost-panic attack, still switching POVs, no betas because i am lazyyyyy

notes: thank u all AGAIN for the support and feedback, its what keeps me motivated :) i am planning on posting the next update later today over on AO3, so i figured i'd post another chapter on here too! lmk what y'all think, tysm for the support! love to u all xx

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In the revered customs of House Bourbon, the path to marriage is paved with cherished rituals and symbolic gestures, each sacred to the planet Sabberon's culture. Though the house may have dwindled in stature over the past three centuries, its customs and rituals remain a testament to the enduring legacy of a once-great lineage.

Unlike the grandiose affairs of some of the larger noble houses, betrothal within House Bourbon is a deeply intimate and sacred process, guided by the rhythms of nature. Rooted in their own ancient spiritual religion, which has endured through centuries of change and upheaval, marriage is viewed as not merely a union between two individuals, but a harmonious life in the embrace of the natural world.

This section reviews the process of Courtship and Betrothal for the House of Bourbon, including:

Betrothal Gifts

Heirloom Exchange

Harvest Festival Offering

Ceremony: Handfasting Ritual and Vows

Marriage Consummation.

- "Chapter 68: Customs of Marriage," The Noble Lineage: Exploring the Customs and Cultures of the Houses Major of Landsraad. Atreides Library.

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The video drones on as Paul stares absently, his eyes heavy. There's a skip suddenly, jolting his head on his jaw as he blinks down at the textbook. The words are blurry until he shakes his head, resuming reading along as the documentary plays; a faint twitch in his left eye has not left since he started reading the chapter.

"marriage consummations are a deeply personal and intimate affair..." the voice, factual, settles unease within Paul's stomach. Averting his eyes from the screen, he scans the page in front of him, trying to fight the resentment that bubbles in his chest.

Among the more unique of traditions of House Bourbon, the consummation of marriage takes place outdoors, through a path walked by many ancestors. Upon a pristine white sheet, under the House's Sacred Pine Tree, this ritual symbolizes not only producing legally recognized descendants, but also the sacred union of the betrothed with nature and their ancestral lineage.

Paul's eyes read the passage unblinkingly as his cheeks burn; his throat dries quickly.

A clear of his throat, he looks to Thufir Hawat, who watches the video documentary with an irritatingly calm expression. What kind of archaic ritual culture did this house have? He can hardly imagine you practicing these traditions on Giedi Prime; This thought makes his mouth sour and a wave of realization washes over Paul, leaving him with a sense of profound unease.

As his eyes flick back to the textbook in front of him, the words blurring and dancing before his vision, he bristles. They mock him with their implications; slowly he feels the weight of expectation bearing down on him, pressure threatening to suffocate him.

He was trained from a young age for this, but it is all happening much too quick. The blood slams through Paul's veins suddenly in pounding bursts; the noises are too loud, the walls too close. Anger washes over him, his jaw clenching tight.

"Perhaps I should be studying Harkonnen tactics instead of this." he mutters, crossing his arms defiantly. "She's likely much more accustomed to that, anyways." It's childish, sure - he can barely breathe, however, and his tunic is stuck to his chest. His breathing is hard.

"Paul, you mustn't-"

His rage takes hold, though. "-No! Nobody will listen. She was one of them for almost half a decade. She was accused of espionage, her family was proved of it - who's to say this isn't one big Harkonnen plot?"

The man lets him get out his anger - Mentat training can take a lot out of one, anyways; Paul can't bring himself to school his emotions today. Why is his father not more concerned with the girl's presence?

"Thufir." Paul snaps suddenly, standing abruptly, his heart thundering in his chest.

The Mentat looks to him - Paul sighs. "I will read about this later, I swear to it. But I'd prefer to train right now, if it's all the same to you."

There is a clear hesitation, but Paul's cold stare earns him a conceding sigh.

"Very well. Your father suggests you gift her soon, but..." He finishes, clearly noticing the overwhelmed look on Paul's face. "Sit down, my Lord. Let us begin today with cause and effect-"

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The sun hides behind sullen clouds when it hits midday, casting long shadows of light among the windows.

