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riaki · 6 months

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nice boys and sour hearts | satoru gojo x reader

wc: 4.6k cw: minor swearing, he refers to u as 'momma' once (its normal i promise) n i think thats about it post suguru defection, shoko typical smoking ; no established relationship b ur def more than friends

i didnt want this angst to be too intense so i made it super duper fluffy. hopes it tastes like strawberries to u cs it does in my head ; another one of those fics i whipped up to meet the weekend deadline b i’m actually proud of this one not proofread!

satoru hates arguing with you.

it bites at him; twists his heart from the inside out in such a gut-wrenching way that he can hardly stand seeing your nose wrinkle in frustration and your eyes narrow with impatience, let alone hear the words coming out of your mouth, dripping with venom and irritation directed at him. he's never been used to being on the receiving end.

it tastes sour; bitter on his tongue in a way he's never been accustomed to. his tastebuds only recognize the sweet taste of fruit syrup, powdered sugar, or warm chocolate as home; he never indulges in the bitter, like the black coffee the kid he took in seems to like so much. but he'll take the silly sour lemon drops with sweet cream in the center, only because they remind him of you. you, so sweet when you love but sour when you're annoyed, which happens to be now, in this instant.

of course, he'll tell himself he doesn't mind. that sweet and sour have always gone nicely together. like strawberry lemonade on hot summer afternoons when the both of you have had enough of being stuffed into a clammy hot classroom with your musclebrain teacher. sometimes its the three of you, maybe even the four of you if you get lucky with the pixie stick trade offering (a healthier alternative to a cigarette, you both agreed on). but nowadays, it was only ever the two of you. the bitter had chosen his own path, and tangy was locked up in the infirmary sun up to sun down.

but right now, you're upset with him. and he absolutely despises it— to him, it's abhorrent. a strong word, but it's only fitting. but he can't help it when your conversation lingers in his mind, spinning itself a web of self-doubt and hurt and anger as he slips his gym shoes off and redresses himself by the school lockers, running a hand through his hair with a forced, annoyed exhale.

it was nothing big, really. or at least, that's what he thinks. you'd been in the gym after school, watching as he messed around with the basketball, seeing how long he could go dribbling by himself with a bump of his knee there, pushing it to the floor with his hand and watching it bounce back up with mild interest. he had no one to play with, but at least the ball would come back up no matter how much he pushed it down.

it was small. barely worth fussing over.

he had already been irritated. it was hot out, because summer was coming around. sweat beaded on his neck and rolled down his chest, seeping into his shirt as he wiped his forehead and made another shoot at the hoop, landing back on his feet with a soft thud as the basketball rattled around the rusted metal ring and fell through the net for the nth time that afternoon.

a hum of approval comes from your throat, followed by a loud whistle of contentment from him as he watches the ball bounce on the floor. he hikes his sunglasses up his forehead, bringing an arm up and wiping away the sweat on his cheek with his sleeve as he turns to look at you.

"that was pretty good, yeah? i think i deserve a celebratory smooch. lay some sugar on me, momma'." he laughs, loud and arrogant. you just give him a pointed look at that, but he ignores it as a sign for something wrong and only acknowledges it as your dramatic endearment. like speeding up at the sight of a yellow light in hopes that you'll make it instead of slowing down at the warning.

his shoes made squeaking sounds on the gym floor as he made his way over to you, swiping his shades off his face and sliding them onto your forehead, nestling in your hair as he grabbed a rag from the bench and wiped the sweat from his jaw. you have his uniform jacket on your lap, the yellow button glinting in the dying sunlight filtering in through the windows, reflecting off indiscernible flecks of dust in the air.

you had watched him with quiet contentment, observing the languid way he moved, graceful like a dancer moving in water. but then, you seemed to remember something; his lips pressed into a thin line, tilted to one side in anticipation. it made you hesitate— he always knew when you were about to speak before you even opened your mouth. he had come to notice, and appreciate, little things about you like that.

"were you smoking with shoko?" you had asked him. he tilted his head, eyebrow cocked up as he made a face. "no, i wasn't. why d'ya ask?" he huffed, watching from the corner of his eye with mild disinterest as the basketball, still rolling from his previous goal, bumped into the wall. cocky as ever.

(he wouldn't even look you in the eye when you were being dead serious.)

you reach a hand into his jacket, fishing around for something in his pocket; that gets his attention. who knows what trinkets and candy wrappers he has in there? and he'd hate for you to send him to his yearly checkup early again; the nurses always try to coddle him, and he has half a mind to charge for battery. nevertheless, he almost mistakes what you pull out for a lollipop stick. but it's not— it's a cigarette; a white papery hit of cancer with a dead cherry. certainly not a wise idea to keep that in his pocket among the other very flammable wax wrappers and the occasional flower petal, but who were you to judge? you, who's lips pucker like they've just tasted lemon juice when he eyes the unlit cigarette, utterly unamused.

he knows that you know it's his; the subtle glistening of pink around the end points to the gloss on his lips; he can practically taste it on his tongue. he wonders if you'd put the cigarette to your mouth too if you could have a sample of his lipgloss; then again, you could always just ask for a lip-to-lip taste, and he'd indulge you without a second thought.

you twist the cigarette butt between your fingers so that he can see the remnants of faint strawberry pink on the edges. he just rolls his eyes with a loud huff, leaning his weight back on his heels and shoving his hands in his pant pockets.

"yeesh. you're such a goody two shoes, y'know? how come shoko's allowed to smoke 'n i'm not?" he drawls, an arrogant lilt to his voice as he sticks his lower lip out. you can see a matte spot where the gloss had been transferred to the cigarette paper. you just sigh exasperatedly (he feels like a kid when you do that) and lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees. his jacket bunches up in your lap.

you tap the cigarette to his chest a few times; it makes a soft thumping sound against the fabric, and for a moment he's grateful of the noise; it sounds just like the way his heartbeat picks up with each touch, but you don't hear it. he wonders if you ever will. maybe one day, when there isn't so much distance between you and he has the opportunity to tuck your head to his chest, right over his heart.

"it's not that i care about the lung damage, idiot. why were you smoking?" you asked, voice softening. and he absolutely hates when you do that, because it always pulls on his heartstrings and brings a flush to his face, the way you treat him. he thought that if you did it enough, he'd be sent to the doctor for heart palpitations instead of a sweet tooth.

he doesn't answer you at that. how could he tell you, when he knew all that'd result from it was a thorn in his side? you, being the rose. so beautiful but awfully prickly and unfairly sour like a lemondrop with a sweet inside. then again, he'd much rather have your interrogating care than lose you, like what had happened with the reason he was trying out smoking in the first place.

then, it happened— your voice went unbearably soft, like puffy white covers and featherlight pillows with silk covers on a saturday morning, looking out the window to see pink tulips against a cloudy blue sky as the sun streamed in. it almost made him want to clutch your hand over his chest and see if you could feel the way he was reacting. no doubt, it was filled with such patient tenderness; all-encompassing sweetness it made him want to cry. so he coughed to cover it up, averting his gaze and bringing one hand to his face to absentmindedly smooth down the strands of damp white hair hanging over his eyes.

"thinkin' about suguru again, are you?" you asked gently, tucking the cigarette back into your pocket—yours, not his—and reaching out to take his hand.

his lips parted ever so slightly, gaping like a goldfish. he knew he looked silly, and he should've been okay with that— because being vulnerable with you, out of everyone he ever knew (with maybe the exception of one) was easier than breathing; came more naturally to him than his gravitation to a challenge. the same could be said for sweets.

(maybe he'd have to re-evaluate his proclaimed taste, then. since you were more sour than sweet.)

but this time, he wasn't okay with it. it had been hard to talk about what had happened with suguru one year ago since— it formed a nasty lump in his throat, bitter like black coffee and the wrong mix of herbs. it made him feel weak. reminding him of his shortcomings, which, in his mind, shouldn't even exist in the first place. but you never had a problem ripping his problems from the shielded cavity in his gut, bringing them under the operator's light to dissect and solve like a surgeon. forget about forcing him to the doctor's— at this point, you should be the one in the white coat, not shoko. he thinks about what you'd look like with blue gloves on your delicate fingers for a moment too long.

"what's it to you?" he snaps back after what feels like three years of his life. his fingers tighten around yours for a moment before he pulls his hand away abruptly.

the frown that lingered on your face from then on had been burned into his memory.

and, well, that was his mistake. it spiraled from there— because he knew what it was to you, and he hated that. hated that you could see straight through him like a cloud blue stained glass window; without rose colored lenses like the ones he always wore (the ones he rocked, he thinks).

a crack of thunder overhead jolts him from his thoughts; he couldn't even get in there to dust the spiderwebs away before being jerked back into reality. he clicks his tongue in disappointment, watching as the skies pry themselves open and rain begin to fall in the way it only did over heavy summer showers. he wishes the sky would stop its weeping, but even the strongest has his limitations.

but it doesn't matter. he has one of those cheap plastic umbrellas he'd bought from a convenience store one day in a late march many moons ago, during the brightest blue spring of his life. and so, he didn't understand why he was lingering at the door, swinging the umbrella around his fingers by the hook on the handle, watching as the rain fell with increased fervor. there was no plastic button to keep the folds tied up, so it floundered around with each swing like a tulip bent by monsoon winds. maybe on the coast of some faraway land with windmills and fields of flowers. he wonders if he'll ever get to see the world with you someday— a fleeting thought that crumbles instantly when he conjures your pretty face in his vision, clear yet distorted like a reflection on a glazed pond, rippling water from the dragonflies that skipped over the surface.

you were definitely still angry with him, because you hadn't showed— normally, you'd walk home together. sometimes with shoko, if she didn't leave early. angry words echo in his mind, the image of your downturned lips swimming in his bright vision as he watches the rain streak down the window panes by the lockers. there's a fog settling over the grass outside that's sure to leave dew after the storm. he wonders when that'll be.

"why can't you ever take me seriously? can't you see i'm worried about you?"

"of course i can. but i don't need your damn concern!”

...

he'd been sorely mistaken, that was for sure. loosing his cool and snapping at you wasn't exactly something he took pleasure in, either way. he leans back on his heels, tapping his foot impatiently as he holds the umbrella like a cane against the floor. infinity could probably do away with the rain. another reason as to why he's not even sure why he's waiting here, or why he's holding an umbrella. perhaps to keep in case he has to offer it to some poor, shivering and cowering young maiden lost beneath the shading of a bus stop behind a curtain of rain droplets, with a charming grin and a wink.

maybe.

a shuffle behind him catches his ear; he turns his head, an unamused expression on his face as his eyes drift over the empty room to land on you. the shadows beneath your eyes are prominent, and your hair is unkempt. there are sleep lines on your face; you probably fell asleep in a classroom somewhere, which is why you delayed.

it was evident you weren't expecting to see him, though— with the way your eyes widened a little before they dropped again, nose bridge wrinkling slightly as if you'd caught the scent of something unpleasant. your eyes left his, and he felt a little disappointed as he watched them wander toward the window, where the current downpour was prominent. he didn't like the way it made his chest pang when your attention was anywhere but him, so he raised his hand lazily, tilting his head to catch your attention that he so clearly craved.

"yo. got an umbrella?" he calls, tapping the tip of his budget cane on the floor. the thud is the only sound for a while as your gaze wanders back over to him; reluctant.

"no, i don't. i didn't expect it to rain so hard today." you responded quietly, stepping over to him with a small sigh. almost a little resigned, he thinks. he can't be sure, though. he never is with you. doesn't know whether to expect his candy to be sour in the center or the other way around; but maybe he likes a bit of uncertainty every once in a while. (not with you, though. if it means arguing? never with you.)

his sunglasses are hooked around the collar of your shirt. he doesn't know why it takes him so long to realize, but when he does, he has to clear his throat in an effort to hide the heat on his face and do away with the blush. "here. take mine. i don't need it," he says curtly, offering his umbrella to you. he wants to snatch the shades from your shirt, but he doesn't want anything to go wrong, so he just eyes them warily, careful not to let his gaze slip past into anything you'd be pissed at him for.

you eye him, eyes narrowed as you raise an eyebrow, but you don't protest. your fingers brush against his for a brief moment when you take it, shaking it a little before opening the door and stepping outside, opening it up. it looks like a little clear plastic mushroom cap over your head; you're short enough to constitute as the stalk in his eyes. it's a little funny, but he has to stifle the laugh bubbling on his tongue lest you think he's making a mock of you.

he follows after you, slipping past to stand at your side with his hands in his pockets. you can't help but feel a little curious despite your prolonged anger (you like holding grudges, he knows), so you sneak a glance upward to satiate your wonder. you don't expect him to look as breathtaking as he does.

the clouds are light overhead; they're not a heavy blanket of gray anymore, and a small strip of light manages to push through, shining on satoru's pale white hair. you can make out the edge of his undercut against his neck when the wind picks up a little, the color of fluffy white clouds on a lavender sunset with the sway of yellow flowers beneath an expanse of a bright sky. there's a little cat hair on the collar of his jacket; you realize with a faint flush that it must've been from when you were holding his jacket for him in the gym. somehow, the cat you have at home found its way to satoru. you hope your pet has become a matchmaking fortune teller, for the sake of your happiness.

what catches your eye the most, though, isn't the cat hair on his dark jacket or the faraway look in his misty blue eyes; it's the outline of rain water around him, a product of his infinity, you realize. he's dry underneath the downpour, and it never ceases to amaze you. it's like there's a soft glowing halo against the backdrop of tangled wires, gray walls and pale green bushes— he looks like an angel boy, school bag hooked and hanging over one shoulder.

eventually, you manage to peel your gaze away, and he notices— looks down at you, pressing his lips together and running his tongue over them. he can taste strawberry gloss.

wordlessly, you start walking. and he follows suit, rain bouncing off of him; you catch yourself sneaking glances from under the roof of your clear umbrella between raindrops that slide down the clear plastic. sometime during the walk home, he had gone off and gotten himself a drink from a nearby vending machine— the red can catches your eye, and your fingers curl around the rubber handle of the lent umbrella as you watch him drink; the bob of his adam's apple before he crushes the can up and tosses it into a nearby bush, causing a brief scattering of leaves and a downpour of collecting droplets onto the pavement.

despite the rain, the weeds between the cracks in the sidewalk still stay strong; they have deep roots. much like the way you never fail to scowl at him for littering. he catches it— of course he does. he's been praying for a sign you're not still so hopelessly angry with him that you can't even bring yourself to have a civil walk in the summer rain together. after the scowl, though, comes the smile— the one that always makes him melt in his shoes, much like the sunshine after the rain.

and there it is at last, he thinks. the hard sour coating melts away on his tongue, draining the taste of lemon to reveal a sweet, genuine center. all it takes is time. your lips curve up, and you duck your head, hiding the small bemused laugh that leaves you breathless.

"what are you laughin' at?" he huffs, glaring down at you. but there's no malice behind it— if only you could feel the wave of relief that's washed over him, a crest of white foam that leaves behind still waters reflected in the pools of sapphire in his eyes. nothing like the hit of numbing nicotine he'd shared in the shade of an alleyway with shoko earlier that day— away from the sun; away from you. hidden from both. or maybe they were the same— to him, he couldn't differentiate.

"i'm not laughing!" you protested weakly, immediately wiping the grin from your lips, and he regrets speaking up. "just.. i dunno."

you walk in silence for a little longer, content to listen to the rain lighten up overhead. satoru kicks a plastic onigiri wrapper out of the way, splashing up a puddle as a frown dampens his face when the wrapping only clings to his shoes. he's fine with getting a little grumpy if it means seeing you smile again. and even better, you laugh again— so sweet, like the chiming of bells in the wind's melody.

"please don't do that again." your voice sounds so very small when he hears it again, and he looks down at you from beneath long white lashes, the corner of his lips quirked up. the shape of them is almost cat-like, you think. he doesn't even know what you're talking about— a vague idea, at best— but he won't do it. not if it means hearing you sound so pathetically... sad. he doesn't like it. it's far too bitter for his taste. let the black betta you both used to know indulge in dark coffee and bitter cologne— satoru likes things sweet, like the cream surrounded by tea leaf matcha in the center of his mochi and fluttering feeling he gets when you run your hands through his hair, fluffing it up to your heart's content.

(as long as your heart is happy, his is, too.)

"i won't. happy now?" he sticks his tongue out, making a face. but you both know he means it— he hates breaking his promises to you. you smile when you look up at him again with a small nod, and he feels his knees wobble a little. he just hopes you don't notice. "sorry for lying. i just.. don't like it when you're mad at me. and you look at me like that," he mumbles under his breath, bunching up the fabric of his pants between his fingers. then, after a moment, "geez, you're so dramatic. quit carin' so much." he really hopes you don't stop, and it makes him feel like the world's biggest hypocrite. the strongest, but so weak for you.

"sorry, can't. the day you stop crushing your soda cans and littering is the day i'll stop caring, 'cus that won't be my satoru anymore." you tease. and he laughs, throwing his head back so you don't see the red that spreads across his cheeks, dusting his skin like powdered sugar on top of a strawberry crepe. he always wants to be your satoru, so he figures he'll keep littering. a few money fines here and there mean nothing to his undentable wallet, or the erratic beating of his heart, trapped against his ribcage in a feathery blooming of flowers he only gets from you and your pretty smile underneath the layer of lemony sourness.

you walk along the road for a little while longer. the rain has lightened, but it's still going— incessant, dripping from the leaves of trees and the knotted black wires overhead. he still has his infinity up, which means he can't pet the cat the two of you spot on your way back, but he's perfectly content to watch you do it. you scratch its chin, smiling at the way it purrs and nuzzles into your hand, and he wonders if he'd do the same if he was in its position.

he's lost in thought when you speak to him again, shoes splashing against murky puddles in the backdrop of a never-sleeping city; tokyo's bright skyline always makes your eyes go round with wonder. you say something, and he chuckles, warm and velvety. and then you realize what's been off with him this whole time— he doesn't have his shades on.

you slip them off the collar of your shirt, smoothing down the fabric before you reach over and attempt to nudge his arm. you don't think it'll work, because he still has his infinity up— and your sleeves are already getting spattered by rain that leaves darkened wet spots on the cotton. but to your amazement, your fingers make contact with his sleeve, and you watch in wonder as the rain actually falls— soaks into that little patch of wet fabric that you're able to feel on his arm. that he's turned his infinity off in that one spot so you could touch him. you spare a glance up at him, only to find his head angled away from you. you might be hallucinating, but the tips of his ears seem red.

you don't linger on it before you're tugging on his shirt with a frown, getting him to look down at you as you unfold his glasses and offer them over to him. he takes them quickly, and you don't miss the way the rain stops falling onto his arm again, back to bouncing off the invisible shield that protects him from everything (but you, it seems). he slips his dark shades back over his eyes, obscuring oceans of pure blue that seem like they've trickled in from the purest snowcaps on the distant mountains dotted with old red tori gates and shrines with scrapped paint. but you can't stifle the smile that spreads across your lips this time— giddy and fresh and filled with youth, blossoming like sakura petals in a spring that seems so far away yet so close with his presence by your side.

you don't say anything for a while. you're content to watch the rain wash down the pavement and into the gutters, past cute little coffee shops and parks with ponds as the droplets from the sky scatter the water in part of a never-ending cycle; watering the surface of the earth and bringing life that would soon spring up as shroomcaps and fresh dew on the clean cut green grass. you wonder what satoru sees through his lenses— though, you already know. you've worn them plenty of times before, when he insists on having your perfume cling to the frame for long missions he's sent on alone, when he can't have you hold his jacket, or his hand, or scold him for sneaking a smoke when you're not watching. that, and the extra lemondrops he keeps in his pocket; gifts from you that he's fought hard for.

you're more prepared to not feel any interference of his infinity this time when you reach over, and this time you don't go for his sleeve—yanking him close to you by his hand and forcing him beneath your umbrella. you feel the way he freezes up for a moment, but his fingers fill in the gaps between your own like its the most natural thing in the world, palms pressed together in a little breathless hug that leaves no room for the humid air.

"don't waste your infinity on the rain, dumbass. you'll fry what little is left of your brain." you scold him, and he just grumbles and scoffs angrily under his breath, cursing you as he hunches over and ducks his head to fit under the umbrella to negate his height. his hair brushes against the plastic roof of the umbrella, and his lanky limbs are still awkwardly sticking out, but his fingers tighten around yours and his thumb rubs over your knuckles, still a little damp from your earlier encounter with the rain, and you can't help but smile a smile bright enough to wash away every last bit of cloud in the sky. his personal sunshine.

even though he still prefers sweet things, satoru's come to like the taste of lemondrops. sweet and sour go well together, after all. just like you and him.

its okay if it doesnt taste like anything to u as long as u enjoyed it :) thanks for reading !! the black betta in question is suguru btw my (riaki) stuff. don't repost and/or plagiarize !

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chiliyue-archived · 1 year

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Wonderstruck

↬love at first sight

Includes; (Dorm Leaders) Riddle Rosehearts, Leona Kingscholar, Azul Ashengrotto, Kalim Al Aism, Vil Schoenheit, Idia Shroud, Malleus Draconia

Gender Neutral Reader

Requested !

