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whumblr · 1 year

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Catharsis

Happy holidays, folks! Here's some angst to make your days merry and bright.

@hold-back-on-the-comfort came with the awesome suggestion: but what if revenge whump. And I think that's beautiful.

Custody masterpost

Eric wouldn’t describe himself as a vengeful man. Live and let live, that was more his style. That didn't mean he had any qualms about killing, not at all. But driving a point home, after all, worked best with the person still alive. Well, alive up to a certain degree; be it after intense physical therapy to restore basic bodily functions, some scars that’d never fade, and heavy trauma, but alive nonetheless. It wasn’t revenge, just… consequences.

But the chance to get his favorite victim back in his claws had been too good to pass up. And show them the ‘consequences’ of their actions he would.

Initially, his target was Nat and Nat alone. But that pesky partner of theirs never seemed to let them out of his sight after everything that had happened. And so, Eric had to admit, having a bonus wasn’t too bad. Someone to go all out on, a punching bag that would snap back – at times – and someone to use against Nat. Even though he wouldn’t need the leverage, the despair that would follow would be marvelous.

He fondly looked upon his two captives, the difference between them overwhelming.

Jeff lay face-front on the floor, still fighting even though his hands were cuffed behind his back and Kyle pressed him down with a knee between his shoulders.

Nat however didn’t need to be cuffed. Nat was already shackled by their own fear.

They’d known. Just a split second before their vision had gone dark and the hood was forced over their head. They knew it was Eric and they knew they couldn’t do a thing.

Now Jeff, he’d fought. And fought. Until Eric himself had to step in and crushed him into a wall. There was no need to knock him out. All he had to do was keep him in place, whisper something in his ear and cock his head towards the kneeling, blinded Nat, to whom a gun was slowly being leveled to the back of their head. And Jeff too had crumbled to his knees with a whimper.

Easy.

“It’s so good to have you both here again,” Eric clapped his hands and beamed at the two. “After the events of last time, I believe we have some… unfinished business.” He turned to Nat, who just stood nailed to the ground and he said in a hushed voice: “After all, Nat, I don’t think you and I were quite finished yet.”

Nat let out a whimper and seemed to deflate a little. Eric reveled at that, he’d missed this. But the moment was tainted by—

“Don’t you touch them! Don’t you dare!” Jeff raged behind them.

Eric merely turned his head slightly towards him and without his eyes ever leaving Nat’s, he just said: “Gag him.”

While Nat’s horrified expression was a treat in itself, Eric couldn’t resist turning to Jeff to see him struggle against Kyle. He watched, with just a sly and calm smile, as Kyle forcefully spun the man over. Jeff of course refused to open his mouth now, but even teeth clenched as tight as a vice would part to let out a scream of pain. Kyle stuffed a piece of cloth into his mouth and quickly followed up, making use of the daze of pain to force his mouth shut with duct tape.

The pain and rage was reduced to nothing but guttural grunts and a first hint of despair glinted in Jeff’s eyes when his gaze shot back to Nat.

“Now, that’s better,” Eric crooned at the angry but softer grunts. “Now we can talk things out. Because Nat…” his eyes snapped to Nat and they stopped breathing. “You shot me,” he said in a horrible hushed and accusing whisper.

Nat backed up a step, lips trembling with fear and half-prattled pleas that never quite finished as they weren’t sure if they should beg or apologize.

Eric shushed them and stepped closer, standing right in front of them. He brought up a hand, just to see Nat flinch away, but slowly brought it up to his own chest, fingers disappearing under the blue lapel of his suit jacket and rested over his shoulder. “Right here,” he said, demanding eye contact. “I can still feel it.” He pressed lightly against the scar under his shirt. “Do you know how much that hurt, Nat?”

Then his hand reached behind his back, under his jacket. Nat’s eyes widened when they saw the gun pulled from his waistband and nearly buckled when he pressed it right against their shoulder. “Would you care to experience how it feels?”