When you woke early in the morning, your handmaidens told you that the Duke wished to meet with you later in the afternoon, and that you're invited to join the family for supper this evening. Besides this, your day is free.

So you lie in bed most of the morning, staring warily at the dark corner of your bedroom, half-expecting the ghost to emerge from the shadow again; clenching your jaw, expecting him to come out, to crawl over your frame, to trap your jaw in his sinister grip.

He doesn't, though, and eventually you call in the maids for a spot of tea.

You feel like anything is better than meeting with the Duke - In your reluctance you'd been struck with a feeling of restlessness, anxiety curling warm as a small cat in your stomach.

Sitting up straight from where the maids had been styling your hair, you'd cleared your throat; "I'd like to go explore." you'd stated, fingers aching for the comfort of metal.

They'd shared looks of surprise - you pretended not to notice. You haven't left your room much in the days since arriving on Caladan, besides attending meals and the one time Paul had escorted you around the premises - truthfully, you still feel like you're in a dream.

You'd sat patiently as they insisted you bathe, eating a full meal before the sun had hit the middle of the sky. The maids finally dress you in casual clothes and quietly, with the need to do something with your hands, you decide to find the armory.

Pulling yourself together, you leave your chambers quietly, hoping to avoid contact with anyone who may be around at this hour. You can't help the smile on your lips when you take a deep breath - It's more fresh in this castle.

Perhaps your lungs are so used to heavily recycled air within your confines back on Giedi Prime, or you're trying to find something to prove that what you've endured hasn't been for nothing; That this life will be, in some way, better than that one ever could have been.

You slink through the halls, on alert each time you pass a guard or worker, hoping you run in to no familiar faces. You've chosen to deny an escort through the castle; you prefer to be alone to your thoughts, anyways.

A shiver runs down your back as you take in the patterned wooden beams that place intricate shadows over your frame; high, vaulted ceilings, old stone that feels wet to the touch. This place is truly beautiful in an ancient, grand way.

In another world, you would have felt such joy to call this your home.

Today's clothing is more forgiving; your trousers are loose but more reinforced at the hips and waist, allowing you to move much quicker and quietly through the halls. The only noise you emit is from your cloaked veil. Momentarily, you debate just ripping the veil off, burning it in one of the several hearths in the vicinity.

A small rage burns within you, simmering and igniting more each day you go on like this - resentment for the customs that you barely know, for your house that no longer exists. You wish to see the planet without green-tinted vision.

But the image of your sister's grave all those years ago; the sight of your family falling in the sand pit of the Harkonnen arena... you swallow thickly.

The walls seem much more empty as you go further into the castle's bowels, dragging your palm along the cool stone. As you round a corner, you're stopped in your tracks upon an ornate doorway, its intricate carvings catching your eye.

There is an engraving of a man and a bull deep in the wood of the door and your fingers trace over the lines of the man's shoulders before you gently push against it.

It gives easily.

Inside is a dimly lit study; The room is filled with shelves upon shelves of ancient tomes and artifacts, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and dust. The breath you take is blown back out with particles of dust in the sunlight - several pieces of select furniture are covered with sheets, as if the room is no longer commissioned.

You bite the sense that you're somewhere you're not supposed to be. You know there is no true danger - if you were to wander somewhere you didn't belong on Giedi Prime, you'd have been punished. You doubt, however, that the guards here would dare touch you unless you gave them a reason to.

You walk along the treasure trove of secrets, hidden away from prying eyes; a large hawk spreading its wings carved in the window in front of you.

It's large, proud; green and black with gold embellishments. The Atreides colors.

There's a book that your forefinger traces - a deep blue color, the spine is old and well-read. A few of the pages are even dog-eared, the dust deliberately swept off its pages as if it was read recently. Caladan: A Comprehensive Ecological Study of Biodiversity.

You nearly pull it out to study its contents, momentarily forgetting the task of finding the armory in your piqued interest; Yet you can explore further, you hear footsteps approaching from behind.

Hair stands up on your neck.