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle, who swores that at that very moment, something jabbed into his heart. But rather than an ache or a sharp pain, it was pleasant, warm, and quelling - squeezing his heart as though someone was comfortingly squeezing his hand. His face became flushed in a matter of seconds, his hair and face a similar shade of red. He didn't know what this feeling was; it was so strange, and it happened all in an instant. He's so terribly confused, but, for some reason, he can't peel his eyes away from your figure. Whatever should the queen of hearts do?

Leona Kingscholar

Leona, who was already rolling his eyes despite the dancing feeling on his chest. Butterflies? Of course not. He doesn't get butterflies that's so ridiculous - well, alright, he's a little surprised and caught off guard, that much he'll admit outloud. It's like his brain and his heart in an argument, one screaming to speak to you, the other not wanting to indulge the thought. He attempts to avoid your gaze, knowing very well he'll only be digging a bigger grave if he continues to stare. But his body subconsciously takes a risk to a steal a second look and then a third. Love at first sight is such a silly thing and definitely not for him— but his body and, more specifically, his heart betray him.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul, whose hands become clammy in a matter of seconds, and he's forgotten where he is. What was he doing there again? The answer fleeted from him as he struggled to recompose himself. Your irises were so alluring, and yet his face reddened with every second his own eyes lingered. He makes a feeble attempt at coughing into his fist, trying to clear his mind; but he can't. It's running a million miles per hour, and yet nothing is coherent and clear. The words on his tongue make no sound, and his throat feels terribly dry. His feet feel as though they're glued to the floor, paralyzed in his lovestruck state. He can only pray no one catches into his thumping feelings.

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim, who was so oblivious and doesn't recognize what he's feeling. He thinks it's just a desire to befriend you just like he does with everyone he meets. But this one is different. The answer is probing the back of his head as he ponders for the answer- he just can't place a finger on it quite yet. Before he knew he was already starting a conversation with you. Your voice only spurred on his emotions as he giggled and spoke his mind freely. He wasn't sure what it was his heart and brain were telling him, but he was rocking on his feet almost in anticipation as you both talked, his eyes taking in every detail about you. He may act similar towards others, but the emotions swarming within his chest was a new one caused by you and you alone.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil, who is a master at masking his emotions and wearing a false mask that easily persuades his audience. As his eyes dawn on your own, he effortlessly covered up his initial reaction; really, there was only a small window of opportunity to see his figure falter even the slightest bit. However, he finds himself placing his complete and utter attention towards you, eyes taking in and analyzing all your movements and small mannerisms. Even as he places a quick act upon his peers, he can't fake the way his brow slightly rises or how his pupils dilute when he gazes at you for the first time. And as skilled and applauded he is for his talents, even he can't help but gawk at you from afar even for those couple seconds.

Idia Shroud

Idia, who swears his hair sparked a red in that moment, matching the fuming hue that was growing on his face. It took all his willpower not to pull on his hoodie strings, hiding his visage from prying eyes. He is quite baffled with himself; he's seen this trope far too many times with the media he consumes, but is it really occurring with him? He could hardly think it as real, and yet there he stood being bested by his own heart. This must be some form of dream, he argued, that he was living as a protagonist within his head because you looked so perfect and he too bland— or so he perceives. But he fails terribly at masking it, his lip trembling slightly, hair tips still flaring a golden spark as he questions what to do.

Malleus Draconia

Malleus, who stared at you fondly within that very second. His features remained passive, his brow arching slightly as a blooming feeling overwhelmed his chest. Perhaps to others, his expression may have been seen as intimidating. But to those such as Lilia, within his expression; infatuation was evident, irises focused onto a single thing. A single person. He was shamelessly staring at that point, his eyes unable to look away from your own. If you catch him, he'll merely give you a small smile, a very very very faint red painting his cheeks. Because at that point, Malleus has already found you to be the most enchanting person he's ever laid his eyes upon.

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growingfunwithaimain · 4 months

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Amidst the rainbow of sweets, Lily hesitated over a single candy. Its shell shimmered with a mysterious blue hue, calling to her like a siren's song. With a flick of her wrist, she snatched it off the shelf and brought it to her lips. The instant she bit down, her senses were assaulted by a burst of flavor.

But the surprise didn't end there. As she savored the delight, her skin began to transform. Starting from her fingertips, a wash of indigo washed over her limbs, spreading like ink through water. By the time she finished the last crumb, her entire being had been dyed a rich shade of midnight blue.

Yet, the crowd within the candy shop carried on as though nothing had changed. Their laughter echoed against the glass cases, their voices mere background noise to the surreal tableau unfolding before them.

Just when Lily thought things couldn’t get any more interesting, her hips decided to join the party. They began to widen, expanding like a balloon filled with joy. Soon, they were rounder than ever before, hugging her frame with a confidence that matched her newfound color scheme.

Meanwhile, her thighs grew thicker, like two ripe melons ready for plucking. The denim of her jeans clung to her legs, emphasizing every muscle and curve. Even the most stoic customer couldn’t resist the urge to ogle her backside.

In the midst of all this, Lily found herself reveling in her new form. She twirled around, watching the reactions of those who dared to look. Some turned away in shock, while others openly admired her figure. For Lily, it was a moment of pure euphoria, a celebration of her own beauty.

And so, she stood tall, proudly displaying her metamorphosis to anyone brave enough to catch a glimpse. After all, what better place to showcase one's newfound glory than inside a candy store?

With each passing minute, Lily grew taller, stretching towards the ceiling like a beanstalk reaching for the sky. Her abdominal muscles flexed beneath her skin, creating ripples that would make even the strongest gym rat jealous. And just when she thought she couldn’t possibly expand anymore, her shirt gave out, exploding in a shower of confetti.

Beneath the rubble lay her bare bosom, nipples standing at attention like sentinels guarding her treasure trove. The sheer audacity of her outfit malfunction drew stares from every corner of the shop. But Lily wasn’t fazed—she knew exactly how powerful she looked.

Her gaze locked onto a young man who had been eyeing her since the beginning. He blushed furiously, his cheeks turning redder than the cherry lollipops he held. Without saying a word, Lily extended her hand, beckoning him closer. With a nod of consent, he approached, his steps hesitant yet eager.

Together, they left the candy store, arm in arm, heading toward whatever adventure awaited beyond its doors. As they walked down the street, Lily felt invincible, knowing that wherever they went, they would turn heads and start conversations. Because sometimes, the best kind of candy isn’t something you eat; it’s someone you can take home.

Another request for @realmofgoddesses! I think this has been my favorite request to work on so far! It was a lot of fun and took a long time to get it the way i wanted it but that's why im taking requests! to learn more and improve!

#breast expansion #expansion kink #breast growth #giant breasts #growth #ai art #ai girl #artificial intelligence #ai #giantess

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kteezy997 · 4 months

Note

Since I saw those bts Timmy of dune , I need rough sweaty fucking as Timmy’s co star during filming dune 😭

In the Heat of Arrakis// t.c.

Warnings: overheated reader, fainting, pining if you squint, smut, temperature foreplay?, light breast play, female receiving oral sex, cursing

A/N: I hope I did this justice. I would suggest a cold drink with this read.

They had warned you all about this. Just like for the characters in the movie, it was important for you to not be out when the sun was too high. The still suit hadn't helped. In the story, they cooled the bodies of the characters, but they did the opposite in reality. You were all hot and sweaty, and Denis was thick into his vision for the scene, and you all had lost track of time.

You passed out, just for a moment, from heat exhaustion. The sun got to be too much. You were laying in the sand, and when you opened your eyes, Timothee was just above you. There were other crew members there too, all checking on you.

"She's okay. She's awake." Timmy said to the others.

They had brought you under the shade of a tent. They put a fan on you and a cool, damp rag on your head. You felt like you could breathe again. You looked up at Timmy, he gave you a sweet grin, and he smoothed your hair back. His eyes were a deep sea-green in the shade.

"You good?' he asked.

You nodded, "Yeah, thanks." He was so attractive already, but it grew now that he was being so caring and attentive when you needed it.

"You ready to go to your trailer for a while? We're on break from filming until later tonight."

"Yeah, I guess, I can-" you tried to sit upright.

"It's okay, y/n, I can carry you."

Oh god, yes please.

“Oh, okay.” you said with a grateful smile.

As he bent down to pick you up, you put your arms around his neck. With one arm tucked around your back and the other cradling your knees, he carried you away.

“Are you sure you’re alright, y/n?” a crewman asked.

“Yes, I’m fine.” you assured them as Timmy stopped briefly.

“Alright just make sure to drink plenty of water.”

You nodded, and Timmy took off with you. You felt safe and comfortable in his arms. “You’re much stronger than you look.” you said cheekily to him.

“Well, thank you, I guess.” he smirked.

......

Timmy got you inside your trailer and sat you down on the couch. "There you go." he said, "I'll get you some water." He went over to the cooler dispenser and filled a cup for you. He brought the cup over to you and you put it to your lips, it was nice and cold, and soothed you in an instant when you swallowed.

"Thank you for taking care of me, Timmy. You didn't have to do all this. You're really sweet."

"Oh, it's nothing really. No big deal." he brushed it off. He had a tiny smile on his face. Always such a flirt. His lips were dry, but still pink and incredibly inviting. He swiped his tongue over them. You had the urge to moisten his lips with your own tongue. He sat down next to you, "Is there anything else I can do for you?" he asked, his green orbs scanning down your face.

You took another sip of water, thinking.

"Anything?" he reiterated with a shrug.

"Would you mind getting me out of this damn still suit?" you sighed, knowing exactly what you were doing, and hoping that he’d pick up on it as well.

Timmy’s eyebrows raised, and he nodded, understanding, “Oh yeah, sure. These things can be so hot, I know.”

You both stood up, and you turned your back to him.

He took ahold of your zipper at the back of your neck, as he pulled it downwards, he started to say, “I’m glad you’re okay, it could have been a lot more serious, you know.”

“Yeah.” you shrugged, “Well, I’m glad you were there to help me.” you spun around, slowly. You faced him, looking into those forest green eyes.

Timmy swallow shallowly, "Um, let me take it down to your feet. You shouldn't bend over, you could get dizzy again."

"Okay." you said with a nod, standing before him in your sports bra that stuck to you with your sweat. The legs of the still suit were still on you.

He bent down, tugging the rubbery suit down your legs, peeling the material off of you.

You steadied yourself with a hand on his shoulder as he helped you step out of the suit. Finally, you were free.

He stood back up, looking at you, "Shit, you are still really red."

"Yeah, it's okay. Do you want to take yours off too?" you asked, gesturing nonchalantly to his still suit. "Might as well be comfortable, we are on a break from filming."

"Yeah, sure. Thanks." he said.

"Okay, turn around." you instructed.

With his back now to you, you pulled down his zipper, exposing his pale, muscular back. It was beautiful, so porcelain-like, with no blemish to be seen. You wanted to run your fingernails down his perfect skin. You had the urge to mark him up, to make him yours.

Timmy took it upon himself to pull his arms out of the suit. You watched his slightly pinked, sweaty body as it flexed with his movements. He tugged the suit off his legs, and you noticed that his boxers were soaked through with sweat.

"Your skin is kinda red too." you pointed out.

"Yeah, I got an idea." he declared, moving around the trailer, back to the bathroom. You heard the water run for a moment and he came back with a wet towel. "It's too dangerous for you to get into a cold shower right now. It could fuck up your nerves. So let's just try this."

He held the wet towel out to you, and you let him press it to your hot chest. It was such great relief. You sighed as he slowly, gradually moved it around, letting the coolness soothe you. "Ah, feels good." you said softly.

He put the towel along the back of your neck and you realized that you were just inches away from him. You opened your eyes and he was watching you, so intently.

Your bra was wet with your perspiration, and now the cold water from the towel and it became quite uncomfortable. "Would it be okay if I took this off?" you asked.

He pursed his lips a tiny bit, then he nodded.

You pulled the soaked bra off and tossed it on the floor, feeling better now to be rid of the wet garment.

The towel in Timmy's hands found its way to your naked breasts. Your nipples hardened at the touch of the cool cloth. Your breath hitched quietly, but you could tell that he noticed.

He licked his lips, looking at your lips. His eyes slowly scanned down your neck, your collarbones, then to the mounds on your chest covered by the towel. Your nipples peaked through the material. He palmed your tits through the towel. Then, you knew that this wasn't just a friend helping a friend.

"Here," you gently took the towel from him, your warm hands grazing his cold ones, "let me." you said, simply. You put the towel to his chest. He moaned with relief, biting his lip to stifle the sound.

Timmy placed his cold hands on your throat, gently holding you. The coolness transmitting from him to you. You moved the towel lower on his body. His thumb touched your jawline. His hands soon worked their way up to your flushed cheeks.

You let the towel rest at his waistline, covering his navel, between the v-lines on his hip. You heard him faintly shudder at the sensation, the cold was soothing to him also.

Staying cool, however, was not keeping its place at the forefront of your mind. His fingers settled near your lips, and you kissed the pads of his fingers, nibbling on his digits that were still cool though it had been some time since they had touched the towel.

"I wanna kiss you." he admitted with a ragged breath.

"Then do it." you dared, without hesitation.

He pulled you in, with a sharp inhale, his lips were on yours. Hungry, eager kisses were partnered with running his hands down your body. He cupped your breasts and pulled away from your mouth. He leaned his head down just a bit, and you felt his breath on your cold tits. He held one in his hand and took your nipple into his warm mouth.

You gasped as his tongue lapped at your nipple. Timmy moaned as he swirled his tongue and sucked your tit. He left your nipple with a soft graze of his teeth.

He then kneeled down, pulling your sweaty panties down. Once he got them off, his mouth met your pussy. He held your hips as his shoved his lips between your folds, leaving open kisses onto your clit.

"Ahh." you moaned, throwing your hands into his hair.

Timmy stuck his tongue out firmly on your clit and shook his head back and forth.

"Fuck!" you cried, feeling the tingling in your lower belly. You found it difficult to keep standing still.

Moaning, he steadied himself, and suckled your clit. He alternated between sucking and lapping with his tongue.

You were huffing, your chest was heaving. He looked up at you, his fluffy hair a mess, his lips glossed with your slickness, and he smirked at you. "Come here." you demanded of him.

Timmy stood up at once, kissing you. You both wrapped one another up in your arms, your skin sticking together with its tackiness. He picked you up, taking you over to the couch. He put you on your back, and he lay on top of you.

The two of you made out shamelessly, groping each other's bodies, and moaning like a couple of overheated desert animals.

Your hands went to his lower back, moving down to his ass. You tugged at his boxers, which were clinging to his skin.

He stopped kissing you to help you take the only remaining clothing article off of him. He dropped the boxers on the floor. His cock was hard and leaking precum. He looked at you, his eyes were glazed with lust, but you could practically see the light bulb pop into his brain. "I got another idea. Hold up."

You waited just a few seconds and he came back with the towel, after getting it wet again. You watched as he wrapped his stiff cock with it. He hissed lightly. He then tossed the towel onto your chest. It was icy cold, but still, it felt good.

"Let me know if this helps to cool you." Timmy said, parting your legs, and taking his cock in his hand briefly, placing it inside you.

Your leg muscles tightened as your pussy clenched around his cold cock. "Oh, my God." you panted. That was one way to bring down your body's temperature.

"Ah, fuck." he groaned, holding your legs, bucking into you at a quick pace. He rammed into you, smacking your wetness and creating pornographic noises. As he brought you to the brink of your orgasm, you gave in to the urge of marking his back with your fingernails.

Timmy groaned as you dug into him, but he didn't stop fucking you. In fact, he thrusted even harder, and he tapped your face lightly. You gasped, then giggled in response. He shook his head at you, grinning.

His curls fell in your face as his thrusts slowed up. He tucked his face into the crook of your neck, nuzzling into your warm skin. He panted heavily for a moment, then you heard him hum lowly as his cum spirted into you.

The wardrobe crew wouldn't notice the marks on his back, would they?

@gatoenlaciudad @thebetawolfgirl @musicandbooksaremyhappyplace @tchalamss @softhecreator @bitchyunknownuser @lixzey @kpopgirlbtssvt @ducktapebar

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wanderersbell · 1 year

Text

wanderer x reader

summary: sometimes, when he thinks you aren’t looking, he makes his vision glow and dim softly in a steady rhythm. the illusion of a heartbeat.

genre: fluff

warnings: none

word count: 1,175

a/n: hellooo first time posting i am terrified of my writing being percieved but i’m full sending it and might never do this again so slay ig. scara is kinda ooc (he is not being a jerk lmao)

sometimes, when he thinks you aren’t looking, he makes his vision glow and dim softly in a steady rhythm. the illusion of a heartbeat.

it’s one of the many things you’ve noticed he does in the time that’s passed since you met him. he’s complex, stubborn, hard to read, prone to outbursts, and yet it’s the small actions and glimpses of vulnerability that remind you how truly human he is. no matter his origins, what his body may be made out of, or how many lies have poisoned his consciousness, he feels everything the way a human does.

you don’t get to see it often, whenever he knows you’re looking he makes a huge show of being a brat and flaunting an arrogance that seemingly never left him after his loss of divinity that he knows irks you to no end when you just want a solid answer out of him, but there are times he isn’t aware he’s being perceived.

you have a tendency to become so absorbed in a task that you lose all situational awareness and he knows this well by now, choosing those moments to let his guard down while you don’t pay him any mind. he’s shown you a side of himself that’s remained previously undiscovered until he grew undeniably fond of you over time. he shows this in the way he bounces his leg when you’re hurt or not feeling well, the way he disappears off to sumeru city when you claim that nothing sounds good to eat only to return with the pita pockets he knows you’ll eat no matter what, in the way he lets you stroke and place featherlight kisses against his knuckles when he wakes up from a nightmare and looks down at his hands that have done so many cruel things and calls himself a monster.

that last one has only happened twice thus far, and he always refuses to meet your eyes for a while the next morning, but his tolerance for your small shows of affection and comfort are welcome progress in comparison to the offense he used to take from it when he only saw it as pity. after all, he hates being looked down on. however, actions often speak better than words.

you know he doesn’t understand why you seem to care for him, and you know that it’ll take time for him to fully open up, which is why you make sure to give him the moments you’re occupied with other things to unmask and decompress and never interrupt him when you accidentally tune back into reality, but it’s only a matter of time before you give yourself away.

and now, while you watch him from where you sit at the bank untangling a fishing net, you think this might be the day you finally do.

he’s standing a short distance away under the shade of a tree where he was initially scrutinizing your work and making snarky comments about it that fell on deaf ears as you paid him no mind, but had at some point fallen silent and let his tense shoulders drop as he watched the wildlife around him.

the dappled sunlight through the leaves above him dance along the top of his hat with the movement of the wind and soft metal chimes can be heard as the ornaments on his hat sway with it, but it’s the soft sound of elemental energy that had taken your focus away from the net and when your attention fell on him, he was doing it again, making his vision beat lightly against his chest. the sight makes your heart clench and a lump form in your throat, watching him gaze so softly down at the item hanging down from his shoulder. he holds his right hand underneath it gently, almost as if even the slightest of touches would throw off the rhythm, and it’s in this moment that you release a sigh a bit too loud that has his eyes snapping to yours in an instant.

for a moment he looks like a child that got caught stealing sweets, eyes wide and body frozen in place, before he eventually frowns and sends you a sharp glare while turning his body away from you and crossing his arms with a huff, pretending to go back to staring off into the distance.

your feet start carrying you to him before your mind can even process the movement but he keeps himself faced away from you until you move in front of him. he looks unsure and hesitant, but there is an undeniable level of trust that had built up between you two that kept him from growing instinctively defensive.

“what?” he demands, refusing to meet your eyes.

“do it again.”

when his gaze finally lands on you he looks almost taken aback. “why?”

you shake your head. “just do it, please.”

he looks like he wants to argue, but decides to keep his mouth shut and lets his arms fall back down to his sides in defeat when he realizes you’re dead serious. slowly, almost shyly, his vision starts glowing with anemo energy again, steady and strong. when you reach your hand up softly to touch it he tenses up and almost backs away, but after a reassuring glance from you holds himself in place and nervously waits to see what you’re trying to do.

you lean closer as your fingertips make contact with the metal casing around it, feeling the rush of energy against your hand every time it brights and dims again. you might be imagining it, but the rhythm seems to pick up the closer you get.

when your warm lips meet the cool glass against his chest, it reacts immediately; the elemental energy starts pulsating faster and faster inside of the vision while the wanderer stiffens before you, entirely frozen on the spot as his ‘heart’ beats wildly at your boldness. his expression remains almost entirely neutral, so much so that you probably wouldn’t have been able to tell he was even flustered had his vision not given it away, and the thought makes you smile softly knowing he can’t hide how these small shows of affection get to him now. the flush rising in his cheeks is proof of the fact that he’s more than aware of this, and he wastes no time shoving you away and yanking his hat down to cover his face while he turns away in embarrassment.

instead of saying anything, you clasp your hands behind your back and return to the riverside where you left the tangled net, and you can literally feel the way his eyes are burning holes into the back of your head when you pick it up and start picking at the knots again.

what you don’t see is the way he stares at you with pure wonder and adoration spilling over in his indigo irises, hand resting over the place your lips had just been as if he can hold the feeling there forever.