He pulled the hammer back, soundwaves of the soft menacing click resonating right through Nat.

“No… no please,” they whispered.

“Or…” the gun pulled away and slowly he aimed at Jeff.

“No!” They snapped forward at that, brought to a stop by a hand to their chest.

“Maybe your accomplice should pay for your mistake.”

Nat was going out of their mind with fear, their whole body shaking like crazy. “P-pl-please, Eric, I—”

“Where are your manners, Nat?” Danger seeped into the voice as it dropped an octave.

Nat sobbed and swallowed hard. “Sir, please, I… Please, I’m sorry! I… I didn’t—"

“You didn’t mean to?” he said in that same calm voice but his lips turned up into a wicked grin. He pulled Nat closer with a deceptively gentle hand to the neck and whispered in their face: “I believe I taught you not to lie to me.”

Nat completely froze.

“Do you remember what happened last time? When I had to remind you not to lie to me?”

Their shoulder blades tensed, pressing together against the scars of last time and Nat swore they could feel that same deep pain cutting right through them again, swore they could hear the whip cracking in the back of their mind.

“Yes, sir,” they quickly whispered in an attempt to play by the rules.

“Do you? Need a reminder?”

“No… sir.” A single tear slid to their chin.

For some never-ending agonizing seconds, Eric just stared at them, considering. “No…” he echoed and Nat relaxed for a split-second until the next spoken words: “You’re right. Not yet. Can’t render you out of the game yet. We’ve only just started.” He placed the gun back against their shoulder, pressing hard. “But, you still have to apologize.”

That Nat could do. “Please, I'm sorry, I really am. I just—” they hiccupped, “I meant to say… that I didn’t—” their mind raced for an alternative, “I didn’t think, and I—”

Eric just looked at them expectantly, fond expression on his face as they prattled on and on.

“And—” Nat took a deep breath and their frantic rambling calmed down to something that they hoped would convince him. They looked up, right in those awful cold, grey eyes and said: “I am really sorry. Sir.”

A wrinkle of amusement softened his eyes. “Aw Nat. I believe you. Thank you,” he emphasized with a dramatic hand over his heart.

The gun pulled away and Nat just nodded, relief searing through them.

But the gun didn’t click back to safety yet. “Now what about him.”

Nat’s eyes followed the path of the gun as Eric re-aimed at the figure on the ground. “What?!”

“He owes me an apology as well. For stomping on my wound,” Eric said, matter-of-factly, and walked over to Jeff. He lightly turned him over onto his back, applying a little pressure to crush his bound hands against the hard floor. Then he raised the gun and aimed at Jeff’s shoulder. “So what do you say? When I remove that duct tape, can I expect an apology?”

Jeff glared up at him. He refused to look at Nat, who tried to signal to him to please just to do as he says; he knew he’d break if he looked into their eyes. Instead, he kept his attention on the threat. Then, very slowly, he lightly shook his head.

“Suit yourself.” Eric shrugged and without hesitating, he pulled the trigger.

The bullet ripped right through Jeff’s shoulder. His eyes bulged. His back arched. And his screams were stuck high up in his throat as he writhed on the floor.

Muffled though they were, agony and fear seared through his cries and Nat snapped forward in alarm. But Eric stopped them, merely holding out an arm to block their way, and shut them up with a withering side-glance before they could even finish the word ‘please’. Their knees couldn’t hold them anymore and they crumpled to the floor in despair, tears staining their cheeks as they could only watch how their friend twisted and coiled in pain.

Jeff’s suppressed cries died down to groans and he fought against the duct tape, taking desperate deep but shuddering breaths through his nose.

Eric stepped forward, shoe now resting on Jeff’s heaving chest, inching up and closer to the bullet wound.

“Last chance, now,” he teased.