They're light, sneaking- intentionally quiet. You whirl around quick, snarling as your hand instinctively goes to your hip. You come up empty, a flash of disappointment washing over you as a reminder of your absent beloved nameday knife.

You turn just in time to see Paul Atreides standing in the doorway, his expression shockingly guarded as he takes in the sight of you standing amidst the shelves. You flounder, having expected it to be one of your handmaidens coming to redirect you, or perhaps a member of the Duke's guard.

Paul stares at you, too - clearly, he was not expecting to see you either. His eyes turn suspicious, flickering to the desk beside you, towered with old texts on the Atreides family and war strategy.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, his voice cold and accusatory. His cheeks are red, eyes narrow - he’s harsh in the dim lighting, when you'd thought he'd look soft. You don't need to see the crazed look in his eyes to see he's flustered about something. Irritated.

"This is my father's old study. It's not meant for prying eyes," Paul's voice slices through the air, sharp and accusatory.

Your heart lurches at the implication, a rush of heat prickling your skin as you stiffen. "I was looking for a place to train," you shoot back, your tone laced with defiance. You refuse to cower under his suspicion, no matter how thinly veiled. "I didn’t intend to intrude on your father's privacy. You may give him my apologies when you see fit."

The air seems to crackle in the distance between you, thick and palpable as Paul's piercing gaze meets yours, distrust laced through his gaze even as he maintains his chivalrous facade. The way his eyes narrow sends a surge of indignation coursing through you, your pride flaring in response.

"Forgive me if I’ve offended you," Paul's words are clipped, his tone tinged with an edge that sets your jaw tight. "Considering certain connections you may have, it's important to be cautious in matters of trust. But if you're lost, then allow me to escort you."

You bristle at the narrowly disguised accusation, your temper heating your cheeks. "Forgive me for assuming you’d know better than to judge me based on the actions of others," you retort, your voice sharp with wound. "Please don't exert yourself, my Lord, I'm sure I can find the armory without a chaperone."

With a sharp pivot, you brush past him in the doorway, your steps quick and purposeful. Each footfall echoes in the corridor, a staccato rhythm that you cannot bring yourself to care about hiding. Anger pulses through your veins, simmering your resentment. You refuse to be belittled or underestimated, not by him or anyone else.

Paul told you just yesterday that you will one day be Lady Atreides; if he is so afraid of your so-believed connections with House Harkonnen, why has he not insisted you be cast away?

You've observed Paul and his father together, and it's clear he is valued not just because he is the son of the Duke but because he is smart, cunning. Your face darkens at a thought as you tear past corners, finally rounding into a familiar area.

Your own lineage is gone. A house as old as the planet it ruled, burnt to the ground - the other Houses Major complacent and willing to see it happen - and they plan to use you for themselves.

You barely see anything but red.

If they think you can be manipulated to their advantage, they are sorely mistaken. you may be betrothed to Paul Atreides, but you will never be a part of their house; your blood is the ancient blood of the Pine, of the Sword.

You'll have to be a wife to the future Duke - sire an heir, live in the castle, command the planet. But you will not go down easy.

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The armory is not as empty as you'd wished.

In fact, it is one person too many; you're mistaken sorely when you storm in, chest heaving and cheeks hot with anger, to find one person standing in the middle of the floor. You are vibrating with hurt, anger boiling over - the only thing that will placate you might be swinging a knife.

"Duncan." You greet him icily, your voice devoid of warmth. He faces you, blinking back his surprise. He uses your first name like a secret as he greets you; a flip of your stomach. You'd almost forgotten that name.

"Is everything alright?" He asks. A foolish question, really. You want to scream - Why did you wait so long to get me? Where were you? Where were my parents?

But you already know the answer. They were doing nothing. You grit your teeth, instead striding purposefully towards him.

"You're the Swordmaster of the Duke." You remark coolly, masking your anger - You know this, of course; He's been Duke Leto's Swordmaster since before you were bore into the world.

"That's right." He affirms, wary of your movements as you stride towards the weapons rack.

"I find myself missing my knife - If I remember correctly, you took it from me on Giedi Prime." You walk slowly towards the center of the sparring mat where he stands, in front of the rack of shortswords. "I would like it back."