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #scaramouche #wanderer #kunikuzushi #scaramouche x reader #wanderer x reader #kunikuzushi x reader #my writing

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notsosweetchan · 3 months

Note

-Cann you write about Changbin being reader’s older brother ‘s best friend and reader has a crush on him and they end up fucking-

ʚ♡ɞ Brother’s best friend (BBF) ʚ♡ɞ

Notes: I got carried away with this one it’s my longest one yet, while I was writing this I had the song best friends brother from victorious stuck in my head lmao

Warning: Smut

Paring: | Changbin x Reader |

Y/N sighed, letting the familiar sights of her hometown blur into a painting of soft colors as she gazed out the car window. The specter of finals still hung over her like a storm cloud, but for now, she was free, half-wistfully enveloped in the nostalgia that seemed to permeate the air here.

The car came to a halt in front of her childhood home, and she found herself grinning despite the fatigue clinging to her bones.

Upon entering the house, she was immediately greeted by her boisterously cheerful older brother who scooped her into a bear hug. She could see a familiar glint in his eye, one that spelled trouble — or adventure, depending on how you looked at it.

His surprise turned out to be none other than his best friend, Changbin. Seeing him there made. Y/N's stomach flutter with a familiar nervousness. She had known Changbin since they were children, and over the years, she had developed a deep and unspoken adoration for him. But to him, she was always "little Y/N," his best friend's kid sister.

The moment their eyes met, Y/N felt a rush of warmth that colored her cheeks a shade of rose. Changbin, ever the gentleman, stood up from his perch on the old leather couch in the living room, greeting her with a boyish grin that seemed to have only broadened over the years. "Y/N," he said warmly, "you've grown up so much."

"That's what happens when you age, Bin," she replied, laughing lightly while trying to mask the butterflies that his simple observation had stirred up within her. His lips twitched in amusement at her retort, the fondness bright and clear in his eyes. He held out a hand in an offer to take her bag which she gratefully accepted, his touch sending a pleasant shiver down her spine. Oh, how she missed this comforting familiarity.

Just as her heart began to flutter with the renewed prospect of time spent together, her brother clapped his hands together. “Well, I will leave you both to catch up. I've got some errands to run, but I'll be back soon,” he declared with a knowing smirk before disappearing out the front door.

The sudden silence that echoed in the living room felt heavy as Y/N turned back towards Changbin. His presence seemed to fill up the room in a way it hadn’t before when there were three of them. She swallowed nervously, feeling the flush on her cheeks deepen under his watchful gaze.

"So," Changbin began, breaking the silence, "how's college life treating you?" He stretched out on the couch, eyes inviting her to share her world with him. His question unfurled an array of stories within her mind; late-night study sessions, vibrant campus events, and friendships that felt like they could last a lifetime.

As she started telling him about her experiences, he listened attentively. His occasional nods and interjections made her feel seen and heard, and slowly, the earlier nerves started to fade away. The light from the setting sun softly washed over them, making his features appear even more endearing. His eyes gleamed with interest as she spoke and his lips curled into a warm, inviting smile that had her heart racing.

Caught in the spell of the moment, Y/N found herself inching closer to him on the couch, their knees brushing together occasionally. It was something they had done many times before as friends, but this time it felt different — those brief contacts ignited a spark within her that she'd never felt so intensely.

Soon enough, the conversation began to taper off as they lapsed into a comfortable silence. It was then that Changbin turned to look at her, his gaze softer than she'd ever seen before. In that instant, all the excitement from an afternoon spent reminiscing faded into a calm ocean of warmth and affection.

"Y/N," Changbin started, his voice barely above a whisper. "You've really changed." He paused for a moment before continuing. "I mean, you’ve not just grown up," he clarified hurriedly, pointing towards her untamed hair and bright eyes that held unspoken tales of her adventures at college. "You've also become… well, someone I find myself thinking about more often than I should."

The words hung in Her breath caught in her throat at his confession, butterflies erupting in her stomach. She could feel the heat rise to her face as she looked into his eyes. She'd always thought he saw her as his little sister, but now... now, everything felt different."

Changbin," she stammered, "I-I... I thought you saw me as your best friend's little sister."

He chuckled softly, a gentle laugh that reached the depths of her soul. "Well, you'll always be that to me, but.." His eyes held hers captive as he moved just a little bit closer, "you're also so much more, Y/N."

Hesitatingly, he reached out to brush a stray hair behind her ear and their closeness was almost palpable. Time seemed to stand still as their gazes locked in a silent battle of wills. His eyes held hers hostage, and it was Y/N who first blinked, heart pounding in her chest.

Leaning in ever so slightly, their lips met in a tentative yet breathless kiss; an admission of unspoken feelings finally given voice.

She felt his soft lips press against hers, and for a moment, Y/N thought she imagined it. A small gasp escaped her as the warmth of his breath danced across her lips, sending tingles down her spine.

She closed her eyes and leaned into the kiss, her heart beating rapidly in her chest. His hand found its way to the back of her neck, pulling her closer still. Their bodies melded together like they were always meant to be this way. The scent of his aftershave mixed with something familiar and comforting - maybe it was just him. She could feel his heart racing as fast as hers was, and it made their embrace feel more intimate than anything she had experienced before.

Their kiss deepened slowly, and she could taste the sweetness of his cherry chapstick on her tongue. Her fingers entwined with his as they explored each other's bodies in a way that felt both new and familiar at once.

The sound of their quiet breathing filled the room as they pressed closer together, lost in the moment. When they finally pulled away, it felt like waking up from a dream - but one she never wanted to leave. “What about my brother ?" Y/N whispered, pulling back with a flush on her cheeks.

Changbin smiled wryly, "We'll cross that bridge when we get there," he said, brushing her cheek with his fingertips. "For now, let's enjoy this moment."

Leaning in to kiss her once more , Y/N knew that he was right – they would figure it out eventually. For now, she would savor this stolen moment with the boy who had stolen her heart years ago.

Y/N blushed at his words but couldn't deny the truth in them. As their lips met again, the world around them seemed to melt away. The softness of his lips against hers sent a shiver down her spine as she closed her eyes, reveling in this newfound intimacy.

The soft noises they made echoed through the room, filling it with warmth and anticipation. His hand slid up her back and tangled itself in her hair, pulling gently on the strands as he deepened the kiss.

Their tongues danced tentatively at first, exploring each other's mouths in a slow rhythm that matched their hearts' pace. Each time they pulled away for air, they seemed to be breathing each other in, their noses brushing gently against one another's skin.

Changbin tasted like cherry chapstick mixed with something familiar and comforting - maybe it was just him. It was intoxicating.

His fingers trailed down her neck and beneath her shirt, his touch sending shivers down her spine. She could feel his heart racing against hers as they held onto each other tightly, lost in their embrace. This feeling was addictive; electricity zinged through every nerve ending as their lips met once more.

Her hand gripped onto his shirt, pulling him closer still as she felt his body heat melt into hers. The soft fabric gave way under her fingertips, revealing firm muscles beneath.

Her hands traced circles on his back before moving upwards, feeling every contour and ridge underneath his clothes until she reached his neck where she ran her nails gently across his skin lightly - eliciting a small moan from him.

"I've wanted this for so long," he breathed against her lips, and she responded with a shy smile.

Y/N moaned softly as he trailed kisses down her neck, sending shivers down her spine. She couldn't believe what was happening, yet she couldn't bring herself to stop it.

The scent of his cologne mixed with the familiar scent of home, filling the room with a warmth that surrounded them like a cloud. Every touch from him felt electric, every caress setting her skin ablaze.

She could feel his heart racing against hers in syncopated rhythm asthey explored each other's bodies with gentle movements and soft gasps.

His hand slipped under her shirt, brushing against her bare skin, and she arched into the contact without thinking. A gasp escaped from her lips as he found the small of her back, sending shockwaves of pleasure through every nerve ending.

Her breath hitched in anticipation as he trailed his fingers along the delicate valley between her shoulder blades before moving upwards to trace patterns on her skin that made her shiver. The touch sent tingles all throughout her body; she never wanted this moment to end.

"Changbin," she whimpered softly against his mouth, their lips meeting once more in a hungry kiss that seemed to consume them both. His tongue teased hers gently before delving deeper into her mouth, seeking out every corner with eager curiosity.

It was intoxicating how familiar yet new this feeling was; every touch brought them closer together while also making them want more. Fueled by the heat between them, Y/N pulled at his shirt, needing to feel more of his skin against hers.

As it gave way to reveal his chest muscles and stomach ripples underneath, she ran her nails softly across his toned abs which caused him to groan into their kiss.

His hands found their way to the hem of her shirt, lifting it up and over her head in one fluid motion. She shivered as his warm hands found their way down her back, caressing her skin.

They trailed down her spine, sending shivers of electricity through her body. She arched into his touch, needing more of him.

Changbin's lips left hers and began trailing kisses down her jawline, nibbling on her earlobes and collarbone as he went lower. He stopped at the hollow of her neck, where he paused to take a deep breath before looking up at her with hooded eyes."Y/N," he breathed heavily, "I... I want you so bad.

"Y/N's cheeks burned crimson as she looked into Changbin's eyes. "I... I want you too." She felt exposed yet liberated all at once under his heated gaze. In response, he slowly unclasped her bra, revealing her bare chest to his hungry gaze.

He cupped her breast gently through the thin fabric of her shirt before sliding it down her arms, revealing her perky mounds fohim to see. His eyes widened in appreciation before he bent down to take one of her pert nipples into his warm mouth.

She moaned softly as she arched her back, her fingers tangled in his hair as he teased and suck ed on her hardened nipples. His hands moved to her waist, sliding her pants down over her hips and let them pool at her ankles.

Her panties were next to go, leaving her completely naked and vulnerable in front of him. He stood up, never breaking eye contact with hers as he removed his own pants, revealing his hard length for her to see.

Y/N licked her lips involuntarily at the sight of him, so eager yet so patient. Her hand trembled as she reached out to touch him, running her hands along his shaft, feeling his heat and hardness in her palm. Changbin groaned at her touch, "God, Y/N," he breathed. "You're driving me crazy."

He wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her up and carrying Y/N to her room, the sound of their panting filled the now pitch-black room, their hearts still racing from their passionate embrace. Y/N couldn't believe where they were headed and yet she was eager to follow.

Changbin kicked the door shut behind them with a soft click that only served to heighten the intimacy between them.

He laid her down gently on her plain white comforter, his eyes roaming over her naked form like a predator about to make its kill.

She couldn't help but blush at the sight of him, his bare chest glistening with sweat from their intense make-out session. "You are so beautiful," he whispered before bending his head down to kiss along her collarbone once more.

His hot breath sent shivers down her spine as he trailed soft kisses downwards, heading towards her breasts.

His lips brushed against one of them teasingly before taking it between his teeth gently, causing a gasp to escape from her lips. He suckled on her nipple while his hand slipped between her thighs, pushing two fingers inside of her wetness without warning.

Y/N arched into his touch, moaning softly as he found her G-spot effortlessly. "Changbin," she moaned, her back arching off the bed as he hit that sweet spot again and again. Her walls clenched around his fingers, begging for more as he pumped them in and out of her.

With each thrust, she felt herself edging closer to the precipice, but he pulled away just when she thought she was about to come undone.

"Shh, baby," he soothed, looking into her hooded eyes before leaning down to claim her lips once more. "I want this to last."

He positioned himself at her entrance and looked into her eyes one last time, seeking permission. Y/N nodded, her desire clear in her eyes, and he brushed against her core teasingly before finally sliding inch by inch inside of her tight heat.

Y/N gasped as he filled her completely, unable to form coherent words as sensations she never knew existed coursed through her body. He was so big, so thick and hard, stretching her in ways she'd only ever dreamed of.

Changbin's eyes bore into hers as he started to move, withdrawing almost all the way out before thrusting back in agonizingly slowly. Each time he bottomed out inside her,

she moaned louder and louder, her nails digging into his back as he set a rhythm both slow and torturous.

"Y/N," he groaned against her neck between thrusts, "feels so good."

His words only spurred her on further as she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer if that were even possible.

Their bodies moved together in perfect harmony, their breaths mingling with each other's pants filling the room. Faster and faster they moved, their moans echoeing off the walls of her small room.

Changbin's pace increased, each thrust harder and deeper than the last as they both teetered on the edge of orgasm.

Y/N could feel it building deep within her core, coiling tighter and tighter with each movement of his hips. Her walls clenched around him, squeezing him tightly as she neared the edge.

"Binnie," she whimpered, her nails digging into his back as he hit that spot again and again.

"Come for me," he growled against her ear before biting down gently on her lobe. That was all it took; Y/N's world exploded into a million stars as she came undone in his arms, her orgasm rocking through her entire body like a tidal wave.

Changbin followed close behind her, groaning out her name as he found his own release deep inside her tight heat.

Their panting breaths were the only sounds in the room as they lay entangled in each other's arms, their bodies still joined as one.

Changbin kissed her forehead gently before pulling out of her with a quiet groan. Y/N whimpered softly at the loss of him but he was quick to soothe her, pulling her into his arms and nuzzling her hair.

"That was," she breathed, words failing her.

"Amazing," he finished for her, chuckling softly. "I've been waiting for that for so long."As they lay there, wrapped in each other's arms, Y/N knew that this was where she was supposed to be. With him.

#stray kids imagines #stray kids x reader #stray kids x y/n #stray kids imagine #stray kids smut #skz imagines #skz x reader #skz imagine #skz smut #skz changbin #changbin x reader #changbin imagine #changbin imagines #changbin smut #seo changbin #stray kids changbin #changbin

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thornedrose44 · 1 year

Note

16 supercorp please 🥺

Prompt: “Eat the rich, am I right?”

(Read on AO3)

Kara threw back the shot, swallowing the alien liquor in one go, desperately seeking the fuzziness and disconnection that only inebriation could bring.

“Woah, slow down there.” Alex laughed, “You know since adopting Esme my alcohol tolerance has plummeted.”

“Right… sorry.” Kara mumbled, moving to adjust her glasses only for her fingers to brush bare skin, the surprise of it and the sheer stupidity of the action making her gaze dart over to the spot she’d ordered herself not to look at.

She grimaced and quickly drank another shot.

Alex’s brow immediately pinched with concern, her head twisting round to track down whatever sight had provoked the discontent in her sister; before she had a chance to locate the issue, Nia was falling into the booth beside Alex, giggly and slightly sweat-sheened from dancing. Brainy slipped in next to Kara, looking equally flustered and energetic.

“This place is amazing! We should come every week!” Nia declared jubilantly.

“I concur!” Brainy agreed instantly, his smile wide, lopsided and smeared with a purple shade that matched Nia’s lipstick.

“Let’s see if you both feel the same in the morning…” Alex drawled, sipping her pint glass of water, having made the smart decision to alternate alcohol with hydration.

Nia either pointedly ignored this statement or had already mentally moved on from the conversation, Kara couldn’t really tell which, too busy sneakily taking another shot. Nia was already shifting in her seat, head rotating this way and that way, desperate to get back out on the dance-floor and burn more energy as she took hasty sips of the cocktail Alex and Kara had been guarding.

“Holy moly!” Nia exclaimed, going still as her eyes locked onto something. “Those two are about to get it on.”

“What? Who?” Alex asked curiously, even as Kara went rigid, eyes burning and heart racing.

“Talk about eat the rich, am I right?” Nia snorted, nudging Alex’s side as Alex slowly turned back to meet Kara’s gaze, her expression painfully sympathetic and understanding. “I knew Lena and Andrea had a whole thing but I had no idea it was heating back up again. I mean hot damn. Hey, Kara?” Nia murmured, leaning over the table, head lolling forward like an eager puppy with absolutely no filter. “Did you know? Do you think Lena’s going to go home with Andrea? Do you think they’re going to get together? Oh my god, can you imagine if they like properly date or… get married? How rich would they be together? Do you-”

CRACK-BANG

The table of their booth splintered apart, thudding loud and heavy to the ground - Alex let out a wince of pain as it banged her knees on the descent, Nia and Brainy’s alcohol levels dulling them to the impact.

“Shi-Shoot, I… I am so sorry…” Kara said, staggering to her feet, stomping the debris harder into the ground and inadvertently making any repair impossible.

“Is everyone okay?”

Kara cringed, looking over to find Lena, Andrea and Kelly - all of them having rushed over the instant they heard the noise. Staff were approaching but a wave from Lena and promise to pay for the expenses kept them at bay. Kara could barely look at her best friend, shoulders hunched up high and body curled forward with shame and in a vain attempt to mitigate the ache in her chest.

Lena was in a black dress with a high cut up the thigh; her hair was loose, curly and voluminous like a dark-haired Sandy from Grease. Her cheeks were flushed a bright pink, eyes dark and sparkling and the neck of her dress was pulled off one shoulder to reveal the expanse of tempting flesh.

(Kara had watched Andrea’s hands tease at the split in Lena’s dress, fingertips kissing the flash of thigh before marking a path up Lena’s side, hooking around the edge of fabric to pull it to the side allowing Andrea’s nose and the ghost of her lips to trail along Lena’s collarbone).

“We’re fine.” Alex answered immediately, getting to her feet and reaching for Kara - only for Kara to sway backwards out of reach and nearly fall over.

Hands in all directions reached out to steady her but with her ears filled with the sound of Lena’s familiar thrumming heartbeat is it any wonder that she fell towards Lena who touched her like she was fragile rather than a wrecking ball?

“You okay?” Lena whispered, head ducking forward so the words were just between the two of them.

Kara blinked into caring green eyes, breath catching in her throat so stubbornly that she felt herself actually choke on it - words totally beyond her capability.

She shook her head, unable to stop the action.

Lena’s face instantly set, becoming determined and clear as if all the alcohol was instantly purged from her system. Hands that had been delicately placed on Kara’s shoulders to offer maximum stabilisation, traced down her arms until their fingers were tangled - locking them together.

“I’m taking Kara home.” Lena declared, barely glancing around at the rest of the group.

Kara knew her sister would frown, considering whether to step in but would ease back if Kara shuffled that little bit closer to Lena - proving that this was what she wanted. During the shuffle forward, Kara caught a glimpse of Andrea’s expression: strained, disappointed and not so slightly annoyed. Any sense of victory Kara would have felt at provoking such a reaction was diminished by how Lena released Kara’s hand to fleetingly squeeze Andrea’s forearm, murmuring a promise to call or text when possible.

The interaction soured the mix of liquids in her stomach and as Lena led her out of the side-exit of the club to avoid scrutiny, Kara had to stop them so she could throw up in the gutter. Lena held her hair back, fingers cold and soothing on the back of Kara’s heated neck, her words even more gentle. Lena guided Kara into her chauffeured car, forcing her to drink water and then letting her rest her head on her shoulder and play with Lena’s fingers for the whole journey.

They arrived back at Kara’s apartment, Lena still steering her with infinite care, helping drink more water and get changed into pyjamas - Lena purposefully looking away whenever bare skin was exposed which only made the ache in Kara’s chest all the more pronounced.

“Why does she get to touch you like that?” Kara asked when she could no longer hold the drunk-induced words back.

“Hmm?” Lena hummed, raising an eyebrow curiously as she tucked the duvet in around Kara’s heavy-limbed form, “Who gets to touch me like what?”

Kara pursed her lips, looking into the far corner of her room as she muttered darkly, “Andrea…”

Lena froze for a painful beat, and Kara was suddenly acutely aware of how her eardrums throbbed with the remnant bass of the club. Lena slowly pulled away standing up to her full height as she peered down at Kara, her expression inscrutable.

“Because she asked, because she showed interest.” Lena said eventually, the words clipped and sharp. “You’ve never even tried to touch me like that. Never given any indication that you would want to…”

Kara still adamantly refused to look at her, fingers fidgeting with the edge of her quilt.

“I know you went out on a date with William Day.” Lena murmured, and Kara cringed away at that.

She was aware that she had said yes to him because she hoped he would reduce how much she thought of Lena but all it did was make Lena feel all the more easily replaced and forgotten.

Lena sighed and pinched her brow with index finger and thumb as if this conversation - if Kara - was producing a migraine. “Nevermind. You should sleep.”

“Are you going to sleep with her?” Kara asked quietly, wanting the salt to be rubbed into her wounds, wanting the burn in the hope that the sheer sharpness of it would reduce the underlying ache.

“If she asks…” Lena whispered hesitantly - Kara lived and died a thousand times over in that minor pause -, “probably. Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

“I don’t like her.”

“I didn’t like Mike or Mon-El.” Lena shot back, shaking her head. “That’s not a good enough reason.”

“Then what would be?” Kara demanded, head turning towards her, gaze focused on the white flash of thigh through the slit in Lena’s dress - still not able to look up into her green eyes.

“If you like me more.” Lena breathed.

Kara licked her lips, lungs inflating to put the long-awaited declaration out into the world only for her jaw to snap shut and her tongue to stick to the bottom of her mouth.

“You can’t say it, can you?” Lena laughed, the sound mournful and broken. “That’s the difference, you know? She’s not scared or embarrassed to like me, to ask to touch me.”

“Is that what you think: that I’m embarrassed?” Kara cringed, head bowing down as if she was praying to Lena, offering herself up in supplication.