He got all but a roar in reply. The words remained stuck in his throat, but the ferocity behind the muffled vowels could only mean one thing: it was an unmistakable ‘fuck you!’.

And so Eric replied by stomping hard right onto the bullet wound.

Blood splashed under his shoe and Nat had to look away. The howling sound tore through them, though, shaking them to their core. Eric just watched on in uncaring glee.

“Apologize, detective. Or I will fire another round into your partner and stomp the blood out of them until they drop unconscious.” He ripped off the duct tape and Jeff gasped hard for air when the gag was pulled from his mouth.

“Also,” he followed up in a lighter tone, “Do note that I only have one medic in my employ and he can’t patch you both up at the same time. From what he told me, bullets to the shoulders are tricky.”

That seemed to do the trick; the brutal logic of the threat of one of them bleeding out seemed to bring Jeff back. And he refused to let Nat go through this awful pain, so… he relented. He groaned and stammered, still gasping for air and trying to calm his breathing to get the words out.

Eric slowly pushed his shoe down once more, lightly, just squeezing more blood out of the wound, but knowing it still hurt like a bitch.

It brought out another cry and Jeff practically screamed “I’m sorry! Okay?! God, I—AagHh! I’m sorry!” He gasped in relief when Eric backed away.

“Thank you,” Eric said sweetly. “I have to admit, that was cathartic. Wasn’t it good to get that out?” He backed up and stopped next to Nat, swirling a hand through their thick hair, slithering down and gripping their chin, slick with tears, to force them to look up. He felt them nod against his grip and they both watched as Jeff still writhed in the afterglow.

“Good. Kyle, escort the good man to the doctor, please.” He turned to Nat with a wolfish grin. “Then I’ll keep our friend company.”

Continued here

Tagging, it's pretty much a continuation and I might write more so: @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @burtlederp @whatwasmyprevioususername @hurtmebeautifully @im-just-here-for-the-whump @firewheeesky @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @hold-back-on-the-comfort @whumpawink @painsandconfusion

Lemme know if you want on/off.

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mikwrites-archive · 3 years

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eastside

✧ pairing: lee jihoon x fem!reader ✧ warnings: mentions of fights, blood, but very brief!! ✧ genre: bad boy au, fluff ✧ wc: 1.8k

✧ a/n: call call call jihoon lives in my mind rent free!!! mayhaps this is inspired by that song w khalid and halsey and not entirely proofread bc im tired n going to bed hwjbsdjhs

You met Lee Jihoon in your mathematics class during your last year of high school, where you sat by the daydream filled window, and he sat behind you, his own mind occupied by the living daydream in front of him.

But he never spoke to you, and you to him, until one morning you turned around, ignoring the gawking gazes of your friends, asking him if he was alright.

He supposed you were referring to the bruised lip and scabbed knuckles from the nasty fistfight in the park last night that was circulating around the student body, but all he could manage to stammer was:

“I’m fine, and you?”

You smiled at him sweetly.

“I’m good, thanks.”

“That’s so embarrassing.” Jihoon groans. “How do you even remember that?”

“How could I forget my first conversation with bad boy Lee Jihoon?”

“Don’t call me that.” Jihoon narrows his eyes, and it’s clear you’re not impressed as you cross your arms, so he pins you against the glass pane of the bus stop bench, and you melt into giggles.

“Bad boy Lee Jihoon who’s secretly a softie.” You singsong, and he pinches your side as you squirm.

“I asked nicely, baby.” He murmurs against your cheek.

“Not fair.” You whine at the use of the petname, face burning hotly as he grins.

The bus screeches to a stop, and you both hop on hand in hand, trailing all the way to the tail of the bus. Jihoon takes out a tangle of headphones and his battered portable CD player.

“This is new.”

“Yeah,” he smiles. “I’d been working on it for a few weeks and I think it’s finally done.”

“It’s good. Really good.” You know your opinion is far from professional, but to Jihoon, it means just as much of not more.