To your surprise, Duncan nods. "Of course." he replies, "Would you like to spar for it?"

He reads you like a book.

"No honor without a fight.” you acquiesce; Fighting a man is much better than fighting a dummy, anyways - more to hit, more pain to inflict. Without waiting for a response, you snatch a blade from the rack; He tosses you a shield that you activate swiftly, assuming an offensive stance as he settles his own.

For a moment, neither of you does anything; your blood pulses through you, eager to take out your anger, eager to show him who you've become.

To show that you're the beast everyone expects you to be.

You lunge at him and quickly are reminded of the skill of the man in front of you. You haven't sparred with anyone in over a week; In the commotion of your family's abdication, the arenas had been filled to the brim with your house's soldiers the whole week leading up to your exit from Giedi Prime. Even Feyd had been too occupied to fight you; Though, perhaps feeling sentimental, he’d let you pull your blade on him that last evening when you’d been on him, breath heavy against each other.

It takes only minutes before your muscles are aching, screaming; The frustration of the morning and the despair within your stomach spurs you forward, keeping your feet under your body.

Soon, your panting and the clang of steel on steel fills the room, punctuated only by both you and Duncan's measured breathing.

It’s been a long time since you trained with Duncan Idaho. You used to move together like water, even when you were just fifteen; he'd taught you how to fight like a Ginaz - your bloodline - and though his visits were sparse, he'd see you for your planet’s harvest festivals, always with a blade in your grip and your brother's hand in the other.

You were graceful when you were young and still learning. But now you're quick, snarling like a rabid dog, lashing out with teeth and nail.

It feels nothing like it used to be.

"Have something to say, Idaho?" you ask, letting out a quick gasp as he gets near to taking you down, ducking at the last second as he charges your right side. He’d been sending you looks of interest at your newfound techniques for several minutes.

He lets out a breath as you slide past him, slamming your elbow hard into his side; A dirty move, but all is fair in war, right?

"You fight different, Little Bourbon," He's at least breaking a sweat; you're drenched, muscles fatigued as you fight his blade, straining with the adrenaline of a fight. He said the same thing days ago.

You're out of breath; "You already told me that." Your voice is faint as you wipe sweat from your brow, parring an attack to your left side. "It's the veil." You grit your teeth.

To be fair, it could be the veil - it's restrictive, catching on corners, pinning beneath your arm or tangling as you fight hand-to-hand. You can't see well wearing it.

His brow lifts, "I think it's probably the four years with those beasts."

Your blood runs cold; expression souring, your hackles rise.

"What do you know of those beasts?" You snap, heart pounding as you think of the man who'd once been your intended - who'd called you his pet but paraded you like a wife. Spoiled you, ruined you. Tortured you, nurtured you - What was that old saying, about biting the hand that fed you?

But suddenly Feyd-Rautha is in front of you, wielding both curved blades with that sinister black smile. You stumble back for a second, staring at his intimidating, lithe frame as he laughs a mirthless, dangerous chuckle down at you.

Don’t worry, my pet. I will find you again.

Heart in pain, you lash out, grunting as you swipe at his face; It's Duncan, though, and you can't hide the gasp as you blink away the vision. Your heart thuds heavy between your ribs.

He jolts back, tutting. "I didn't mean to imply that it is a weakness, my lady." He blocks a blow and you struggle for a moment against his sheer strength; with a twinge of anger, you can tell he's going easy on you.

He continues on. "-Far from it. you seem to forget that I've fought them, but that is besides the point-" He's momentarily distracted when he disarms you, and you use the opportunity to flip sideways, jumping gracefully over the water station to retrieve your blade. His face betrays a look of appreciation at your acrobatics, smirking as the pitcher of water shakes slightly.

Concealing a grin, you creep back around, launching into an attack that he parries quickly, dropping you on to your side. You grunt, kicking with your legs to twist, trying to force his body off of yours - a momentary weakness, and you're done.