“I don’t know,” Lena admitted, “but when I have no alternative… what should I default to thinking? If you say and do nothing despite my repeated invitations to it’s either because you don’t like me like that or you do but you don’t want to act on it.”

Another pause, another chance for redemption.

“It’s… I…” Kara began falteringly before trailing off into the heaviest of silences.

Lena sighed again, hand reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Kara’s ear, “Go to sleep, Kara.”

#supercorp #supercorp prompt #eat the rich au

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ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff · 10 months

Text

Soundly (Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader)

Summary: You’ve injured your arm, leaving you frustratingly helpless to complete everyday tasks, like cleaning yourself. Your boyfriend and colleague Simon understands your apprehension towards accepting help for such a task and tells you how he does.

AN: Working title was “Sprain” for those of you who voted in the poll. I’ll be posting the Soap fics shortly and posting another poll for my other upcoming fics afterwards! Meanwhile, let me know what you think in replies or inbox me, tell me your thoughts on fics - present or future.

I just want Ghost to feel loved and to recover from all the shit he went through. I did a fic for that and sharing a bed, so I’m doing this one for the reader a.k.a. me. Plus I like the head canon that Ghost is actually kinda talkative, like in the Alone mission. I know he’s probably partly chatting to Johnny to because he’s trying to keep him focused, guiding him to regroup and survive. But he’s telling dumb jokes and joking about watching his torture video. He’s got banter and trauma!

Content warnings: Allusions to Ghost’s time being tortured by Roba and the Mexican Cartel - specifically his SA as well as the reader’s. Reader is GN, no use of Y/N

Masterlist // AO3

For “just a sprain”, your elbow hurt like a bastard. It was resting in the hammock of the sling your doctor ordered you to keep on. Almost smugly, it sent a few stings across the bone when you were also instructed to restrict your movements and get support to complete day-to-day tasks before you were signed off on a month’s medical leave – pending review at the end of it for being brought back to work.

It was half your fault. The sprain in the first place was caused by some asshole who would not go down quietly and attempted to dislocate your limb. Thankfully, your training automatically twisted you into a position preventing that but then you had to shoot that asshole and your gun was in the arm he’d injured. The bullet that you fired solidified the damage and you were forced to focus hard on aiming with your non-dominant hand whilst slugging it over to the Heli half a klick to the west for recon. You didn’t have to shoot the guy straight away. You’d kicked him down and he was too far from his own weapon to have made it before you could have swapped your gun to your other hand and ended his life the same miserable way. But nah, in the heat of gunfire, you’d decided to end the fight as quick as possible then ran like a bat out of hell back to safety where the rest of your crew was headed.

Simon had known you long enough – and dated you long enough – to not treat you like glass. He wouldn’t insult you like that. Therefore you were very grateful that he was the one to take you home, and that his driving was a lot steadier and smooth on the motorway.

Letting you open the front door, he carried both his and your bags inside, ready to start your medical leave this instant. He was heading out of the hall with his shoes dropped loudly onto the rack when he asked:

“You want anything specific for tea?”

“Nah, I’m good with whatever.”

Despite years of therapy, this injury had dealt a hefty blow to your pride; you didn’t want to be any more of a burden than you were going to be over the next few weeks. Thank God you’d been to his place enough times for it to be considered familiar.

From the airing cupboard, you collected the towel that Simon had bought you after your fifth stay here and smiled at the memory of shopping for it together. He’d asked for what colour you preferred then gathering other items into the trolley that were the same shade: toothbrush, wash cloth, cup to sit by the bathroom sink. He was nice like that.

The bathroom door locked behind you, the final ebbs of afternoon reaching in through frosted glass. You thanked the sun for enabling you to keep the lights off; the buzz that accompanied their stark spark on the silky tiles was always too much for you. However as warm as the daylight was, it failed to soothe your state. When you tried to retrieve the memory of how you’d gotten this t-shirt on in the first place, your mind offered you a blank slate and tears of frustration bubbling over, stinging worse than the injury as you tried to warp it against its will. But to no avail. Your bitten tongue surrendered so that the crying could commence with your t-shirt still stuck on your body.

Gentle rapping at the door didn’t halt anything. Surrendering felt like an admission of weakness, failure, and it poisoned you against yourself as you twisted the lock in the handle and slumped on the rim of the bath.

A pair of plain-socked feet appeared at the top of your line of sight, lingering on the cobalt carpet side of the door frame.

“Can I borrow your scissors please?” You asked, toying with a stray string dangling from the hem.

“You gonna stab me?” Simon inquired semi-sarcastically.

“Yes.” It was a pathetic little reply. But Simon pushed off the bath, belongings tinkling against one another as he rooted around then retrieved a small pair of scissors from the top shelf.

He sat down beside you on the rim, holding out the scissors by the blade, “It’s a nice shirt.”

You wiped your nose on the hem before taking the scissors, “It’s just Primark.”

“I can help you out of it, if it is Primark’s finest.”

“Was just cut it off.”

But of course your dominant hand was tied up in the sling, and you only just realised now.

“I could help you take it off.”

You’d never been undressed around Simon. The closest you’d gotten were jogging bottoms you’d cut into knee-length shorts and the sleeves of your t-shirt pushed onto your shoulders whilst you both worked out at opposite ends of the gym. Towards the end of your set, you mopped at your brow with the hem of your shirt once and the sliver of skin nearly sent Simon into anaphylactic shock.

He knew why you grappled with the notion of undressing. But he didn’t ever linger on you going elsewhere to change. Across your relationship, and even before it started, he’d shown you love in so many other ways that you would forget about what had happened to you.

Today was the first time he addressed it: “I understand why you wouldn’t want me to help.”

Without moving your head, your watchful stare latched onto his adjusting to the nuisance of sitting on a thin perch of porcelain. He withdrew his skull balaclava from its suffocating in his pocket and began kneading at it until the eyehole faced the ceiling you’d stared at many times, wishing you could be more intimate with the man you loved more than life.

“Your reasons aren’t so different from mine.” And he held out the mask to you.

The olive branch was accepted and you thumbed over the skull plate as best you could with the scissors still in your grip. Only when your thumbnail caught against the paint depicting a cheekbone did it dawn on you what your boyfriend was referring to.

“Simon-”

“None of that,” He interrupted you, gently, firmly, “I get it. I don’t wanna bother you if you don’t want me here.”

He rubbed along your shoulder as you matched your deep breaths to his, resting your eyes to bask in his comfort and crushing the mask in your loose fist. You’d always equated it to anonymity. Never had you thought of linking it to another form of comfort.

“You can bathe with your clothes on,” Simon suggested after a minute’s silence.

“Do you know how hard it is to remove wet denim?” You muttered with a crooked smile.

“I do,” and he pressed a kiss to your forehead – his preferred place to do so. “Let’s give this a go.”

You handed back his balaclava and took in his bare face, the medical mask – the one he’d been wearing whilst you were in the hospital and all the way home - gone, his expression carefully crafted to be neutral so that you didn’t have to be.

He eased your sling off you after the taps were thundering steaming water into the tub. Then he vanished to his room, returning with a pair of baggy sports shorts. Cradling them like a baby, your nose welcomed their softness and the steam whilst Simon knelt onto the fluffy bathmat, nodding after splashing the bathwater and twisting the taps into silence.

“I’m gonna stink if I don’t wash properly,” You whispered.

After opening his palms to you, Simon took your shorts and arranged them on the floor, “I’ll get you some wet wipes to use while we wait for your arm to heal up.”

You held onto his shoulders whilst he undid your jeans and eased them down your legs, his hands careful to stay hidden in the fabric whilst you stepped out of them and into the shorts. Simon to pulled them up to your hips.

“Why did the magician take a bath?” He asked you as you lowered yourself into the water.

“I dunno, why?”

“To clean up his act.”

Your chest quivered, struggling to hold in your groans and giggles whilst Simon pumped some blueberry body wash into his palm, “That’s good.”

Tenderly he circled the soap across your forearm, “Fancy another?”

“Go on.” You were nothing if not his little enabler, indulging in his humour even after the rest of 141 had lightly roasted him for it.

“Knock, knock.”

Your free hand fiddled with the sodden hem of your t-shirt, “Who’s there?”

“Dwayne.”

“Dwayne who?”

Soaking the flannel and wringing it out over your arm, Simon began to wash the suds away, “Dwayne the bathtub before I dwown.”

Your smile was not dampened by the tears that rolled down your cheeks and dripped onto the shallow waterline. Instead, you focused your blurry vision on Simon’s hoodie sleeves that were pushed up to his elbows, those broad forearms sprinkled with droplets and soapsuds.

When Simon was lathering up some more body wash, you offered your own joke: “What did the man say after he swallowed a clock and went to the toilet?”

“What?”

“Watch out.”

Simon snorted loudly whilst carefully manipulating your injured arm amidst the blueberry bubbles.

You wiped a new tear away on your shoulder: “I’ve already told Kyle but you can tell it to Johnny.”

“Much obliged.”

With permission and a slow touch, he started soaping up your shins. His contact always lingered for hours on your skin. This felt like a polish, not a scratch or a dent, which is why you felt so overwhelmed now, just as you did that first time he gave you a proper bear hug. You didn’t mind the blueberry, something else to focus on instead of letting yourself meander towards conjuring disturbing imaginations of what you’d just learnt about Simon’s capture in Mexico.

He let you take over for washing your thighs, sitting on the toilet still talking to you with a smile that cracked up his face like the scar, from lip to brow. His eyes never strayed from your face, though it never felt like you were a target down his scope, more like feeling the sun first thing in the morning with a delicate breeze that danced around your being. Such a gaze wasn’t alien to Simon, even if he rarely showed it to you, and never to anyone else. You were just grateful that he was able to be like this, and that he still chose to.

That same stare, he held it whilst draping a towel around your shoulders, patting over your arms before he gathered it at the front for you to hold in your healthy hand. Then he collected a pile of clean clothes from the bedroom, placing them onto the closed toilet lid, you noted the crisply ironed button up folded on top. You settled for nestling your head against his chest since you were unable to hug him.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll make dinner.”

The door was locked after Simon disappeared behind it. You did end up cutting yourself out of the shirt, rest in peace. Fogged-up, the mirror wasn’t so bad to stare at whilst you moisturised with your good hand. You could still feel where Simon’s calloused hands had brushed over your skin, tingling in each follicle, and it was protected by the button-up you were able to slide on – one of the few Simon owned. His bulk was once again your gain; the shirt was loose enough to give you some wiggle room whilst dressing.

Clattering from the kitchen caught Simon in the act of putting away the ironing board. He was taking loud and rehearsed deep breaths that hissed through the fabric of his freshly-donned balaclava, the board under his arm before he tossed it into its assigned slot. His hand shook as it released the cupboard door handle, searching for something to distract himself with until he latched his stare onto you bunching your shirt in the front.

“I can’t do my buttons up,” You said quietly.

Your stomach impulsively sucked in on itself when his hands reached for the buttons before it, joining them with the fabric. Nevertheless, your gaze found solace in the thatch of fine chest hair growing in the lowest peak of his V-neck.

Simon started from the bottom button and made his way up. With each wince, his fingers stalled. But you knew he’d never hurt you, never on purpose and never like that. He made steady progress until complete and even helped you replace your sling. But then he sniffed and brushed his nose briefly, stepping away and back to the kitchen. For five minutes he alternated between sifting through the cupboards and staring helplessly into the fridge, his face washed out by the stagnant light inside. You took the time to help him in one of the ways you knew how.

“I’ll order us a takeaway.”

Immediately he slammed shut the fridge door, “You’re a fucking star.”

You were not put off by his pacing back and forth, nor were you by his hovering over you like a gargoyle whilst you tapped at the screen – which you held in a way for him to see clearly in case he wanted to add something. A wide berth allowed you to approach him on the couch with the takeaway when it arrived half an hour later (always reliable, hence why it was your go-to takeaway place). Simon also accepted the drink you brought him, but only because he’d already gotten you one plus two pain meds he made sure you took after getting some food into your stomach first.

The cushioned lap trays you’d invested in were already paying for themselves.

Dinner inhaled and rendering you quite soporific, you mirrored Simon’s earlier actions and tentatively shuffled closer to him, “Is this ok?”

“Yeah.” His arm dropped to around your waist, and you tugged on his wrist to keep it there. Only then did you tentatively wrap yourself around his full belly.

“Fuckin’ softie,” He said under his breath. That didn’t stop him from giving you a little squeeze – his hand no longer trembling - and sinking himself lower so that there was no pressure on your sprain. He turned the volume down a little, which sparked inspiration in your mind.

Half hiding in his t-shirt, you projected loud enough for him to hear you: “The local TV controller museum shut down due to no visitors. Turns out people aren’t remotely interested.”

“Have you been researching these instead of doing your paperwork?”

“What makes you think I haven’t been doing my paperwork?”

Simon looked down at you, those expressive eyes communicating both the “are you fucking for real?” and the “you’re lucky you’re cute” in equal parts. But from the way his balaclava was balanced on his face, you could tell he was smiling at you. So you smiled back at him then snuggled back against him with a contented sigh and the existence of your new joke book still a secret (for now).

The next time you opened your eyes, it was much darker in the living room. A blanket was tucked around your legs. The glow of “Are you still watching Phil Wang: Philly Philly Wang Wang?” from the flat-screen, despite that not being what you were watching when you first drifted off, bathed you in enough low light to allow you a comfortable adjustment period. You squinted up at your boyfriend. Head back in the pillows, his chest was rising and falling with each breath he drew and released through his nose. You adjusted the blanket around to cover his legs too and, tucking yourself back into your bundle, both you and Simon slept soundly.

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley fanfic #simon riley oneshot #cod #cod mw2 #mw2 #cod x reader #cod fanfic #cod oneshot #mw2 fanfic #my writing #r: gen #wc: >2k

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gaysindistress · 4 months

Text

Limits of a Fae Heart - two

Pairings: Azriel x reader

Summary: part two for this.

Word count: 2.6k

Warnings: mentions of past abuse but no detailed descriptions gaysindistress masterlist one | three | four | five | six

“Impossible?” I hiss at the High Lord of the Night Court. “Tell me how this seems impossible when your own mate was Made as well as her sisters. Tell me how it’s inconceivable when I was stuck forever living and dying.”

He says nothing, only staring down at me with those violet eyes. I sarcastically chuckle.

“Since you drug me here and will be forcing me to stay as it seems, I would like to retire to a room now,” I snap at Rhys and he nods. He goes to place a hand on my upper back and the shadows are quick to rip it away. Rhys sighs but keeps his hand at his side and settles for just pointing to the hallway for me to follow.

He wordlessly leads me up the stairs and down a dark hallway. All the while I feel the blazing stare of the Shadowsinger on my back.

Rhys stops a door at the every end of the hall and gives it a light shove to reveal a bedroom that is cozier than I expected. Dark wood planks cover the expanse of the floor and an equally dark green shade covers the walls. Upon closer inspection, I see that there are trees of varying greens painted all around the room. Surrounded by a forest that feels like home but so foreign, my soul yearns for something I can’t give it.

“This will be your room,” Rhys explains as he walks further in and candles ignite as he passes by them, bringing with them light. “There is a bathing room here,” he explains while pointing a doorway off to his left and then points one to his right, “and there is a wardrobe. If you need anything, my wife’s and my room is to the left of the stairs, Cassian and his mate are on the right, and Mor’s are next door. Kitchen is downstairs and past the living room. I’m sure Mor will come bother you at some point but I’ll try to keep her away as best as I can. Is there anything I can get for you before I leave you for the night?”

It’s not lost on me that he didn’t mention where Azriel’s room is and he knows it too. He shifts his weight ever so slightly under my unwavering stare.

The words spill out of his perfect lips much to his surprise, “He’s across the hall but I can have him stay somewhere else for the night.”

Happy with his confession, I turn away to take in the rest of the room. “No, this is his home after all. Warn him that I will not hesitate if he comes near me.”

I don’t have to elaborate, Rhys understands my meaning. I can feel him grappling with why he told me that so I answer for him so he’ll leave.

“I take it you didn’t think my famed ‘sociability’ was more than a good personality?”

“I’d heard rumors of people telling you their darkest secrets without prompting but I figured it was because of who your mate was.”

I stopped trailing my hand over the cream knitted blanket on the simple wooden framed bed.

“And who was he? What name do they give him now?”

“He’s the King of Hybern now.”

“Of course he is,” I snort and continue my inspection of the blanket. “You may leave now.”

He’s gone in an instant and silence surrounds me. Glancing over my shoulder, I see the bathroom and debate whether or not I want to truly see my current state. I’m sure I look like a complete disaster but I’m not sure Im ready to face my reflection.

A sharp pain hurts through my back and the heat of my body disappears as fear takes over me. I can hear my heartbeat pound in my ears as my breathing starts to become labored. Already weak from death, my knees buckle and I stumble forward, desperately searching for something to grip onto. I find nothing as the pain in my back becomes a searing sensation that is only amplified as my knees and hands catch on the floor. They tear into the soft skin and cause blood to leak from the cuts. The candles are blurred around me, and the silence surrounding me becomes suffocating. Water starts to envelop me from within as my breathing picks up pace even more, making it harder to swim to the surface of my emotions. Pain continues to spread from the torn skin and my back when I hear an awful tearing noise. I let out a sob as I feel the skin of my back break open and something tears itself free.

Blood drips onto the pristine wooden floors around me and there is a heavy weight at my back now but I can’t move. I don’t dare to move. I stay with my hands and knees firmly planted on the floor as sobs rack over my body.

I don’t know how long I stay on the floor but no one comes no matter how loud I scream at the agony in my back. Shadows, the persistent bastards, flood underneath the door and rush to me. I bat them away, unwilling to accept their help. They refuse to listen to me and hover with nervous energy as I crawl to the bathroom. I wince and bite back more sobs as the things that tore themselves free drag on the floor. They catch and hit furniture, ripping at them as I slowly make my way to the massive sunken bathtub. I don’t bother to pull off my clothes and instead just allow myself to fall right into the warm waters that are already waiting for me. I hiss at the feeling of warm water on my skin but it eases the ache in my body enough that I don’t wish for death.

Floating in the water beside me are membranous wings.

Ones similar to those of Cassian and Azriel. I snap my eyes shut and push myself further under the water. A deep dread sets in as I start to accept that this isn’t another nightmare created by my shattered mind.

I’ve been resurrected.

My former mate is now a king while the one I seemingly gained is a Shadowsinger and his pets are frantically tending to me.

What a shit show my life has become.

Waves of cedar, freezing mist, and olive filter through the room as my eyes flutter open. Sweat pools at the hollow of my throat and causes my skin to stick to the sheets beneath me. I brush back strands of hair that are plastered to my feverish forehead as I stare up at the ceiling above.

Shadows hover all around the room and I can only assume they’re standing guard outside of my door.

A shine from beside me catches my eye and I turn to see a blur of those creatures next to my hip. Cautiously, I shift and they awake at my movement to reveal a mess shiny black hair laying on top of muscular golden arms next to my hip. Unwanted comfort washes over me and my chest aches to be so close yet so far away from him.

He stirs for a moment and moves his head so he’s facing me. With his eyes still closed, I get a good at the face I already know by heart. The brave candle light that breaks through the shadows dances across the elegant planes of his face. Faint pale scars litter his skin and my fingers itch to trace them until my touch heals them. Scars cover the skin on his hands too but they are harsher, more jagged and deep than the others. Their angry deep brown color tells me that they’ve been inflicted many years ago and never healed properly. With how deep they go, I can practically feel the pain and damage they must have caused him. Something breaks inside of me to see that he’s been through so much but knowing that it’s similar to my own trauma is too much. I can’t fathom another ever coming close to going through what I did and I have to tear my eyes away from him.

Fate has been cruel to me and I suspect she will forever but this? Giving me a second mate and one who no doubt has the same nightmares that I do? That is a string even she wouldn’t think to weave herself. A part of me wonders if my first mate had anything to do with this. If he’s been able to take the crown, could he have been able to force the hand of Fate in his favor?

I scoff at the idea. That would be giving him too much credit to assume that he could do that or even would. He’d used me until I had nothing left to give and nourished me back to health only to restart the cycle. He’d whispered the most foul words a mate could hear as he bound my wings to my body after he found me. He’d forced me to be his own spy master and extract any and all information from his targets. It didn’t matter if it was important to his mission, he needed everything. When I proved to be too broken and weak to be of use to him, he’d left me for dead. He’d allowed his men to chase after me like hounds chasing a fox. He even demanded that they keep me alive so he could be the one to finish me off. It had my mate, the man the Cauldron said I was fated for, that put me on that island where I laid half alive, half dead for years. I don’t even know how long I’d been there but it doesn’t matter anyway.

Regardless of who Azriel is, I don’t want him. I can’t want him.

I can’t need him the way I thought needed the King of Hybern. I can’t allow myself to be in such a vulnerable position again even if I know Azriel would never do that same.

The two men have to be the same in my mind if I’m going to survive.

And I’ll do what I should have the first time; reject the bond and save myself.

It’s Feyre who does knocks at my door first. A woman who looks like a sharper and more intense version of her stands behind her. I quickly learn that her name is Nesta and she’s mated to the man child Cassian. She laughs and makes a side comment about how we’re going to get along when I tell her that. Feyre laughs as well but she stays quiet, probably in fear that I’ll say something less kind about her mate.