“This is our stop.” You prompt him once the bus jolts to a standstill, rising, but Jihoon tugs you back down and you don’t protest, falling back to his side curiously.

“I have a surprise. It’s just a little bit further.” He explains.

He takes you to a small auto garage he says a friend of his owns, lifting the overhead door to reveal a classic blue Corvette.

“I’ve been saving up for it.” He puffs up triumphantly. “Almost have the payment down.”

“It’s beautiful.” You smile, running your hand over the hood.

“Then we can go anywhere.”

“Anywhere?”

The glowing sun illuminates Jihoon’s smile, and your breath is taken away at the beauty of it.

“Anywhere.”

“Word has been going around that you’ve been hanging around that boy, Lee Jihoon.”

“Have I?” You respond airily, your parents exchanging a look, the scraping of forks and knives decreasing by two. You can’t say you’re surprised they’d found out about Jihoon, but you are slightly impressed it’s being brought up so soon at dinner.

“Don’t play coy. It’s unbecoming.” Your father glares, but you know he’s not truly upset until he’s at least discovered your intentions.

“We’ve taught you better than to play around with boys like him.” Your mother purses her lips in disapproval, and you set down your cutlery.

“I’m not playing around. I’m quite serious about it.” At your father’s raised eyebrow, you hurry on. “We’re friends. He lets me listen to his music. He makes nice songs. I’ll be careful, I promise.”

You’re not entirely lying.

Jihoon’s lips are slightly chapped, his mouth pressing slowly against yours as if you had all the time in the world under the flickering lights at the very back of the bus, hands gently gripping your waist. Your own hands rest on his chest, and he wonders if you can feel the way it races under the leather and studs.

It’s reluctant, the way he pulls away once the driver droningly announces your stop. He helps you hop off the bus, and as you both begin to walk, he clasps your hand in his.

“I’m gonna marry you one day.”

Your heart feels suspended in that moment, as if Jihoon had caught it in his hands, leaping and jumping, and it’s not until Jihoon halts, gazing at you curiously that you turn and smile incredulously at him.

“Don’t I get any say in this?”

A flush washes over his features as he realizes, sputtering apologies, and you laugh.

“I’m only kidding.” You sigh fondly, and Jihoon shrugs.

“Well, I’m not. I really mean it. If you’ll say yes when the time comes of course.” Jihoon states, steadfast, and you swallow. “I don’t mean to freak you out or anything-” he starts as he sees your expression, but you cut him off, smiling.

“I want a big house.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You nod, giggling. “With a pool and everything.”

“Anything for you.” Jihoon promises, and you blink. You think this is what it means, to say you love someone without uttering those fated three words. “I’ll give it all to you.”

Jihoon’s not a liar.

You know he’d tell you anything, give you anything, within the limitations of his comfort and wants, yet it still makes you nervous to ask him, like the first day you bolstered your courage to speak to him.

“Hey, Ji?”

“Hm?” He’s immersed in his textbook, frowning as he taps his pencil along to a rhythm only he could hear.

“I know you don’t really like going to dances, but it’s our last year, and I was wondering if you wanted to come to one with me? I can go myself if you really don’t want to since my friends are going-”

“I’ll take you.” Jihoon sets his pencil down, a small smile on his face.

“Really?” You exclaim, repeating it more quietly when you remember you’re in the library, leaning towards him excitedly.

“Yeah.”

“You’re not just saying that to make me happy?” You narrow your eyes suspiciously.

“It could be fun,” he shrugs, lips quirking up as he returns to his work, and you scoot around the table, pressing a kiss to his cheek giddily.

“Thank you.”

“Okay, okay.” Jihoon flushes. “Don’t thank me. At least not here.”

“He’s here.”

Your mother’s disapproval is palpant as she lets you know from your doorway, obvious now that your previous conversation had been a lie and that you and that boy, weren’t just friends.