He stares down at you, raising his brows. "I'm just saying, maybe there's aspects of your training that could benefit from a more balanced approach." He finishes his sentence just as he bests you, your blade flipping against your own ribs as he forces your arm tight against yourself. you hiss and twist; to no avail.

He's won.

Still fighting the adrenaline from your vision of Feyd, you snarl. "What are you implying? I'm too rabid an animal for you people to tame? Is House Atreides scared of Little Bourbon?" You snap, eyes alight with heat. "Or, are they just afraid I've become Little Harkonnen?" you snap.

He does not take your bait. Instead, he rolls off of you, standing up and offering you a hand. With a sharp glance, you take it, letting him pull your full weight off the ground as if you're nearly weightless.

"What I am saying is that I am here every day. Come train whenever you please."

You sigh, side cramping as you move from his grip to pour yourself a glass of water. You pour a shaky one for Duncan, too, trying to fight the creeping sensation that he's talking to a stranger. He grasps the water gently, watching you from the corner of his eye.

The hesitation makes your jaw clench in anticipation; You busy yourself by examining the various blades that lie before you, knowing what's to come.

Finally, he says your name softly. "We haven't gotten to discuss any of this..." he is clearly trying to put together words, but you cannot bear to hear them - you drag your finger along a curved blade, eyes squinting shut.

"I'm sorry. I…" he starts gently, trailing off as if he can't bear to say it out loud, reaching out to touch your arm but thinking twice. His fingers hesitate just before your bicep.

Just as much; You fight not to recoil from his touch, swallowing hard as you step away slightly, tossing the knife back on the rack. "I'm fine," you reply curtly, voice steelier than ever. "Nothing to do about it now."

Duncan sighs, but does not call your bluff. You almost appreciate him for it.

"Now where did you put my knife?"

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You're struck with an observation when you sit in the conference hall across from the Duke later that afternoon: They do not sit like a council, looking down at you - instead, the table is rounded with only one seat missing, next to Halleck. You suspect Paul's is the body absent from the chair; he’s training with Duncan, then. You must have just missed him on your way back.

Cautiously, your fingers toy with your newly reclaimed blade, its shine restored with the etchings across the hilt. You're significantly tired after your sparring, but Duncan’s words have settled a thin blanket of unease over you that pulls taught when your eyes land on the Lady Jessica. Her eyes stare unblinking at you, and though there is a soft smile upon her lips, you have to fight to resist a snarl.

The Duke is serious as he regards you, hands clasping as you make yourself comfortable; he holds up a hand to stop the guards who unsheathe their blades when you set your own blade down in front of you for all to see.

A threat, or perhaps a sign of respect. You're unsure.

"Lady Bourbon, thank you for meeting with us." His voice is a deep caramel, not unlike his son's - years of diplomatic training. "We know how hard this can be. The weight of your sudden responsibility does not go unappreciated."

You nod curtly, gaze fixed on the table before you; You've never been known for your patience. "How may I be of service, my Lord?"

At your deflection, he nods slightly, "I was told you spent the afternoon training with Duncan Idaho." He speaks plainly and you are, if nothing else, appreciative of that; His eyes glance over the short sword that lays in front of you, to the signature black leather that wraps around the hilt. Once, it had served as a claim - but now, you're unsure.

"Yes, my Lord." You say, voice serious and strong.

The Duke’s brows are low over his eyes; an expression you can imagine on his son's face quite easily. You're unsurprised Paul has become such a well-respected figure in the castle even with the workers and servants who tend to you every morning - even this morning Hestia told you of his rigorous training but also of his intelligence, diplomacy, and honor. While you had clenched your jaw at her words, you now suppose in a diplomatic sense, he will assume his father's role quite perfectly one day.

"We'd like to reiterate that you are free to pursue your interests, to educate yourself, and to engage in hobbies that bring you joy. We hope for you to consider this your home, and know that we are here to support you in any way we can." Lady Jessica says, her voice quiet but intense; much like her son.

This is… not what you’d anticipated. You sit, rigid as a board, eyes wide. You're unsurprised that your unease on this planet is clear - you barely sleep, you never eat around them, you barely speak, choosing to keep to yourself.