”We thought you might like company,” her gentle voice answers my unspoken question. She sits in the chair I assume Azriel was sleeping in earlier while Nesta makes herself comfortable on the bed next to me.

I go to push myself up but am stopped by the heavy weight at my back. My wings, I realize, as I push myself onto my forearms and watch as they emerge from under my hair. Feyre gasps and I quickly glance over to her to see that she’s also looking at them. She looks at me in wonderment. Nesta shares a similar look but keeps it isolated to her eyes and her face remains a facade of collected beauty.

“He…Rhys didn’t tell me you were Illyrian,” she mutters more to herself.

“Bold of you to assume that I am,” I say with a hint more edge than I intended. Her gaze flickers for a moment and Nesta chuckles under her breath.

Feyre goes to apologize but I stop her, “I was teasing. My father was Illyrian.

“And your mother?” Nesta asks and earns a stern look from her sister.

“Hybern.”

“Oh what a disgusting revelation.”

Once again Feyre tries to reign her back in while I feed into it.

“Yes it is quite unfortunate; however I don’t imagine the King would’ve taken me if I wasn’t from his land at all.”

Nesta shrugs her shoulders, “he’s a disgusted man. He probably still would have just for the fun of it.”

“Nesta!” Feyre gasps and looks to me with apologetic eyes, “I’m so sorry. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to bring her.”

“Do I look offended?” Both women look at me and scrutinize every inch of my face. “No, she’s fine and it’s…refreshing to be around someone with a sense of humor.”

I try to move again and my wings quack against my back from the pain.

“You’ll get used to them with time and practice,” Feyre tells me. There’s an underlying order in her words; don’t push yourself.

“I know you’ve only been here for a day but how is everything?”

I arch a brow at her, “define everything.”

Nesta snickers.

Cutting her off before she melts into her chair, I say, “everything is fine. Thank you for all of it.”

A gentle chill overcomes the room. One of those pesky shadows creeps in and slides over the back of Feyre’s chair. It plays with the ends of her hair before making its way to Nesta and halting by my foot. Nesta shivers and looks like she wants to bat at the shadow.

I clench my jaw and finally push myself further up so Im sitting against the wall. It’s painful and almost leaves me in a tears but I do it anyways. The shadow darts up to me but waits for me to invite it closer. The sisters are watching my every move as I reach my hand out with my palm up. It hesitates for a moment and then circles around my fingers. The shadow is cold but it’s not unpleasant. It crawls further up my wrist and to my arm. The ache in my chest feels content as this shadow traces my arm.

I let out a sigh. Warmth fills me and there is something akin to hope in the waves of comfort but it’s foolish. Hope cannot exist when the king still has his cold hand wrapped around my throat.

I swallow thickly despite the cold pressure on my neck and look to Feyre. “Why am I here?”

Nesta shoots her an uncharacteristically nervous look. Feyre sits straight up and clears her throat. “We need your help.”

“With?”

“The King. He’s planning a war and…”

I interrupt her, “let me guess; you’re running out of options and Rhys thinks that I’ll have some insight you haven’t found anywhere else.”

“And she’s smart,” Nesta pipes up and the shadows agree with her. They’ve made themselves comfortable on my shoulder and nestle against my neck.

“Well I can’t tell you anything you don’t know already. He isn’t the type to sip tea by a fire and spill his darkest secrets. That and I’ve been dead far longer than even your High Lord has been alive. Tell me, Feyre, how did he know about me.”

I want to feel bad about using my powers on her but I don’t think she would tell me without it.

“Az was the one who told him. I…I don’t know how he knew.”

The shadows shutter at the mention of their master and sink onto me even more. Feyre blinks in shock.

“It seems like I need to pay him a visit next.”

With that, the sisters leave. Now it’s just me with the shadows of a man who knows more about me than I would like.

#a court of thorns and roses #azriel spymaster #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel imagine #azriel acotar #az x reader #az imagine #limits of a fae heart az x reader

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queenimmadolla · 2 years

Text

𝐒𝐇𝐄'𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 ─ 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 '𝟖𝟔

(young parents!eddie munson x reader)

more dad!eddie and pennyverse entries can be found on my masterlist

summary: After taking a pregnancy home test for funsies, you find out that you’re actually pregnant. The scariest part isn’t even the completely unexpected pregnancy, it’s telling Eddie.

warnings: use of an 80s pregnancy test, pregnancy (obvs), mention of periods, not much else.

a/n: based on this request and also based in the pennyverse (see masterlist). i usually always use up my friends’ extra pregnancy tests when they take them, so I’ve developed an irrational fear of this happening to me after writing it out lol. and i still can’t use the keep reading tab bc tumblr eats sections of my fics that i try to use it on so sorry about that and sorry about the formatting, tumblr also refuses to post this if I remove so much as a space. enjoy! let me know what you think (don’t be a dick)! 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

You were sat inside of the tub—void of any water—and had been for the past hour and a half. It was anything but comfortable. You weren’t paying attention to the ache in your back though, too focused on the vial you held between you fingers, rolling it between your middle and thumb finger while you were careful to avoid spilling the liquid it contained.

How you hadn’t thrown it out of your bedroom window yet, you had no clue. After all, it did kind of betray you. Nancy had a scare with Jonathan about two days prior and you’d gone with her to the pharmacy to pick up a couple of tests, held her hand as she panicked about how she couldn’t put off school to raise a baby but the liquid in her vial remained clear, and so did the next one she tried. While she’d been significantly relieved at the negative results, she couldn’t risk her mom finding the tests so you’d taken the remainder of them (she’d purchased six in total, talk about overdoing it) with the intentions of throwing them out. Then your stupid curiosity got the best of you. You blamed it on how interesting the actual test looked. While you had hated chemistry class, messing with actual liquids, chemicals, vials, and bunsen burners during the labs had greatly amused you.

The pregnancy test looked much too similar to a couple of those components, so you couldn’t resist. You’d peed in the tray, mixed it in with the clear liquid you’d poured into the provided vial, waited a couple of minutes for everything to combine and settle in there, then you placed a drop of the solution into the mixture. The result was unfortunately instant. You’d been fully expecting the same result as Nancy while you prepared the test but to your complete and utter surprise, the liquid in your vial turned a dark shade of blue. And so did the next one, and the one after that, and the last one. You were glad you’d chosen to do this at your parents’ house, you hadn’t wanted Eddie to get the wrong idea and your parents’ still had a room for you but you were interested in the ensuite bathroom connected to it—or else Eddie would have stumbled upon you passed out in the trailer.

You’d settled into the bathtub when it felt like your legs were going to give in as reality shifted around you. What the FUCK? You hadn’t even missed your periods! Sure, they never really came on time but that was because they’d always been irregular ever since Aunt Flo’s first visit! They’d been pretty light and brief, but that still had to count for something right? You groaned as you sunk further down in the tub, recalling all the times you and Eddie had neglected to use protection. You’d been on the pill since before you two even got together (that’s a different story, though) and sure, he occasionally wore a condom but that accounted for only about 15% of the times you had sex. The rest of the times, you’d simply put your faith in your little blue pill. How ironic was it that your birth control was the same color as the positive pregnancy result? Maybe you could laugh about it in the future, but for now, you were panicking about what to do next. You’d only been out of school for about five months, having graduated alongside the majority of your friends and your now-husband in June, and you hadn’t enrolled in a college because—well, you had no idea what you wanted to study or even if you wanted to study anything, so you’d chosen a job instead, which meant school wouldn’t be a problem for you. But telling your husband would be. You’d gotten married the same night of graduation, moved in (officially) with him and Wayne about a week later and you’d been in the honeymoon phase since. Wayne had started sleeping over a couple of trailer’s down at Maude Maple’s—you couldn’t blame him, Eddie wasn’t exactly quiet when you fucked—she was conveniently all alone after her son went away for college in the early fall and had taken quite the liking to her faithful neighbor who never failed to come to her rescue when some appliance of her’s ‘broke down’, meaning you and Eddie had the whole trailer to yourself the majority of the time. That’s probably how you ended up in this situation.

You’d have to tell Eddie. You shot up in the tub, gripping the side with your freehand as a wave of nausea turned in your stomach and you were pretty sure it didn’t have anything to do with pregnancy symptoms. What would he do? What would he say? Would he leave you? Did he even want a baby right now? Of course not, he had ambitions and a baby would halt those! Yes, you talked about having kids before, but it was always future plans. This was happening right now.

You stood up, climbing out of the tub before you capped the vial. You hid it in one of the pockets lining your bag before you quickly got rid of the rest of the evidence, flushing other positive tests and loading your purse with all the trash to discard in a bin somewhere far from your parents’ house and the trailer, where no one could tie it back to you. Wait a minute, you thought as you clutched your bag to your chest. Pregnancy tests give false positives all the time! Maybe I just got a bad batch. Yeah, that’s it! I’ll just go to my doctor, and have this all blown over. You hadn’t experienced any symptoms (that couldn’t be blamed on PMS) and you didn’t feel any different, so could you really be pregnant? —

You were pregnant.

Not only had your doctor confirmed it, but she’d also informed you that you were about 22 weeks along. Even if you had wanted to get an abortion (which you hadn’t really considered seeing as how you had no idea you were pregnant until that morning), you wouldn’t be able to unless you had a serious medical condition. You’d tried to somehow argue your way out of her diagnosis, or whatever it was, by pointing out that your stomach was still normal, no major change to it as in no abnormally protruding baby bump but she’d informed you that your baby was most likely just nestled in there and, while it was rare, sometimes people didn’t show until late in their pregnancy. Then she’d weighed you and you were indeed a couple of pounds over, compared to what you could remember weighing last. And your periods? She chalked that up to hormone changes after she asked if you’d been experiencing any extreme changes in mood and you’d been able to recall the random bouts of frustration, irritation, sudden sadness, and yeah, that made sense. She’d said it’d most likely stop once you started relaxing.

If that hadn’t been proof enough for you, the figure on your sonogram was, along with the heartbeat you’d heard during the brief ultrasound. That had to have been the scariest part; you’d been expecting to see a tiny little blob—your fetus at an early stage—but your fetus was far enough developed to resemble a freaking baby and you just couldn’t wrap your head around actually being pregnant, a baby was inside of you at that very moment. Thinking about it made your brain produce no thoughts, just white noise.

You didn’t go home to Eddie that night, choosing to return back to your parents’ where you faked coming down with something and your mother insisted—like you knew she would—that you stay the night. You took dinner in your room, had your mom tell Eddie you weren’t feeling good and were sleeping it off—not a total lie—when he inevitably called. It was pretty shitty of you but you didn’t know what else to do and hiding out at your childhood home was your only way of avoiding your husband.

You hadn’t been able to sleep. Not with what you now knew. Almost hesitantly, you unbuttoned the shirt of your ridiculous, Winnie the Pooh pajamas and rested your palm just below your belly button, trying to feel any movement from the baby growing there.

While you couldn’t feel anything on the outside, your mind wandered to last week, when you’d been laying on your tummy and felt an odd sensation that you attributed to a silent stomach rumble—though it didn’t feel much like your stomach—, your body just letting you know you were hungry. It had happened a couple more times—all of which you’d been stomach down—and now you were sure it had been the baby inside of you, maybe protesting about being squished. You certainly wouldn’t be sleeping on your stomach anymore, now that you were aware of the new resident in your womb.

It didn’t even surprise you that you were starting to think of ways to go about making sure your baby was okay in there; while you were scared shitless as most unexpected first time moms-to-be are, there was part of you that wanted to know more about that little human growing inside of you. Would they look more like Eddie or more like you? Would they have his pretty, baby cow eyes or would they have yours? And what about the hair, would it be more like yours or more like his messy curls? Then you warmed, because you had a part of him literally inside of you; you were carrying his baby. While the news of your pregnancy had been daunting to say the least, you were finding that you didn’t completely fear the idea of it. No, what you feared was Eddie’s reaction.

You were thinking of ways you could somehow avoid him, though you knew you wouldn’t be able to for long. You weren’t showing yet but you would be, probably sooner rather than later. If, for some reason, he didn’t notice—someone else would and word would get back to him.

Frustrated with your predicament, you grabbed one of your throw pillows from next to you and held it over your face to muffle your screams. The sound of knuckles rapping against your window interrupted you and you froze, blood running cold. There was only one person it could be, and it was the very person you didn’t want to actively see at the moment.

You were positive he could see you, though, and you didn’t want him to think you were trying to smother yourself to death so you reluctantly set the pillow back in it’s place at your side and got up to confront your fears, if not for you then for the little one inside you. Eddie was grinning as you approached your window, pulling it open before stepping back so he could climb in.

“Hey, Thumper,” he greeted as he righted himself, stretching his arms up after he’d kicked off his shoes and shrugged his jacket off. Once he was standing at full height, he leaned back against the window frame, pretty doe eyes taking you in from head to toe, “How you feelin’? You okay, baby?”

“I’m all right, Bambi,” you lied, willing your body to relax. “My head hurts, that’s all.”

Eddie eyed you skeptically before he closed the distance between you two, hands moving up to cradle your face as he leaned in for a kiss. Like butter, you melted; eyes fluttering shut as your body fully relaxed and your mind went all fuzzy. You’d been married for six months now and you were beginning to realize the effect he had on you would never go away. Unless he did. Your anxiety came rushing right back and you pulled away, breaking the kiss.

“What are you doing here?” You rushed to ask, taking note of the concern written on his face as he stared down at you. “I was worrying myself sick about you. I knew you weren’t feeling good, plus I can’t sleep without you, so if the mountain won’t come to Muhammad. . .”

“I’m pregnant,” you blurted out, posture stiff and awkward as you stared back up at him with wide eyes. You hadn’t meant to say it, it kind of just came out on its own but now that it was out there, there was no taking it back.

You studied his face, your heartbeat pounding against your chest with the suspense as you watched his eyebrow quirk up, his pink lips parting slightly in surprise.

Eddie swallowed hard once, mouth continuing to open and close like he was a fish instead of a human, “I’m sorry—what?”

He opened the flood gates again, you couldn’t contain the word vomit, you just kept talking, “I’m pregnant. Like, I am really pregnant, man. I only literally just found out and I was thinking maybe the home tests were bad—all four of them—but they were not because I went to the doctor since I couldn’t believe it ‘cause I didn’t know I was pregnant but she said I was and then I saw it for myself and now I am actively aware of the baby inside me like some sort of chest hugger—except it’s in my womb and I’m gonna have to give birth and I am really freaking the fuck out because I don’t know what we’re gonna do since we didn’t exactly talk about having a baby right away and I know you had plans and this is kind of getting in the way of them and that’s what I didn’t want because I want you to do everything you love and I wanna be by your side while you do it and I’m not gonna lie, I actually wouldn’t mind having this baby since it’s me and you but I don’t want you to leave me over this—“

You were silenced when Eddie gently placed his palm over your mouth, effectively stopping your verbal onslaught and keeping you from working yourself into a panic attack.

“Hey, hey—hey, you gotta calm down, honey. You’re upsetting yourself,” his hand slid from over your mouth to the back of your neck, rubbing at the tense muscles there. “Breathe for me, baby.”

You knew he was right, you were practically shaking in your fuzzy socks. You took a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm your breathing while Eddie mumbled encouraging words, pressing kisses to your forehead until you’d managed to get somewhat of a hold on yourself. Eddie would hold the rest of you together, like he always did. You wrapped your arms around his middle, snuggling into his chest.

Eddie indulged you, soothing you with cuddles before he pulled back just enough to look at you, while he had managed to calm you down, you could still see the surprise in his dark gaze as he whispered, “You-You’re pregnant?”

You feared your mouth would run free again, so you remained silent, nodding a couple of times as you nibbled on your lower lip, waiting for Eddie to lose it, to blow a gasket. Seeing you this upset pained Eddie. He could see the fear in your glossy eyes, the quiver in your plump lower lip as you stared up at him, waiting for his response. He tried not to take it personal, knew where your insecurities lied and how much you valued him over yourself. If there was one thing Eddie wished he could change, it’d be the way you saw yourself. He wished you could see yourself through his eyes; you were absolutely perfect to and for him. He couldn’t imagine life without you and he didn’t ever want to, so the notion that he would even consider leaving you was blasphemy. He wouldn’t have done it if you weren’t pregnant. Had this happened in high school or something, he might have freaked out a little but he still wouldn’t have ever considered leaving you.

Now, it just seemed like the opportune time for this exact scenario. You were already married, so people couldn’t say Baby Munson was a bastard and kids came next after marriage, right? It didn’t matter when you two had them—to him, at least. He knew he’d be a good dad, he wouldn’t be anything like his. Not the bad parts of him. And Eddie knew you’d be an amazing mother, had seen you handle the kid part of your friend group plenty of times.

When he said your name, so tenderly, it made you want to cry, and a tear did slip down your cheek but Eddie was quick to halt it, wiping it away with his thumb, “Listen to me, ‘kay? I’m uh—I’m definitely a little shocked, but there isn’t even a small percentage of me that doesn’t want to have a mini you running around. And my plans? Baby, you are my plans. From the moment I hung out with you in the back of my van at that shitty party, I knew I needed you in my life. Now, you are my life. The only plans I have, are to live happily ever after—and all that gooey, sappy shit I’ll never publicly admit to loving—with you. Everything else that happens is filler stuff, okay? You—and you,” he reached a hand down to rest again the skin of your stomach, rings cool against your flesh, still exposed as your shirt had remained unbuttoned, “—are the only things that matter to me. I love you, and every extension of you—of us.”

You sniffled, nodding your head a couple of times again before he leant down and you met him halfway, lips pressing together in a messy kiss, wet with your tears and Eddie’s. You pulled away once you realized he was crying, too, but he rushed to wipe his tears away, bashful. “Shut up, I have the right to be a little emotional, okay? It’s just been confirmed to me that I’m gonna be a dad, that’s some pretty big, fucking good news.”

You leaned in to kiss a stray tear off his cheek, licking it off your lips as you peered up at him in curiosity, “Confirmed?”

Eddie laughed as you squinted up at him, pressing another kiss to your forehead, “You nearly bit Argyle’s head off when he brought that pizza to movie night last month, baby.” “He forgot the bell peppers after I called him multiple times to remind him!” “And when you were helping Will out with his art project, you kept crying because it made you emotional,” he added, recalling the way you were silently crying as you painted the area of the canvas Will had asked you to touch up. “It was a very moving scene he depicted!” “Not to mention how many times I’ve cum in you. Honestly, the only reason I’m surprised is because I kind of expected this to happen sooner.”

You winced as his brazen words, normally they got the waterpark down there flowing but you could tell he was trying to get a reaction out of you, “Jesus, Eddie. Your breeding kink is showing.”

He winked, walking you backwards towards the bed, though it didn’t seem like his intentions were sexual, or at least not as sexual as he usually was when he fully intended on ravaging you. Once you fell back onto it, he clambered over you, hands moving either side of your night shirt away. He pressed a kiss to both of your breasts, mumbling a quick ‘my girls!’ before he focused his attention on the lower part of your stomach, suddenly fascinated at the sight of it.

“So, there’s a baby in there?” He asked, index finger trailing circles over your soft skin, just above your pelvis and the hem of your pajama pants.

“Mhm,” you hummed, then you remembered the sonogram and threw him off of you to run to your purse. Eddie watched you in amusement, lounging on his side, as you dug around in it. Once you’d found both the vial and the sonogram, you returned to the bed, crawling next to him as you handed him both. “What’s this?” He asked, admiring the blue liquid in the sealed vial.

“Chemicals and stuff, I’m pretty sure, and my pee.” He didn’t miss a beat, “That’s really hot.”

“Shut up, it’s my pregnancy test,” suddenly, Eddie was cradling it in his palm like it was the most precious thing in the world, “and this is your kid.”

You held the sonogram up and Eddie stared at it with wonderment, carefully setting the vial down on your old nightstand before he reached for the sonogram. You let him pluck it from your grasp, watching him in slight awe yourself, as he stared hard at it, easily able to make out the baby’s shape despite the lack of decent lighting. He trailed a finger over it gently, as if he was actually stroking his baby instead of outlining his baby’s form in the sonogram picture. When he looked back at you, his eyes were shining with the promise of more tears as he whispered, “This is our baby?” You nodded as your own eyes began to gloss over, choked up at how much Eddie seemed to love the little one growing inside of you already, “That’s our baby.”

“Holy shit,” He mumbled, gaze focused on the sonogram again before he seemed to come to some sort of realization and his head snapped back to you. “H-How far along are you?”

You pinched your bottom lip between your fingers, nervously as you answered, “Uhm, she said I’m about 22 weeks along now.”

You really loved Eddie’s eyes, so big, brown and pretty, but as big as they were, they could definitely get bigger. Like they were right then as he silently mouthed the latter half of your sentence before he found his voice again, “22 weeks? That’s—That’s five months!” You nodded in agreement, watching as he went through the same sort of emotions you had when the doctor had told you. “That only gives us like what—four months to prepare? Fuck, I have to baby proof so many things, and I have to build a crib, we’ve got to get carseats, what else do we need to raise a baby?”

“We can figure it out in the morning, I am ready to collapse,” you laughed as you took the sonogram from his hand and placed it on the nightstand near your pregnancy test before you pushed him back into the pillows, and unbuttoned his jeans. Eddie lifted his hips to allow you to tug them off and discard them at the end if your bed, then you curled into your place at his side, face nuzzling into the crook of his neck as you inhaled his scent; woodsy (curtesy of the cheap cologne he used), with the slight scent of marijuana but you were even more pleased when you didn’t smell any traces of cigarettes, he’d given them up two months ago. You cuddled for a few minutes, but the exhaustion of the day was finally catching up to you. Eddie’s hand stroked over your back, lulling you further to sleep. Before you could fully slip under though, he asked, “Did you happen to find out the sex?” “Mhm,” You mumbled, sleepily as you pressed a lazy kiss to his collar bone.

“You gonna share with the class?” You could hear the amusement in his voice and you smiled against his skin at the mere thought of the pretty grin he no doubt had on his face. Eddie loved to talk to you when you were on the cusps of sleep for some reason. Thought it was endearing. “‘M not in school,” you slurred, eyes fluttering shut completely. “How are you such a smartass even when you’re half asleep?” He chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. You chuckled along with him, snuggling further into him. He thought you’d finally fallen asleep after you didn’t answer him, but he was rewarded five minutes later when you mumbled out, “’S a girl.”

A girl. He was gonna be a dad to a little girl. Eddie closed his eyes and he could practically envision her, a little miniature version of you; with your cute nose and your pretty features. Would she have your eyes or his? Would her hair be as unruly as his or more like yours? Maybe if he put a headset over your tummy and played some cool tunes, she’d come out with an appreciation for Metallica. He’d thought four months was pretty soon, earlier, but now it seemed like a century away, he was already eager to meet her. Soon, he mused, a hand moving to rest over your stomach.

Soon.

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simp4wom3n · 2 years

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The Girl of your Dreams

Pairing: Jenna Ortega x Reader

Requested: Yes/No

Summary: Y/N, a new actress who gets cast in the show Wednesday and falls in love with her costar Jenna, attends the shows premiere with her now girlfriend to announce their relationship to the world. ~ Word count: 987 ~ Warnings: none ~

A/N: Hellooo. This is my first time ever completing and posting a fanfic so it may not be amazing but it exists. I wrote it without a request and I hope you enjoy it <3

Working as an actress has always been a dream of yours. You have been acting essentially ever since you could talk. Whether it was memorising and recreating your favourite scenes from movies and tv shows, or acting in your sibling’s homemade plays, you had always loved and admired it. So, when you got the opportunity to audition for a main role in the Netflix TV show Wednesday, to say you were ecstatic would have been an understatement. That level of excitement was soon dwarfed by your elation after you received a phone call from Tim Burton himself, telling you that you got the role. It was there, on the set of Wednesday, that you met the love of your life, Jenna Ortega.

It was all very new to you. You had never been on a set before, never been away from your family for 8 months, let alone in another country, and you had never acted professionally before so even the idea of it was intimidating. The first day you spent on set you were riddled with nerves. You were intimidated by everything and everyone, and scared of messing up or doing anything wrong in fear you would lose the opportunity of a lifetime. All of those emotions, however, vanished the moment you met Jenna. Despite meeting her briefly at the table read months prior, as soon as you saw and spoke to her in Romania, you felt an instant connection, developing immediate heart eyes. She was compassionate, gentle, supportive, and not to mention undeniably attractive. The two of you got on like a house on fire, becoming immediate close friends, known by the cast and crew to muck around both on and off set. It became unusual for one of you to be seen without the other, and you spent more time in her trailer than you did in your own.

Platonic feelings soon multiplied and your relationship flourished into something much more intimate. These feelings were solidified at one of your routine sleepovers after a long night shoot, where after months of pining, the two of you finally shared your first kiss. A few weeks later, Jenna asked you to be her girlfriend and you have been together ever since. The two of you were yet to go public with your relationship but after talking about it with over the past few weeks you ultimately decided to attend the premiere together as your way of announcing it, bringing you to today.

“Y/N? Are you ready to go?” Jenna asked, breaking you out of your trance. You had been waiting in your makeup chair dressed in a custom black suit created specifically to match Jenna’s dress, which you were yet to have seen. Your jaw dropped the second you stood up and faced her. She was absolutely breathtaking. “Wow… you look… incredible” you managed to stutter out. As a slight rosy shade rose its way onto her cheeks she leaned up to press a small kiss onto your cheek. “You don't look too bad yourself” she compliments with a smirk as she leans back and looks you up and down. “Shall we?” “We shall” you reply, giving her a chaste kiss and taking her hand, leading her out the door and down to the car. Despite the location of the premiere only being a short drive away from the apartment, you spent the entirety of the drive admiring her, unable to take your eyes off of her. “What?” she chuckled after noticing your adoring gaze. “Nothing” you reply gently, your smile growing as she retorts, “Mmmm ok.” whilst matching your giddy smile.

As the car pulls up to the premiere, the nerves begin to kick in as you start fidgeting with the rings that adorn your fingers, an old habit of yours. The familiar feelings of intimidation and uncertainty return as you look out the tinted window on the hundreds of people, armed with cameras and expectations, as the reality of your first premiere suddenly hits you. Noticing your fidgeting, Jenna gently grasps your hand into her own, tenderly squeezing it in an attempt to reassure you. “You ok?” “Yeah… just a bit nervous is all.” “I’ll be there with you the whole time. If it gets too much just tell me and we can leave ok? You’ll do great, I know you will.” “Thanks Jenna. I love you.” “Love you too.”. You exchange a quick yet intimate kiss before stepping out the car door, hand in hand with your girlfriend. You are immediately met with the bright flashes and loud shuttering of the paparazzi’s cameras as you make your way into the premiere side by side. The sound of the fan’s screams seem to increase tenfold as the two of you come into view.

“Y/N! over here please!” “Jenna! look this way!” “Are you two together?!” “Looking amazing you two!”. Despite the tsunami of questions and comments being thrown at you, all you can think about is how lucky you are to be standing here, on the carpet of a Netflix production, next to your favourite person and somehow having the honour of calling her yours. Amongst the flurry of photos in which you two were stood together, your eyes lock with Jenna’s, pure joy evident within your Y/E/C iris, she gently smiles before you both lean in and your lips lock in a slow and intimate kiss, the overbearing noise of your surroundings becoming mere background music. You hear the intensity of the crowd's roaring and screaming escalate as your lips softly move against one anothers. As your lips slowly separate and your state of pure bliss is broken, you maintain eye contact as you gaze deep into her dark brown eyes which exude a familiar air of warmth and security. “I love you Y/N… so much” Jenna whispers just loud enough for you to hear. “I love you too”

#jenna ortega #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega x fem reader #jenna ortega x fem!reader #jenna ortega imagine #wednesday #wednesday premiere #simp4wom3n

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gardenofnoah · 7 months

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turn me like a beast / hold you to the floor

tags: nanami kento x reader, princess!reader, violence, injuries (minor), non-graphic descriptions of hunting, medium burn, sort of enemies to lovers but mostly scared strangers to unfortunate lovers, the fall of a dynasty, character death (sorry), reincarnation, bittersweet ending. mdni.

wc: 6.5k ish

notes: for @medusashima’s collab—indulging myself (and y’all) in my take on one of my favorite stories. i hope you like it 💘 this is based on the tale of the two fossils found wrapped up in each other in an unlikely pairing (which is made even better by the fact that it is not fiction and it happened!! love is real nerd!!). there’s a really phenomenal webtoon called burrow (by saige9) that makes me cry and that y’all should read immediately. anyway, enjoy. love u

summary: the world is at its end, and an unlikely pair finds solace in each other. to love is an animal thing.

it shocks you, how gentle a tug it takes to unravel everything that you were. only a thing between two others—before: a princess on a hill, the unraveling, and who you’ll be after.

your feet stomp clumsily over dirt and jagged rock—softened soles split open easily with each stride. but, ever your grandmother's frightened little rabbit, not even that searing pain is enough to thwart you in your descent down the hill—away from what is surely certain death. nothing but the animal need to survive pushing you forward—to get to whatever comes next.

it happened too fast—the only way a dynasty can fall to those privileged enough not to notice the slow decline of the society around them until it's too late. your family spoke of pockets of uprisings as if they were fictitious and theoretical—some grandiose, far away prediction of the old crone that haunted the village below your compound, and certainly not the men concealed by shade of trees that had been pruned by your family for centuries, salivating but patient for the perfect moment to strike.

and then they were dead. all of them but you.

a childhood of exploring the grounds of your family home proves useful in knowing without much thought which paths lead farthest from the carnage at your back, but your fright makes you uncoordinated—mechanical in your stride. the price to stop for even a second is far too high, and the hounds that howl after you in the dark serve as a constant reminder of the consequence of hesitation. so, bruised and bleeding, you keep on.

you run until your lungs threaten to collapse and then on farther. your feet carry you through unfamiliar wood, but in your rush, your brain rationalizes that the repercussions of trespassing cannot be much worse than what's behind you. and that seems to be the truth—right up until the real consequence drops out of the tree above you and pins you to the earth below, a blade to your throat.

gritted teeth snap too close to your face. you hear a deep voice—maybe a deeper threat, something to raise the hair on the back of your neck if you could only focus on the words. the world spins and your mind struggles to make sense of the sudden stop in motion, but something far more animal inside you decides that it's had enough. against any remaining survival instinct, you feel all tension bleed from your body—the stranger's face comes into clearer view right as you go limp underneath him. resignation wins out—your limbs wouldn't move if you pleaded with them to.

blond eyebrows meet hairline as your attacker is caught off guard by your forfeiture. "what are you—"

once distant howls growing nearer cut him off. he looks over his shoulder, eyes narrowed at something he cannot yet see. you watch from outside yourself as he turns back toward you. dark eyes meet your own and you see the decision make itself—in one instant you are free of his bodyweight, and in the next you are weightless as he hauls you over his shoulder.

he makes it no more than 10 feet down the path before the last bit of adrenaline leaves you and is replaced by a sudden, blinding pain with no identifiable source. you feel it everywhere—all of the seemingly inconsequential injuries catching up with you now that you've stopped moving. the receding tree line is the last thing you see before the world goes dark.

the warmth that surrounds you is decadent. you curl into it, reluctant to break the spell of sleep. but then you remember.

you shoot upright, sending at least three layers of blankets rolling off of you. you pinch the fabric of the top one between your fingers—alpaca. not native, but farmed here over the last century or so. you know (and had been told) that it was unbecoming of a princess to hold so much commonplace knowledge. but then again, status matters little now, and this blanket is soft. you're grateful to know the beast it was made from.

it hurts, but you coax your head into swiveling around to survey your surroundings, surprised when you find that it's very clearly someone's home. it's old—some of the wooden boards that line the walls have started to bow against the nails that drove them into the framework of the house, and daylight peaks through the cracks. the bed you rest in can barely be called that—an old futon cushion atop bundles of straw. but it's warm, and you slept. someone has been taking care of you. the thought is sobering; the anxiety that comes with it is enough to hold you to the bed for the foreseeable future.

but your stomach growls, and the bodily betrayal forces you to move. you do it slowly, kicking both feet out from under the blankets. to see them bandaged is startlingly unexpected.

your memories until now are fuzzy at best, but the last thing you distinctly recall is the feeling of sharpened metal biting into your skin. there are few ways you can fathom connecting the dots from that moment to this—swaddled in blankets with your wounds tended to. it leaves you on edge.

on two feet, you sway a bit—the hunger feeds the vertigo that spins the surroundings in your peripheral. one hand braced on the bed now behind you, you blink until things settle. you take a step forward, and the pain is shocking—your feet are clearly more injured than they'd felt at the time, but there is only one way out of this room. you press on.

the heavy wooden door opens into a one room cottage. it's old, and not in the well-loved and well-lived way—the dilapidated structure and lack of any real homely qualities tells you immediately that it's current inhabitant is more of a recent opportunist than a longtime homemaker. that distinction mattered little now, though, and you suppose you should be grateful for your stranger's resourcefulness.

you creep further into the room without a sound until you find yourself in the middle of it. crouched and defensive, until the realization hits you—you see all four walls and are perplexed to find that you are completely alone.

the room is little more than a crooked wooden table and a futon pad on the floor. there are remnants of a fireplace in the center of the room—mortar and brick crumbling up wooden slats toward the roof, but still useful with still-burning embers inside. truly, it's more primitive than livable—there are weapons and tools strung up along the wooden panels of the walls, and animal hides hang in any space between metal and wood. but it's warm, and it's a reminder of what is at stake. what should spur anxiety brings only confusion—when cost of survival is so high, why add another body to the burden?

you forget yourself until the heavy fall of footsteps outside the door reignites your adrenaline. you watch, wide eyed and frozen, as the door picks a fight with whoever is on the other side of it. a weight smacks solidly into it once, twice, and a third time before it opens with a heavy groan. in the daylight, your captor is revealed to you.

hard eyes widen slightly at the sight of you, and then narrow in suspicion. you're still as he takes in all of you, and suddenly very aware of the nightgown you escaped your home in, still hanging off your body. you fight the urge to withdraw into yourself—you know it’s not the time to cower.

he eyes you for a moment more, and then drops a heavy pack on the floor next to him, and busies himself with unloading. you watch as he pulls out tools that look unfamiliar to you—though you suppose any tool would. it's not as if you or your family ever had a need for them.

you watch him work and are surprised to find that he's...handsome. jaw set at a hard angle with scars that wrap around the slope of one side, he's rugged in a way you'd never been taught to find appealing. he is unlike the men that sought after your hand with promises of riches and comfortable living. he is unlike anyone you've seen before, truthfully.

"um—"

"is there something you need?"

his coldness stuns you for a moment. you're not sure what you were expecting—you'd no real reason to anticipate any kindness from the man, but the care by which your feet were wrapped had led your mind in that foolish direction anyway.

you fight the urge to draw your limbs into yourself like a startled turtle. "oh—i just. wanted to thank you, i suppose. for helping me."

he looks up from his sorting to meet your eyes, and the disdain in them feels like a physical wound. he drops the tool in his hand with a sharp thud against the floor, and it makes you jump.

"once you've healed, you will leave."

you exhale sharply. it makes sense, of course—it is no small ask of him to allow you to stay even until you're healed. even so, the reality of the world that awaits you carries a weight to it—it lurks around the periphery of the tiny cabin, waiting for you to poke your head out.

then comes the loss—the blood that still stains your fingertips and the hem of your nightgown. you bow your head—out of shame or grief, you're not sure—and turn on your heel, right back into the room you came from. you shut the door behind you quietly, and you don't make it to the bed. you sink to your haunches and gravity pins you there, head in hands as your mind reintroduces you to each of the ghosts that now have a tight grip on both your ankles.

it's dark when you emerge, once again driven by hunger or thirst, or some other base need to stay alive despite every glaring sign not to.

you commit yourself to stealth—to staying out of your stranger's way, as much as you can before you take your leave. the dark of the cabin hides you in your trek out of your hiding place—unfortunately, it also hides the solid object on the floor, laid directly in front of your door. your foot catches it and it clangs, the metallic echo ringing in your ears.

you curse under your breath, bending down to feel around in the blackness for whatever you hit. you startle when your fingers hit something unexpectedly soft. you squint, and suck in a breath when you realize what you're holding—a piece of bread. rather, half of a loaf, with a cut of meat nearby, on the metal plate that you’d kicked. you blink, like if you do it enough, the mirage will dissipate and leave only dark wood behind. but it doesn't—the bread gives some as your fingers squeeze around it as if to test it's trustworthiness. you decide to stop looking the gift horse in its mouth, and recede back the dark of your room, food in hand.

oddly enough, it becomes a regular occurrence. you grow accustomed to expecting a plate of food by your door every night—a seemingly ironic luxury, given your reality now. you hardly see your stranger—you've no idea when he has the opportunity to leave food by your door unnoticed, give his penchant for absence. puzzling still is that the food you're given varies, as if he intends for you to have a fully balanced diet in the middle of a societal collapse.

he doesn’t stop at the food, either—after a few nights spent in your room, he makes his first real appearance in the daylight. a knock at your door rouses you from what’s become a habit of mid-afternoon naps, in lieu of staring at the splintered walls of what was quickly beginning to feel like a cage instead of a place of healing. you pull the door open to find your stranger towering over you—leering down at you with the same discontent he had before. only now, he holds something in his hands, and extends them to you.

“there’s a stream at the edge of the boundary.”

he thrusts what’s in his hands to yours, and you realize that it’s clothing—not in the best shape, but certainly better than the blood-crusted nightgown you still wear. he says no more, and for once you’re grateful for his curt demeanor. he turns on his heel and stalks out of the cabin, back to whatever the outside world has to offer him. after a moment, you follow his path, for the first time since you’d arrived.

it stuns you for a moment, how sinister the land looked in the dark, and how different it looks now. the sun shines hot down on the wheatgrass that sways gently in the breeze. it picks up a lock of your hair and you feel lighter with it.

you walk where you assume you should—down a thinly-worn path between the grass. you find it eventually: a small stream, just wide and deep enough for you to bathe in if you crouch. you turn your head to each side, squinting in your search for prying eyes—you find no one, but it’s still wholly uncomfortable to undress in the open like this.

your reservations leave you the minute you step into the water. warmed by the sun with a sweeping current, you let out a guttural moan that would’ve certainly earned you a chastising from your grandmother for its crudeness. you can’t help it—the caked on dirt and grime dissolves under your fingers and leaves you feeling better than you ever have. there is a slight sting in the soles of your feet—that it is slight is surprising to you, and a harrowing reminder of the clock that continues to tick out of your favor.

days bleed into weeks. your feet heal earlier than you expect them too, and the guilt you carry is worse than the wound. you know you’ve reached the end of your stay, but you can’t get yourself to leave. not when your stranger still insists on taking care of you. the anticipation is sickening—instead of sitting and waiting to be shooed away, you decide to earn your stay. hard work for someone who’d never worked a day, but the determination proves stronger than the fatigue.

you clean. it’s the only thing you can think to do, and truthfully, it’s necessary. you haul water in old containers on your shoulder from the stream, and you wash the dust away until the floors shine and the windows are clear again. you do this everyday—finding something to clean and fixating on it until the sun reaches the other side of the horizon. today is no different—you set your sights on the ash in the fireplace, using a metal pan to scoop it into a stray tarp to carry outside when you’re done.

you’re almost finished when you hear the now familiar sound of boots scraping the stone outside. you tense, but you don’t stop, pulling another pile of stale smelling soot onto the tarp as your stranger opens the door. you hear him stop behind you, but you don’t turn.

“what are you doing?” the tone is not as harsh as you’re used to—a little fatigued, mostly inquisitive.

“cleaning,” you say softly, pulling up at each corner of the canvas and watching the ash collide into neat little heaps in the center, “i’m almost done—i’ll be out of your way.”

you get to your feet, discard in hand, and turn to look at him. his strong brow furrows as he looks at you, like there’s something about what he sees that he can’t understand. against your best interest, your curiosity gets the better of you.

“i’m sorry, it’s just—i never learned your name.”

the look he levels you with makes you wish you’d never asked. his expression gives away nothing, but it tells you enough.

“how are your feet?”

your stomach drops—all of your attempts at earning your place for naught after all. but you stand in front of him now—to lie to him would be foolish at best.

you can barely raise your voice above a whisper. “healed.”

he studies you for a moment more, and it’s too much for you. your eyes fall to a crack in the floor, and distantly you wish you’d shrink down to slip inside of it, never to be seen again.

“tomorrow i will show you how to trap.” he gruffs, finality lacing his tone. your eyes snap to his but he’s already turning, half way out the door before he stops. he turns his head, eyeing you over his shoulder.