"We would like to know of your interests so we may set you up with any materials you may need. I'd like to introduce to you Dr. Yueh, as well as Thufir Hawat, who have volunteered to help tutor you should you wish. Duncan Idaho also wishes to help you train if you see fit. I understand you knew him when you were young." The Duke offers, sitting straight in his seat.

Much to your chagrin, your eyes burn with unshed tears as you slowly process the words. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, you're being offered a taste of freedom.

It sends you into fight or flight; your heartbeat pounds against your ribs, your hands clenching hard. You feel cornered, but take a breath. There is no hostility here.

I must not fear. fear is the mind-killer. fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me.

Clearing your throat, you lift your head slightly. "Your...generosity overwhelms me. I was educated for a while in politics and local economics, and I've always been fascinated by botany and ecology- I..." your mouth is incredibly dry, voice void of emotion. You bite your lip, one tear slowly tracking over your cheek; You really must be exhausted.

"Thank you." You don't know what else to say.

There is a small gleam of recognition that passes Duke Leto's eyes at your words, his smile intrigued. "Those are noble pursuits. You have similar interests to my own son - I believe you two will have much to discuss."

Your mouth bitters at the suggestion and you try not to squirm in your seat; For a moment, you'd slipped away - into a world where you are their daughter, a world where you aren't tainted by the last several years, by the crimes of your House- where you haven’t been turned into a monster that hisses at a glimpse of the sun.

But of course, as you'd expected, there is no good will for free: The next words set your back rigid.

"Though we are hesitant to put you into another painful situation, it is hard to deny just how helpful you could be to us, my Lady." Gurney Halleck speaks from besides the Duke.

Your eyes snake to him, your back prickling. You resist the urge to run, or to throw your blade at his head.

"-and we hope, when you are ready, you might give us some insight into your previous arrangements." He says, surprisingly delicately.

You can't help but bristle at the sentiment; the offer of cooperation feels more like coercion. You don't by law owe the Atreides anything besides wedding their son, but the implications of the arrangement suggest a lifetime of servitude towards them - and you despise owing people anything.

Perhaps, if not just the Harkonnens, they prefer you for your relationship with your bastard mother's sister, the lady of House Ginaz? This thought has several times crossed your mind, but you're sure they'd be displeased to hear of how strained such relationship became when the Harkonnens started filtering your messages.

Barely any of her letters made it to you for the last several years in your time at Giedi Prime, and you're almost certain none of yours made it out at all. You haven't heard from her in some time.

You wait a moment, collecting your thoughts and willing yourself to only reveal what you need them to know. Self-preservation builds itself around you like rock-solid armor. "During my time with the Harkonnens, I became privy to certain..." you purse your lips, looking for the right word, "lateral moves."

Gurney Halleck's eyes fly to you, as do Lady Jessica's.

"-However, my interactions were primarily with Feyd-Rautha; The Baron held little interest in me until my family was caught, and Glossu Rabban suspected me of being a spy long before he'd ever met me." As you speak, Lady Jessica's keen eyes observe you closely, her lips pressed into a thin line. You pretend not to notice as her hand flicks down by her side, the Duke and War Master's eyes flickering down to observe her hidden words.

You set your jaw, ignoring their silent communication, "I do not know much about their deals on Arrakis, but I have gathered enough about their industries on Giedi Prime." You say, eyeing them all. Recalling Paul’s earlier mistrust, you add, "I have no reason to lie."

It's quiet at the table as the Duke sits in thought, Gurney turning to whisper lowly to the man. He nods, and after a moment, looks back at you. "I'd wonder if you might attend a meeting with my Strategy Council next week." The Duke proposes, shocking you. Stiffly, you nod. "There is a Space Trade Route Referendum coming soon, as I'm sure you know, and we would benefit from your insight."

You truly have to fight the flush that grows on your cheeks, reminding yourself of where you are, who you are. These are still the people who think you are some rabid dog that they may muzzle. A pawn to play.

"I'd be pleased, my Lord." It comes short of genuine in tone, your apprehension showing.