“kento,” he mutters, barely audible and strange meeting your ears, “my name is kento.”

and then he’s gone again—leaving you standing there with a hand full of dirt and no way to discern your left from right as your world tilts on its axis, if only slightly—but noticeable and disruptive all the same.

you don’t sleep well that night—startled out of a twilight sleep in what appears to be the dark hours of the morning by the rapping of knuckles on your door. kento nods to you in a greeting of his own, turning swiftly on his heel and heading toward the front door. you follow him dutifully, pulling over your shoulders the blanket you’d snagged before you left the warmth of your bed for the chill of the morning. the grass is cool and dewey under your bare feet, and it’s a quiet luxury you find yourself reveling in as you pad along behind him. you can hardly see him in the dark and yet you keep up, somehow—you know there’s too much at stake to lag behind.

true to his word, he teaches you how to trap. solely by doing—few words are exchanged between you as he trudges into the stream and hauls out a weaved basket attached to a rope, fastened to the shoreline by a stray branch. the light that creeps over the horizon begins to illuminate his work—silvery tails gleam as they flick back and forth from inside the cage. you know better than to be sad, but you feel it anyway. it’s silly to feel a kinship with the creatures, not even sentient enough to know that there is no escape for them—but you know, and the weight of that is a tangible thing.

he teaches you how to prepare the fish, then—and you get through it, if not only through sheer determination to not throw up in front of kento. the sun rises and illuminates other opportunities to learn—he teaches you about the native plants, only in simple directions of pointing to a patch of green with an accompanied “don’t touch”, or “fine to eat”. it’d feel patronizing if it wasn’t all so overwhelming—he had a knowledge of things you’d never dreamed of before. all you can feel is excitement that he’s willing to share it with you.

as the sun begins to set, he brings you to the garden—a small patch of land, seemingly unassuming until you step inside. there are fruiting plants everywhere you look—fat, red tomatoes and vining, prickly cucumbers, complete with rows of leafy greens and cabbages. you can’t begin to imagine how he’d managed to grow all of this by himself. his nightly food gifts start to make more sense.

you work side by side, pulling ripe crop from each plant and placing them into a metal canister—usually used for mechanical purposes, but at the end of the world, you find many uses for what you have. you feel emboldened somehow with your hands in the dirt next to his, and the words leave you before you have a moment to reconsider; you tell him of where you’d come from, and of your descent down the hill. you think of the kin you’d left behind, and you feel detached as you tell him of the loss—an observation if nothing else, as if you’d sat on a shoreline and watched the tide flood in.

he doesn’t react—not to your noble status, and not to the death—he’s quiet as he moves on to each plant, only the pattering sound of what he harvests hitting the tin bottom of his canister. you don’t mind—there’s no reaction you’d expect or find helpful, and for some reason, his presence is enough. you find it odd that weeks ago his footsteps incited real fear in your veins, and now he’d spent the day teaching you new ways to be useful. it was a strange and intimate gratitude, but one you felt nonetheless.

you find you see him more now, with your newfound ability to contribute and the determination to do just that. days are spent hauling fresh catches out of the stream, and hunting down small mammals to supplement your diet. you watch him closely—the flex and twist of his torso with the pull of the bow, the way he narrows his focus to the fluffy little thing that scurries among the leaves. with the twitch of a finger, the arrow flies toward its target—there is a screech, and then a sobering quiet. for the first time in your life, you pray—quietly, for the creature with the same instinct to survive that drives you to take its life.

“here,” kento says, handing the bow to you, “try it.”

you wrap your fingers around the wood and do as he asks. it’s deceptively heavy—the tension of the bow makes it nearly impossible to draw back with your own strength. focused and determined not to fail in front of him, you nearly jump out of your skin when his hands cover your own.

“there’s no trick to it,” his voice is gruff but gentle and far closer to you than he’s ever been, “just pull back, like this.”

he guides your hand backward with his own and the tail of the arrow follows—at your back, you feel the muscles in his chest ripple with the effort.

“focus,” he breathes, and you fight a shudder at his proximity, “listen.”

and it’s hard to hear anything over the roar of blood in your ears, but you try, blinking in an effort to snap out of whatever trance kento has put you in. it takes a moment, but then you hear it—the crinkle of leaves beneath tiny paws.

“take a deep breath.” kento allows you to move the bow where you want to, and you try to focus your aim. a bushy tail flicks up behind the underbrush—you train the point of the arrow right below it. your heart thuds wildly in your chest, and suddenly you’re worried that the bow might slide out of your sweating palms, impaling you instead.

“let it go.”

you do as he says, and the ringing in your ears drowns out the sounds of short-lived suffering. he lets go of you then—you don’t notice he’s come to stand in front of you until you feel the rough pad of his thumb swipe gently across your cheek. you blink, your own fingers reaching up to find tears you don’t recall ever shedding. your eyes meet his, and they burn with an intensity you’ve never seen in him before. but he’s not angry—you feel no compulsion to apologize for whatever is happening to you. he takes the bow from your hands, and slings it over his back.

“we’ll go back now,” he says quietly. you follow him up the path, and the tears don’t stop until you reach the cabin. you wonder who exactly it is that you’re crying for.

you don’t know what it is about the nights that follow that lead kento to decide to stick around, but there’s a part of you that’s glad he does. above all else, you knew better than to question it. he doesn’t say much—he never does—but you’re more than happy to fill the silence. you suppose you owe him the opportunity to know you, after all he’s done for you—you’ve no idea how to quantify the gratitude you’ve felt over the last few months. you do what you can.

“there’s a story my grandmother used to tell,” you murmur, eyes to the fire that crackles in front of you, “i used to sit at her feet while she brushed my hair. she only ever told it to me—it was like a secret between us.”

the wood pops and spits an ember at your feet. you watch it blaze bright, the tiny thing—one last attempt to catch before it snuffs itself out. “there was a princess that lived high in a tower built to protect her from the bandits of the neighboring empire. she was only ever allowed to walk the grounds of the palace under the safety of a full moon. one night, as she crept out of the tower under the cover of the dark, she’s lured into the dark forest by a witch. she promises to grant the princess any wish, for a price.”

your eyes catch kento’s, and for once, his expression is not indifferent. he is here with you in this moment, and it warms you more than the flame. “of course she wishes to be free,” you continue, waving a hand at its inevitability, “and the witch turns her into a hare. and in the original story, that’s the end of it. there’s a lesson there, right?”

“but in my grandmother’s story, it’s the best thing that could’ve happened to the princess. she’s free to hop around to her heart’s content. all she does is eat greenery and lay fat in her den until she dies a natural death after a long and happy life.”

you hear what you think is a scoff from the man next to you. your eyes roam kento’s face, and you think there might even be a hint of a smirk there. it thrills you.

“the tale of an optimist,” he offers quietly, and it’s not bitter.

“she was,” you murmur, “until the end, she was an optimist.”

it’s quiet between you for a moment, save for the crackle of the fire.

“i’m sorry you lost her.”

you smile, and it hurts. the tears well up before you can stop them.

“it’s unfair,” you croak, despite yourself. you’d done well to put up a good front in front of kento—humbling, to see how quickly it could be undone.

you startle when you feel a warm palm close around your clenched fist. “it is unfair,” he says, eyes meeting yours.

the warmth is profound, again despite the fire that heats your cheeks. you find yourself leaning into it until you’ve tucked yourself under his arm. he’s tense, but allows it.

“tell me something about you,” you whisper thickly, needing to think of anything else. he hums, tipping his head back. you sneak a glimpse of the curve of his jaw, glowing between shadows cast by a flickering flame. scar tissue curves and shimmers as it tenses.

“we were a group,” he murmurs, still looking up at the old, wooden boards, “myself and some of the neighbor children. there were no family units, there— we created our own.”

you’re so quiet you think you can nearly hear him piece together the memory in his mind. you know he’s gifting you something precious, so you don’t dare speak.

“we were too young to be running around alone, but there was nowhere to go. we knew enough to dodge the militias that would burn through each village. we thought we did, anyway.”

“the elders were kind. they brought in as many of us as they could on nights when the trucks would come down the road. but we didn’t have parents or homes, and they couldn’t take in all of us.” he pauses, sucking in a long breath. it shifts you when his chest expands. “i was small enough that i was able to fit through a hole in the crawl space under a home. Yu tried, but he wasn’t fast enough.”

“he was my best friend.” kento’s voice is quiet, and more fatigued than you’ve ever heard it. it’s unnerving, seeing his humanity laid out so plainly. “he tried to run, but they caught up just as quickly. they would’ve just taken him to a work camp, but he put up a fight.” he says it with a small smile, like he’s proud. “they shot him and left him there to die.”

if there was a way you could be closer to kento, you’d have found it by now, but you find yourself trying to sneak up under his ribs anyway. trying to find a way to siphon his pain into yourself, if only for a moment.

“you were brave,” you whisper, having nothing else to say except for that—for what feels obvious and true. he scoffs, but you can hear the grief behind it.

“maybe,” he says, arm tightening around your shoulders, “i don’t think i’ve ever felt that way.”

you hum, a low and sympathetic thing, fighting the urge to nuzzle into his chest. it’s strange, how easy it is to default to such animal inclinations when there’s no need to abide by arbitrary customs. there is only the two of you here, and the urge to comfort kento is strong.

“will you let me do something?”

he glances down at you out of the corner of his eyes—narrowed in distrust, despite baring his most tender bits to you only a moment ago. you push past it.

“here,” you say, sitting up and out from under his hold, “sit here.”

“on the ground?” he’s not so much incredulous as he is confused—and you’ll take what you can get. you nod, an appeasing sort of grin teasing the corners of your mouth.

his eyes are still narrowed when he goes—crouched in defense like you wait with bared teeth instead of open arms. still, he moves to sit before you—facing you. you laugh a little, endeared.

“i meant for you to turn—“

“no.”

you’re snapped back to reality then—to the present moment, with this man that kindly took you in but does not trust you. you take in a slow breath, careful not to flinch under the weight of his stare.

“okay,” you murmur, reaching up to pull free from your hair the comb that tethers it in its knot, “that’s okay.”

your hair slips down over your nape as you pull the teeth of it free—hard and familiar in your fingers, you offer it to him like one would a scrap of food to a feral dog. an heirloom made of deer bone—your family’s own commitment to using all that you were given, even if it was in excess. a reminder of a luxury that never felt like one until now.

“is it okay?” you ask, pulling up on your own bravery to keep his stare. after a long moment of careful deliberation, he nods tersely.

you lean forward slightly, careful of his space, and let him see the comb as you reach up. he jumps when the dulled prongs meet his scalp, but you stay the course. you pull it through the blond strands—longer than they were when you first met, the dulled ends slipping through with each pass.

you sit back to look at him after a moment. there’s no resistance, nor is there any enthusiasm—but you trust that he’d stop you if he was uncomfortable, so you keep going.

you lose yourself in the task, pulling (or pushing, from where you sit in front of him) the carved bone through his hair. you allow him the privacy of a reaction—eyes focused only on the strands that flit away from the teeth of the comb.

so focused, it seems, that you have to suppress the jerk of your leg when he leans up against it. the quick glimpse you allow yourself gores you—his eyes now closed, head cushioned by the soft of your thigh. looking more childlike than you’ve ever seen him in the months you’ve spent every minute with him. you see flashes of him as a boy—small and without scarring or a reason for haunches to raise in fear or rage. you think of him laughing—rolling in mud and being scolded by an otherwise kind woman instead of squeezing his way through jagged, wooden boards to save his life. never knowing the sound of a shot ringing out in the street.

you tuck your face into your shoulder—determined to hide the tears and your grief on his behalf. determined to let him feel this, whatever it is, and be a safe place for him to do it. to be the strong arm and the kind hand for him now—the one he can give his precious trust to.

the fire crackles and the mourning is heavy in the air—but kento is alive beneath your fingers, and your own heart beat is a heavy and reassuring thud inside your chest.

he is a rose in bloom, in the nights that follow. tightly coiled and still with all of his thorns, but in bloom nonetheless.

he becomes something of your shadow. where he lingered out of distrust he now hovers with intent—comically so, his large body folding itself in the small confines of the makeshift kitchen while you wring out linens in the sink. it’s clear that something has shifted between you—though what, you’re unsure. your mind tells you he is finally coming around to you. your heart yearns for something more than just his trust, though you are not unaffected by the weight of that trust alone.

he is never more than an arm’s length away. he leaves in the darkened hours of the morning to hunt, and is somehow back before the sun rises to wake you. that was another shift—he hadn’t asked you to join him on a hunt since that night. he hadn’t asked you for anything after that, really. he sleeps nearer, too—you’d been under the impression that he’d been sleeping outside until he wound up at the foot of your bed, sleeping still like a guard dog. you didn’t have the heart to ask him about it—you just left the candle burning and turned away from the door. he was owed privacy in his vulnerability, and you give him that.

and however hard to read the man may be, you feel some discontent at not pulling your weight, so you try your best to anyway. patching up holes in the wooden exterior of your home. sealing the windows with fur and fat to beat the chill of the creeping fall. you know that the garden tending is cyclical with the seasons—the cold calls for heartier vegetables. you pull and preen until your fingers swell, aching.

and there he would be—watching you, as always.

“hard work for a princess,” he mutters through something suspiciously similar to a smirk. you level him with a glare—the heat of which is immediately snuffed out in comparison to the heat of the cloth that he wraps around your wind-bitten hands. the heat of his body before yours is a close second to the warmest you've ever been despite all of the holes you'd still yet to patch.

“i hardly remember ever being one now,” you murmur, leaning into his side as his thumbs swipe over your palms—needle pinpricks left in their wake, even through the fabric.

he scoffs, his hands engulfing yours in his warmth. "are you not still?"

"i suppose, technically." you shrug, letting him crowd you over to the old, torn up futon that you'd been using as living room furniture. he'd been doing a lot of that lately—pushing you to relax. itching to take a weight from you. he arranges you to his liking, wrapping one of the woven blankets around your shoulders. "i was meant to be made into more than that, you know. before the uprising."

kento only raises an eyebrow at you. you shrug, past the point of shrinking from his silence. "my family had paid a sizeable dowry to have me married off. an heir in a neighboring village, supposedly. only my grandmother was against it, in her own, quiet way. she took to calling me her rabbit, after her story. she wanted differently for me."

there's no mistaking the way kento stiffens. there's no reason for it, nor is there a justification for the way you want to placate him. you do it anyway.

"maybe it's for the best," you say, waving your hand as if to dismiss the whole thing entirely, "i'm not exactly the noble type, now."

you watch him deflate. he nods sagely, the smirk pulling at his lips again. "surely you're the most frightening princess i've ever met."

you turn your head to watch him settle in next to you—another new behavior, seemingly unbothered by the proximity that he no doubt was unfamiliar with. "what's that supposed to mean?"

his teasing grin fades into something a little more forlorn. "when i found you, i expected you to be afraid. i wouldn't have harmed you—i only wanted to scare you off."

you huff. "that wasn't very nice."

"you weren't afraid though. it was unnerving."

"oh?" you grin, reaching to poke him in the ribs. "you were afraid of me?"

he reaches for your hand and pulls it to his lap. "i was sad for you. it wasn't a resilience—it felt as though you were broken."

it hurts, you decide, to be known like this. how simple things had been when he'd only left you provisions at your bedroom door and left you be. now you'd gone and allowed your heart to run freely ahead without a tether. you'd no way of preparing for the injury that freedom would cause.

"you pitied me," you mutter, unable to keep the bitterness from your tone. the mood shifts between you, and something inside you wants to resent him for it. how warm it had been inside the delusion—the world in which you both exist in this space as equals, brought together by fate and want and nothing else.

"no, not pity." you startle at the feeling of his fingertips as they brush a tendril of hair from your face. "you reminded me of myself. i didn't want you to be alone."

"why take on that burden?"

kento hums, pushing his fingers through the hair at your temple. despite yourself, you lean into the touch. "maybe i didn't want to be alone, either."

you blink, the sentiment working its way into your head. it lands significantly south—deep in your chest with an ache you can't describe. you reach for the wrist in your peripheral, stopping his movement and keeping him close. "is that all?"

"no." his admittance is a whispered, strained thing. you're close enough that to tilt your head back brings his jaw to your lips. the ghost of your breath along his skin makes him shudder, and you feel the fingers in your hair flex into a grip.

"what else, then?"

he ducks his chin to nose at your cheek. your eyes flutter closed, mind empty of all that swam around in it only a moment ago.

"my rabbit," his bottom lip brushes against your own, "what else is there but you?"

the weather changes and the gods grow restless.

you both feel it at the first chill of the year. there’s no graceful turn of the seasons—the air is bitter and cold, and you know something is coming. there’s little time for play, so on the last few warm evenings of fall, you take advantage of it. or you try to—you drag kento into the stream to soak in the dwindling rays of sun, but the knowledge of what is to come weighs heavily on you both. he holds you up in the current—body to body, only breathing. you can't get close enough—to reach inside him and carve out a space for yourself would still not sate the longing you feel.

that wretched something shows it’s face soon enough. the first snow is harsh, collecting in heavy banks against the roof of the house. the wood sags under the weight and the cold creeps in through the wood until the fire is no longer enough to warm the house in it's entirety—only the small space in front of the mantel that you crowd around. you and kento don’t talk much these days—to speak takes energy you don’t have to spare. he is doting as he always is—making sure you are covered in every layer of fabric and fur he can find, but something is wrong. you know the worst is yet to come. you feel it in the way kento holds you too close during the night; it’s never warm enough.

at first there is hope. kento has his food reserves and you'd preserved some of what you’d gathered. but a week of snow turns to two, and two weeks turn to two months. the rations get smaller and the two of you get hungrier. by the third month, you understand that you will not be spared the gods’ wrath. you see the punishment for what it is—a utilitarian consequence to all of the bloodshed by man. you do not have the energy to mull over the unfairness of that. even if you did, the gods do not concern themselves with what is fair—you know that now. the light inside you fades with every new inch of snowfall.

but kento is kind, despite your insistence that he be otherwise. he pulls from his own warmth to add to yours. your dinner portions are always bigger, even if it means he goes without eating entirely. it’s in vain, of course. neither of you will live through this. you scold him for pushing the last of his food on your plate and he doesn’t bother to respond. he only watches while you eat, like he can’t rest until he knows for sure that you have eaten all he has to offer you. you chew through tears and the only comfort is the hand that reaches to wipe them from your cheek. it’s a painful end, wasting away like this. watching kento fade away.

it's when you can smell death's approach that you know with certainty that your humanity has fled for a better place. the thing that remains in you—that keeps your heart beating, that coaxes your lungs to inflate—is purely animal. and it's out of that same primal need that you close the distance between kento's frail body and your own. in the silent chill of the night, the warmth between you may be merely a hallucination now, but you feel it all the same. there is no pain anymore. only a pull into a sleep you want so badly to slip into.

you don't cry—you use the last of the strength in your body to tuck yourself under kento's chin and curl around him in some intimate display of what exists between you. of what has existed this whole time.

"if this is the end," you murmur, knowing that it is, "i'm happy that i'll leave this world with you."

the knuckles that brush against your cheek are sharp and gnarled now. you've never known a touch so tender. it’s odd to speak—to shatter the intimacy of the silence that’s floated around the both of you for much of the last few weeks.

"do you know now?"

if you close your eyes, you can pretend that the man in your arms will live to see the morning. that this is merely pillow talk, and the sun will wake you with warmed skin in a few hours.

but you don't let yourself turn away. it's striking, how even with his last few breaths, kento manages to use them worrying about you. you wonder if he's done it the whole time. you do know; you realize with unmistakable clarity that you'd know his love anywhere, now. you nod, feeling his thready pulse against your forehead.

"i do. you'll have to forgive me for not seeing it sooner."

you feel him scoff—an inappropriate use of dwindling breath that makes you laugh, too. "there will be plenty of time to show you in the next life, my rabbit."

a brief bitterness curls up your spine—the unfairness of all of this creeping back up like a rising tide. how cruel it was to have settled on the loneliness of a life without love, just to be shown the magnitude of a life with it in the final months of your own.

but it recedes in the next moment, because there is no more time to grieve. you can only feel grateful, now—to leave this world saturated in all that kento has given you.

cracked lips brush the skin of your temple—he has no real energy for a proper kiss, but the desire to comfort is strong between you. you spend the next few, precious moments counting the breaths that rattle inside his chest, grateful for every one cycled through.

in the silent hours of a darker morning, there is a light only the two of you can see. shrouded in the glow, he is so beautiful.

with all of your strength, you call him by his name, one last time. "until next time, my love."

epilogue

if the notion of certainty is alive in anything, it is in the way that fable and folklore are sure to be born and born again out of gatherings of beings with mouths to speak it. one such example is the jagged, snow capped hills of Akaito—a new village comprised of all walks of life, the one commonality between them being their displacement during the fall of the Zaiaku dynasty almost one hundred years prior. built overtop the remnants of survivor settlements crushed under the Great Snow, all who inhabit the land know well of the blood that has stained the soil and pay mind to honor the loss of life in their own ways—namely in storytelling. this great coming together eventually gave way to a new mother tongue for the telling of a new bed time story to bleary eyed babes in the middle of the night: the tale of the Akaito lovers—the wolf and the hare.

as the story goes, villagers who have been bestowed some unearthly dose of luck by the gods may catch a glimpse of an unlikely pair—a formidable looking white wolf with scarring across its broad body, and its counterpart: a fluffy and downright regal grey hare. one might catch them romping around in the dusting after a fresh snow, or preening one another under a shaded tree in the heat of the summer. depending on who tells the tale, it might be the case that if a person is truly fortunate and determined to wait out the dark of night, they might even be gifted the sight of the duo curled around one another, sleeping peacefully in a protective and loving embrace under the light of a waning moon.

as with all fables, the story is altered with every new tongue that speaks it, and one day the tale will vanish from the minds of the younger generations completely. but for now, it is ripe in the minds of the young and old, the latter of which are very certain that it is no mere fable at all.

#sike i’m posting it now #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento fic #nanami x you #jjk fic #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen writing #livedeliciously🐐collab

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 9 months

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Blind Offer 5

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, manipulation, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: After a leak causes you to evacuate your apartment, your landlord offers a vacant unit that’s too good to be true. (short!plus!reader)

Character: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Lloyd Hansen, and August Walker

Note: I wish this week would be over.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you like I love turning intended one shots into series. Take care. 💖

The checkered fabric beckons you forward. Your fear smothers all doubts. You're in no place to question any of this. What will they do if you don't listen? Who are they? The voice that comes from thin air. Certainly Steve too.

You touch the dress and move it aside to unveil the small lumps beneath. A set of red lace lingerie to match the shade of the checkers. You swallow tightly and pull your hand back. You look at your fingertips as if they've been singed.

You tremble and touch the hem of your shirt. They're watching. You shudder and slowly raise the cotton. You try not to think about what's happening. Just get through it.

You drop your shirt on the bed them quickly push down your sweatpants. You heap them atop the tee and close your eyes as you peel off your underwear. You sniffle as you don the red lingerie and figure out how to tie the little string at the waist of the dress.

Your eye is caught by the shiny red shape at the foot of the bed. A pair of heels. It's not hard to guess you're supposed to put them on.

There's a chime, the same jingle as before. You spin as you search around and tinkles again. It's coming from downstairs. You clamour out into the hall and cling to the banister as you descend. You go back to the kitchen and read the screen.

'Check your phone.'

Your heart leaps. You trip over your toes but keep upright as you run into the front room. You go to your phone but deflate in an instant. There's a video pulled up on it and nothing else. No status bar, no time. What the heck?

A message pops up over the paused video thumbnail, a woman's eye up close. You read the font in the bubble before it disappears.

'Upstairs bathroom. Press play. You'll know what to do.'

You lower the phone. Right. Not cryptic at all. You teeter on your heels before you can gain your balance again. You clop out and to the stairs. You take off the shoes before your climb and keep them in hand as you skirt down to the bathroom.

As you enter, there's a sparkly pink case on the counter. That wasn't there before either. You put the shoes on the tile and lean your phone against the mirror, leaning it just so before you tap play. You twine your fingers through each other as a beaming woman smiles at you from the screen. She welcomes you to her video with her cherry red lips and expertly lined eyes.

"Today, we're going to learn how to get the perfect look!" She chimes and frames her face, "so first, lets go over our tools."

She smiles so big, her cheeks are round, almost twitching as her eyes bulge just slightly. She lifts up a small bottle.

"Let's go over our base..."

She lists off the items, showing each to the camera. You reach to open the case as you listen, revealing a collection of cosmetics. Wow. You keep a few essentials, tinted moisturizer, some mascara, a touch of gloss, but nothing too substantial.

She presses on, going through everything you'll need for eye, lip, and cheek. When she finishes, she smiles even wider and stares. The camera lingers a bit too long and the hollowness in her eyes unsettles you.

"But first, we have to start with a naked face. Let's go!"

She claps her hands in front of her and the shot transitions. Suddenly, her face is barren of makeup. You notice the fatigue under her eyes and the vibrancy missing in her skin. She looks above the lens and her lips quiver. She gives a small nod and clears her throat, as if distracted by someone else.

"Alright, let's begin," her voice creaks at first but she quickly steadies it, "are you ready?"

You feel icky watching the video. You're not ready. This is demented. This cannot be real. It's a horror movie come to life.

"Find your primer," she presents a tube proudly, waiting.

You look down and search for a similar tube. You shake your head as you take it out and look back to the screen. She starts by showing you where exactly to apply the primer. You hesitate. The video on your phone pauses and another message pops up.

'I can wait, doll.'

You inhale and lean in. You focus on the screen and the video skips back ten seconds. You uncap the primer and follow along with the application. The longer you look at the woman, the more you notice. That mark on her neck, a patch darker than the rest of her skin.

She moves on to foundation. The video pauses again as you struggle to find the right bottle and a clean sponge. Then concealer, and some blush, bronzer, and highlighter. You're starting to sweat.

"And that's the base," she preens, tilting her head back and forth to show the effect of her contouring, "isn't that pretty?"

She stops, smiling, staring. The shot cuts again. She pulls her hand away from her chest and bats her lashes.

"N-now," she stutters, "now, we have to do our eyes." She leans closer to the lens and you notice the slightly puffiness in the brims of her eyelids, "remember, we don't want to mess this up. We have some nice waterproof products to make sure we stay perfect, from morning to night." She looks up, above the frame, "we don't want to be crying it all off because we had one bad day, right?

"Now, I'm going to try a nice shade of gold for today's look but you can really be creative. Go wild and choose whatever you like. But nothing too loud, we don't want to scare him away."

She winks at the camera in a theatrical manner. You take out a palette and lower your head. You can't move. You're frozen. This is too much. There's something just off about all of this.

"What kind of Stepford bullshit--"

The video stops. Another pop up. You peek up at it. There's only two big red exes in the bubble. Alright, fine. You open the palette and pick out a brush. The video resumes. You really hope this stuff is waterproof because you're about to have a goddamn breakdown.

You get closer to the mirror as you work on applying the shadow. You go with a subtle caramel and amber combination. You're not very good at it but the instructions are easy enough. Nothing too difficult as long as you keep up.

You finish the eye after fighting the liner. You're starting to get the hang of it. Wait. No. That's not a victory. You don't want this.

Eyebrows. Do you really need to do all this? Right, now lips. You take out the candy apple red and delicate trace the shape of your mouth. Finally, a setting spray that nearly makes you sneeze.

"And that's it. You're all done," the woman announces, "you're ready to--"

The screen cuts. The image of the woman with her makeup smeared covers the screen for a split second then disappears to a credit screen, congratulating you on completing the the look. You gape, stunned, and take a step back. Alright, this is twisted.

The video exits out and you're left only with a blank screen. The next message takes over the expanse; kitchen. You grab the phone and take it with you, swiping up the shoes as you go.

Downstairs, you plop the shoes down and face the Echo as it chimes again. Your next directive is on the screen. A timer that reads 'Dinner, t-minus 2 hours'. You hear the television mounted in the corner flick on and you turn to see the same woman as before.

"Hello. Welcome. It's good to see you." She puts her hands on the counter, staring again. She flinches. "Please, don't make--" The video cuts. "Today!" She points at the camera, "we're going to make a classic; meatloaf."

You walk closer to the screen. There's something wrong with this woman. This isn't Rachel Ray or Martha Stewart. This is horrifying. She pauses, nodding, her smile getting bigger, than falling, and spreading again. It's as if she's glitching.

Another jarring switch. She's by the fridge, speaking intimately as the camera is angled down at her.

"So, let's get our ingredients, ladies," she announces, "now, we can go with lean turkey if we're being mindful or we can go with a classic beef." She reaches inside and takes out a paper packet, "nice and fresh."

The screen pauses on her hands. There's a broken nail among her perfectly manicured hands. You back up and drop your shoulders. You drag your feet to the fridge and pull out the ground beef in the same brownish red paper. The video starts again.

You put the beef on the counter and wait for the next ingredient. One buy one you get everything out. Then you get your tools, bowls, pans, knives. You admire the long silver blade as it slides free of the block.

"It's important," the woman chirps from the screen, "not to play with knives.. you could get hurt."

You look up as she holds up a knife and shakes her head. You frown as she grabs the blade and slides her palms down it, leaving a red sheen on the silver.

"See? Always be safe," she grips the knife by the handle as her blood drips onto the counter. "Lets prepare our veggies first–"

The blip is less than subtle. Her hand is suddenly wrapped in cause thought the drops of blood remain on the cutting board. You put the onion on the wooden surface and dice along with the happy host.

The step-by-step directions keep you occupied enough to ignore the tremor of fear inside you. Your thoughts fade to background as you pull the lid off the breadcrumbs. You work through the recipe mindlessly until you have the meat neatly in the loaf pan.

As you open the oven door, that small voice of logic breaks through. Who are you cooking this for? It's an awful lot of food for just you.

"Now we can work on our sides," the woman sings, "roasted potatoes and charred asparagus."

🖤

You stand before the table. It’s set precisely to the standard set by the woman on the screen. Cutlery, cloth napkins, tall glasses, and a jug of iced lemon water.

The timer counts down and dings. You rush over to hit clear and grab the oven gloves. You take out the pan of meatloaf, then the roast potatoes. You place them carefully on the stove. It smells delicious but your appetite is scant. You’re not very concerned with food at the moment.

You wince as the television flicks on again and the woman holds a spatula and talks to the camera, almost as if she’s talking directly to you.

“Now, it’s time to plate dinner,” she explains, “now I know, it’s just meatloaf, but it doesn’t mean we can’t spruce it up. Let’s begin by slicing the loaf.”

You huff and push your head back. This is a chore. You don’t think you’ve ever put this much effort into a meal.

“We want to make our romantic dinner for two perfect,” she chimes as she sets out two plates, “for our very special someone. The most handsome man…”

She bats her lashes as she gives another tense smile. Forced and frightening. The camera slowly pans in before suddenly pulling back. You blow off the unease and open the cupboard.

You once more follow along with the knock off Julia Child. You get two plates set, the meat placed just so, the potatoes scooped out in delicate measurements, the asparagus lines up neatly. You put each plate on a table mat and take a step back.

So, what next?

Ding dong.

The loud chime makes you jump. You don’t move. You wait and listen until it comes again. The doorbell?

You turn on your heel and pass into the entryway. As you do, the door opens from the other side. Your lips part in shock as Steve steps inside, greeting you with a smile as the security system alerts you to the open door and secures again as he lets it fall shut behind him. You clasp your hands together, questions racing but no words coming.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he smiles, “you look…” his eyes fall to your feet. “Adequate.”

You follow his gaze and curl one foot behind the other. You left the heels off. You suppose that was wrong. Wait, no, this is wrong. What he’s doing is wrong.

“Excuse me?” You scoff.

“Dinner smells good,” he smooths his golden hair.

He wears a crisp white button-up and gray pin-striped slacks. You grimace at him and cross your arms. He comes closer, stopping before you as he reaches to touch your cheek. You wince and lean away from him.

“You shouldn’t scowl. You’ll get wrinkles,” he says.

“Wha– Steve. What is going on?”

He presses his index finger to your lips, “ah ah. I came for dinner. Let’s not chatter and let it get cold.”

You step back and glare at him, “Steve, what are you doing? Please, let me go.”

“Honey, let’s not argue,” he comes close and grabs your upper arms, pulling them apart, “you won’t like how it ends.”

“What? What does that mean?”

“Meatloaf,” he turns his head and looks towards the kitchen, “it’s my favourite.”

You’re upended by his sudden change in topic. It’s frustrating how he just ignores you. You want to know why he’s doing this. How can he even think of something like this. He can’t. Someone will come looking for you.

No one knows where you are. You didn’t tell them.

“Don’t keep me waiting, sweetheart,” he lowers his voice as he leans in, “I’ve waited long enough.”

You look up at him, shaken by his tone. You’ve never heard him sound like that. You feel his grip tighten on you.

“Go get your shoes and we’ll sit down and have a nice dinner.”

“Steve,” you croak.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath through his nose. He smirks and lifts his lashes, blue eyes gleaming like crystals, “don’t you remember what I said. How I like order. How things should be in their place. How everyone has their role.”

You scrunch your nose. You remember. It was weird then, now it’s terrifying.

“Yes,” you rasp, “I remember.”

“You don’t want me to be unhappy, do you?” He challenges, his thumbs rubbing your arms.

You shake your head stiffly, ready to wilt beneath his gaze. “No, I don’t.”

“Good girl,” he slides his hands down your arms and slowly retracts his touch, “so, let’s eat.”

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y-rhywbeth2 · 6 months

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D&D Vampire Lore Dump #4

Weaknesses and Cures Featuring that pesky sunlight problem, and how to get around it. Overview of other limitations and weaknesses of their condition (running water, invitations, etc) and how to get around those, vampires being extremely annoying to kill and how to make them stay dead, and the four ways I know of that can cure vampirism.

OBLIGATORY DISCLAIMER FOR FIRST TIME READERS: D&D is decades old, spans five editions, several settings and hundreds of writers. One guy establishes a piece of lore, and then the next picks it up goes "nah" and writes something else. I collected info from four different source books, all from different editions, which naturally don't entirely agree on how vampires work. Lore never stays consistent and may contradict itself. You may see information somewhere else from a source I don't have that contradicts what I wrote here. If you read this and like some of this stuff but not other bits, take the good and ditch the rest. Larian themselves have not written BG3 totally compliant with some established D&D lore or the original games. If you want canon to work a certain way in your headcanons/fanfic, go ahead.

Feeding | "Biology" | Hierarchy | Weaknesses and Cures | Psychology

Sunlight is basically instant death and will kill vampires within moments of touching their bare skin. Even if vampires can walk in sunlight, vampires can't access their abilities while the sun is still in the sky. A sunstone, if left in the sunlight to "charge" take on an energy that will rebuff vampires with an effect much like sunlight exposure (but weaker) if they attack an individual wearing/holding the gemstone. This disorients them, cuts them off from many of their powers and inflicts a small amount of damage.

There are ways that allow vampires to walk in sunlight, although their powers will be disabled during daylight hours.

Liquid Night is a vampire sunscreen that will protect the wearer from sunlight.

Clearly, going off of BG3, the Netherese had magic that could do it. (Netheril, according to one story, was an empire whose initial magical foundation was specifically the school of necromancy, under the guidance of the priests of Jergal/Withers)

Fiends are happy to take/destroy your soul in exchange for the ability to walk in the day, as the Greater Vampire creating succubi can attest.

Vampires grow more powerful with age. One of those ways used to include that they became increasingly resistant to sunlight with age, and by the time they were 1000 years old they were fully immune to it. After almost two centuries of undeath, Astarion may be strong enough to avoid immediate death and this may be why he doesn't burn to a crisp immediately when the netherbrain dies.

Necromancers can create enchanted objects that protect vampires from the sun. One example being the Cloak of Dragomir in BG2.

They can also just keep to the shade or wear clothes that provide enough shelter to keep the sunlight from touching them. A deep hood or a parasol can help.

Vampires don't usually consider such things worthwhile, as they don't see much point if they lose their powers. They generallyhave no desire to be in the sunlight for its own sake as most vampires instinctually hate sunlight.

Vampires instinctually recoil from mirrors and hesitate to step in front of them. This hesitation will typically pass in seconds or moments. In 1e they had reflections, but their reflection turned the hypnotic properties of their gaze back at them or at least, they thought it could. After that they lost the reflections, and it's thought that the absence causes an instinctual distress for the remnants of the vampire's human psyche (reminding them that they're an accursed dead thing who's lost everything).

In a similar manner to their lack of reflection, vampires also do not cast shadows upon their surroundings.

Vampires who don't rest in/on their dirt-bed (usually a grave or coffin, sometimes a bed with a mattress stuffed with the appropriate type of soil) are destroyed. A vampire that can't get to its sanctuary before sunrise is utterly screwed. They tend to have multiple safe havens with prepared resting places, just in case. Vampires who will be traveling sometimes use a bag of holding, essentially taking their grave with them.

Some have suggested that the dirt dependency is actually just superstition and a vampire can sleep wherever it wants, but nobody's successfully convinced a vampire to take the risk of testing that.

As said previously, vampires are healed by negative/necrotic energy and harmed by positive/radiant energy (including heal spells)

Holy symbols can repel them, but the specifics can vary based on source. On the one hand there's one that says that the faith and belief in the holy symbol is what gives it power, and on the other there's one that says that the symbol is only useful in the hands of a priest. Only the symbols of Good and Neutral aligned deities have repelling properties. Evil clerics can still try to Command Undead however (the evil variant of Turn Undead - instead of repelling/destroying the undead you seize control of them.)

In terms of clerics and paladins attempting to Command/Turn Undead, vampires are susceptible to it, but are also the most resistant of undead, so it's difficult and risky.

Vampires are repulsed by garlic - it doesn't harm them and can't keep them at bay forever, but a vampire will hesitate before approaching. Some vampires also randomly develop other "allergies". Salt, rose petals, rice, mistletoe, lilies, small children singing, dove feathers… could be anything, really. It's generally linked to the individual vampire's own personality and beliefs. If they believe it should repel them then it may have warding powers against them.

Vampires will dissolve in bodies of running water like rivers or the ocean, because the running water forces them to turn into mist and washes them away. However, running water's only a problem if they're immersed in it. They can fly over it (be that with the fly spell or by shapeshifting into a bat), be carried over (bodily carried by a person, or in a boat, or by bridge, whatever) or use the water walk spell and just walk across like a basilisk lizard.

They are however, blocked from crossing a body of running water over three feet wide in mist form, for some reason. There's no answer for this, but I'd guess the vampire cloud picks up water particles and grows heavier, eventually sinking onto the water or something...?

At least 3/4 of the vampire's body must be submerged for it to count as immersion - and it must include the entire torso (the heart in particular must be below the water). The vampire must be held under for three minutes. It doesn't exactly kill them, but as their body is now thousands of particles distributed through the waterways, unable to reform, the vampire is effectively gone for good.

Vampires are also extremely annoying to kill. They can only be damaged with enchanted weapons or weapons plated with silver.

Upon death their body turns to mist and they return to their resting place, where they reform their physical body but are rendered vulnerable. A vampire can be paralysed by piercing their heart with a wooden stake... and then, sometimes, you get the unusual ones who need to be staked with a specific wood...! Once they've returned to their coffin the body must be damaged enough to be considered destroyed. Decapitation is a favourite method, but the main point is just to inflict as much damage on them as possible. Vampires begin to regenerate once they return to their coffin, and need to be dealt with quickly, hence the stake to pin them down while you start hacking them apart. Luckily for their would-be-killers they often wake up disoriented.

Vampires can't enter houses, or holy sites of residence like monasteries without permission, and can't enter sanctified graveyards of religious organisations. They can't enter temples, as these count as the residences of the deity worshipped there. A guest cannot invite somebody in, the invitation must come from a permanent resident.

Unless the owner of the house is the one who extends the invite, the invite only counts as a one time offer and the vampire needs to be invited again once it leaves the premise - so you can get invited in by a child, but for the ability to come and go as they please, a vampire needs permission from the parents/guardians in charge of the family and house. An invitation taken through use of enchantment magic or just plain coercion counts as a legitimate invitation.

They can also just take a third option and find a way to kill everyone inside from afar and then just walk through the door once there's nobody left alive to own the property. Also if the building no longer exists, for whatever reason (like if it mysteriously burns down), then they don't need an invite to get to whatever's inside. Or buy the building - if the vampire legally owns the house, and the residents are their tenants, then the vampire does not need an invite.

Public areas, inns, public graveyards and non-residential buildings do not count. Vampires can come and go as they please here.

Other people's graves can also count as privately owned residence upon which the vampire cannot intrude, hilariously. The final resting place of the deceased counts as belonging to them - providing they received burial rites. Vampires can however just animate the corpse and have it leave, at which point it ceases to be a resting place and they can do what they like. It's not stated whether they can also use speak with dead to ask permission.

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There are four ways off the top of my head to cure vampirism. Most of them aren't cheap:

Firstly is the wish spell, which can be used to cure vampirism in one of two ways:

Using the spell to rewrite reality. You force reality to bend to your will and turn the vampire into a living being. Using wish this way is extremely taxing on the caster and may harm them permanently. They will basically be bedridden for a given amount of time and there's something around a one in three chance that you'll never be able to cast the spell again.

In its 5e variant, wish can replicate the effect of any spell below 8th level (including resurrection) while ignoring all the requirements of the spell itself.

Next up is divine intervention. Deities can remove vampirism, though the extent and conditions may be limited by their portfolio.

Amaunator (the ancient Netherese sun god, precursor to Lathander) had a temple over in Amn. You have to take the vampire and the heart of the vampire who turned them to the statue of the ancient sun god in an abandoned temple, place the vampire in the arms of the statue with the heart and it completes a ritual that restores them to life. This was part of a quest in Baldur's Gate 2 where your love interest (who may have been Jaheira) was turned into a vampire and needed curing.

Eldath, a minor goddess of peace, has also been known to restore some level of mortal life to unhappy vampires.

And then resurrection spells. The time limit on resurrection exists because when calling a soul back to its body there are numerous obstacles.

The body needs to be in a state fit to go on living. If it's too damaged or decayed putting the soul back is a waste of time.

The soul must be both willing and able to return. It has to still exist, to start with. If the soul has a new life it probably can't be recovered (be that by being sent back to the material plane for reincarnation in another life, or remade as a fiend or celestial). If the soul has been absorbed by their deity or into the fabric of the planes it can't be recovered. If the soul has been destroyed then you're shit out of luck.

The longer the target has been dead, the more likely the above scenarios are true and that the spell will fail. Also restoring a body and calling a soul from across the planes is extremely powerful, taxing magic that's hard to pull off, which makes it harder to succeed. Hence the time limit.

Vampires have the advantage that their body is perfectly preserved and intact and the soul is still on the material plane, and there's an argument to be made that this makes them resurrect-able.

Greater vampires are not resurrect-able as their soul is either annihilated or has been taken to the Lower Planes and tortured until the person has been turned into one of two varieties of barely sentient blobs of rancid flesh trapped in eternal agony. Wish may still work, but it may have a 50/50 chance of failure.

There's also the elven High Magic spell Gift of Life, which as it says on the tin, restores an undead being back to life. The catch with this one is that knowledge of high magic is dying out, so finding an elven archmage who can and will cast it on you is extremely difficult and probably involves a lot of favours and proving yourself.

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #astarion #astarion ancunin #excuse me while I have flashbacks to the vampire crypts in BG2 #Cazador you're such a fucking disappointment of a vampire villain #WotC DE-NERF THE VAMPIRES #Half of playing D&D is arguing about the Rules As Written VS The Spirit of The Rules

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