He nods, glancing down before looking back up. "If I may..." He addresses you with your first name, a jolt to your system. "We value everyone in this castle. Plans have changed quickly, and it is more than understandable if you have felt unwelcome or alienated here on Caladan, though we do not wish it."

You let a short breath, biting back a bitter quip about their son and his willingness to chew you out for exploring the walls of what was supposed to be your castle.

But perhaps your anger and fear have been projected onto the Duke and Lady Jessica, which, in fairness, is not theirs to receive; No matter if their son is mistrusting, they have shown nothing but respect for you in this transition. You hesitate, biting your lip.

"I apologize if I have come off as ungrateful." Your voice is much softer than anticipated, your throat floundering in embarrassment. You can only thank your lucky stars that the Atreides boy is not here to snicker at your misery - though as the sharp eyes of everyone at the table turn to you, the self-deprecating feeling turns towards disdain for him; anger, for daring to disrespect his future wife.

"It was never my intention." You take a breath, choosing your words carefully. "I am not unused to being treated like a spy, even in the house I am supposed to become a part of."

Your voice is strong as your chin holds high, staring straight at the Duke although he cannot see your gaze. "Perhaps, if I were less interrogated by select members of the House Atreides, I might feel more at ease." You speak honestly; if nothing else comes of this, perhaps Paul will get his ear chewed out by his father or mother - and that, you feel, is justice.

You don't care that you are a stranger to everyone at this table and they have known him for his whole life; you will not be pushed around.

Folding your hands, you continue, "I'd like to pass along my personal apologies for entering your old study this morning when I was lost." you say, "Lord Paul informed me that it is off-limits to my kind."

The looks on their faces show their varying degrees of surprise; the Duke, however, glances sidelong at the empty seat at the table before clenching his jaw, eyes something akin to irate. The two make eye contact before Halleck sighs gently, hand falling over his forehead.

You can tell the Duke is about to speak but you don't wish to listen to any excuse he could find for his brat of a son- unfortunately for you, it is not acceptable to interrupt a Duke. So you sit, foot bouncing on the floor, as he purses his lips.

"This arrangement was certainly a shock to him as well as to you. But that does not permit disrespectful behavior." This, indeed, comes as surprise to you, having expected them to support the na-Duke's every whim.

"-As for my former study, it is now used as an archive room. I apologize if there was any confusion regarding its accessibility - I will speak with my son about the importance of clarity and respect in our household rules." His words held a note of sternness; a silent admonishment directed towards his absent heir. "You are allowed wherever you wish."

Once again, you're flooded with emotion; Perhaps they do want you to come into your own here. Perhaps the Duke's son has his own opinions about you and your history, but that does not mean his parents feel the same.

You feel a sudden spark of rebellion - could you find some kind of purpose with House Atreides, despite their ulterior motives? After all, your house was once a strong ally of theirs. The thought flickers tantalizingly before you, only to be swiftly extinguished by the reality of your situation.

No, you remind yourself bitterly. You are tainted with blood - not Atreides, not Bourbon - but Harkonnen. Paul will always see you as a beast, wife or not.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:

Supper is called later than Paul expects.

His stomach growls by the time you come into the hall; though he and his parents have been at the table for some time.

There is a box in his hand, one that will sit next to him until the end of dinner. It glares at him tauntingly; he avoids its stare.

You may not always like her, but you will treat her with the respect and care befitting of a future spouse.

How foolish he’d been this morning - flustered, angry at the arrangement - what awful coincidence he'd run into you snooping around the old study. He knows better than to treat you that way, even if he does not trust you.

Paul ignores the twist in his stomach as his father glances at him; The air is tense with their previous conversation - his parents are upset with him. But Paul knows he must amend his actions; It does not matter his apprehension. You will be his wife, and he your husband. He rolls his neck, feeling it pop as he waits.

Paul knows that whatever he is feeling, you're likely feeling a hundred times more.

So, for both your sakes, he will learn to live with you, and it will start tonight. It will start with the box to his right.

You enter through the doors, your pace slow as you look around. Despite himself, Paul's cheeks heat up; You're wearing a simple dark dress, your figure snug with flowing sleeves - but the veil you wear this evening is significantly less thick than any you’ve warn yet.

You're still concealed behind the fabric that falls over your head, but your eyes are large behind it, meeting his for what feels like the first time.

With a chill, he realizes he can see your stare, the fullness of your lips, the upturn of your cheeks, the way you take in a quick breath; He's struck with your beauty and forces himself to nod and greet you.

There's that look to you - contained, schooled to be polite - but he knows better. You nod back tersely as your eyes glow against the dark green mesh and beads that fall over the crown of your head, and he's suddenly struck with the strange desire to see more of you.

Instead, he forces himself to look down at the table.

Dinner is less uncomfortable than he'd feared; you seem much more relaxed than he's ever seen you, though your voice is still quite calculated - even his mother is relaxed, asking about the wintering sport you'd mentioned learning in your youth.

His heart hammers in his chest when the dishes begin to be cleared, knowing it is his time to present the first of several of your House's courting steps. He'd poured over them before going to train this afternoon; Perhaps this won't be the most traditional example of your culture's marriage customs, but most of your people are gone.

There's no use in fighting it, and he can only try his best to make you feel more comfortable.

His parents excuse themselves, but with a jump of panic, he calls for you to stay, just for a moment. Paul waits silently as his parents wish you a good evening, sending him a stern look that sets his teeth on edge. When they are gone, you remain seated as if frozen, your eyes wary. Perhaps you expect him to berate you again.

Gifting heirlooms is a sacred tradition, passed down through generations, where the betrothed proudly wear the sigil of their new house as a symbol of unity and commitment.

Paul's heart races nervously as he stands, straightening his dark tunic before approaching you, the small velvet box clutched tightly in his hand. With each step closer, your eyes sharpen with suspicion. You shift your hand through the skirt of your dress, as if searching for something- a weapon, maybe - but you have no chance to wield it as he rounds on you.

He offers you the box with a slight tremor in his hand, small enough that you likely don't notice; Flipping it open, he tries to swallow his reluctance. This is his duty. You stare down at it, your demeanor guarded and unreadable.

Plush lips partially hidden behind a sheet of green part -for a moment, Paul wonders why you seem completely shell-shocked; he brushes aside the thought, attributing it to the formality of the gesture after his childish behavior earlier in the day.

"My Lady," he begins, his voice steady but tinged with nervousness, "I hope you will accept this pendant as a token of my-" He clears his throat awkwardly, "Of our betrothal." He's incredibly thankful to be so well-versed on diplomacy; "I apologize for how I acted this morning. It was childish." His voice comes out strong, if not slightly quiet.

You stare at the necklace, eyes taking in the green and gold sigil of Atreides; a hawk, small but ornamental. It was his great-great-grandmother's from her wedding day, cherished for many years. After his lesson this morning, he’d searched for something that seemed fit to uphold your family's tradition - the color would suit you well, too.

He waits for your response, hoping against hope that you'll see the gesture for what it truly is: An attempt to bridge the gap between the two of you; Suggested by his parents, yes, but chosen and executed by himself.

Your eyes harden, as if a decision has been made in your sharp mind. He tries not to sway on his feet when you move your hands towards the box.

"Thank you." Your voice is much too cold. Your eyes hold none of the shine he'd seen previously, and it is with a pain in his stomach that he recognizes your sharp glance sideways. Your eyes are lethal, he decides - just as lethal as the rest of you is.

You would not be as civil if it were just you and him, he is sure of it; His parents may be gone, but there are servants who watch on out the corner of their eyes as they clear dishes.

He can't help but feel slightly dishonest, perhaps he should have waited until the two of you were truly alone.

Your own hands shake as you reach under your veil, clasping the necklace around your neck slowly. He watches with a dry mouth, knowing better than to think your shaking is anything but resentment on your part.

"It is a gorgeous collar." You utter.

Turning to stare up into his eyes, Paul's heart thuds.

"I shall wear it like a dog."

The choice of words unsettles him completely, but you are out of the door before his lips find anything to say.

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