“Tell him I’ll be down soon please.”

Your mother softens at the way your expression lights up at her words. She trails behind you with the camera when you walk as fast as you can down the stairs, a brilliant smile on your face when you see Jihoon.

He’s talking (albeit stiffly) with your father, breaking away when he meets your gaze, and you make a note to question him about that later.

“You look beautiful.” Jihoon whispers. His hands flutter, as if wanting to move to touch you, but with your parents standing to the side watching, he doesn’t dare.

You, however, gently smooth the lapels of his suit jacket, smiling tentatively.

“Thank you. You look very handsome.”

“Now, smile for the picture,” your mother interjects, and Jihoon gathers the will to place his arm lightly around your waist.

“You know when to be home.” Your father tells you sternly before swerving to Jihoon. “Not a second late.”

“Yes sir.” Jihoon shifts uncomfortably, and you smile.

“Please don’t tell me we’re taking the bus.” You murmur under your breath as you step out the house.

Jihoon guffaws. He pulls out his jangling keys, twirling them around his finger proudly. In your driveway rests the blue Corvette.

“No baby. We’re not.”

“Did you really have to get into a fight?” You sigh, dabbing gently at Jihoon’s bloody lip in the backseat.

“That bastard didn’t know when to shut his mouth.” He spits red over the side of the car, and your chest rises and falls deeply in exasperation once again.

The silence makes Jihoon uneasy, gently taking the ice pack you were preparing and placing it over his bruised cheek himself.

“C’mon baby. I’m sorry.” Jihoon wheedles, tugging you down on his lap, lips puckering in an apologetic pout. “I know how excited you were about the dance.”

You’re not actually upset about missing the dance, if you’re honest, but you do love to vex Jihoon a little bit when necessary.

“That’s not working this time. I’m upset with you. You’re on a kissing ban until the foreseeable future.”

“What?” He gawks, and you smirk. “But-”

“No buts.”

“But... what if I told you a secret?”

You hesitate.

“I’m listening.”

“I love you.” He softens, thumbs rubbing gentle circles on the sides of your hips, and you cup his face tenderly with a beaming smile.

“I know. You’re horrible at keeping secrets.”

“Are not!”

“Mm... Kind of.”

“Only with you.” He grumbles and your laugh sounds like wind chimes swept by a summer’s breeze.

“I love you too.”

“I know.”

Time flies by fast after that.

Too fast. And before you and Jihoon know it, it’s the day before graduation. A day before your future becomes something other than riding the rattling Corvette, stealing kisses under streetlights, and sharing headphones.

“I’m leaving after graduation.”

Your eyes flicker across the grassy knolls from where you’d set down a picnic blanket for you both to sit on in the park, pursing your lips lightly as you think of how to respond. Jihoon barrels on anxiously.

“I’ve made enough with performing a little, and I sent in some of my lyrics to some companies and they really like it. They want me to work with them.”

“That’s really amazing, Ji.” And you mean it, finally turning to face him, and he smiles, a heartbreaking smile.

“I’m gonna come back.” He swallows. “I mean, for visits for sure, but when I do... will you still be here? I still gotta marry you y’know. Big house with a pool and all.” He adds on partly as a joke and partly as a quiet reminder.

You smile at the words, leaning on his shoulder.

“Don’t make me wait too long, okay?”

“I’m tired.”

Jihoon leans his head on your shoulder, murmuring, and you laugh.

“Ji, this is our wedding. Am I boring you?”

“Never.” He huffs. “You never bore me. But I think I’ve heard enough of the BooSeokSoon trio singing tonight.”

“Wait,” you lift him off of you apologetically. “I’ll be right back. My grandma is flirting with Mingyu.”

You maneuver around, beelining towards Mingyu who politely kept denying your grandmother’s affectionate touches to his arm and chest at the refreshments table. Jihoon laughs at the sight.

When you finally distract your grandmother (Mingyu sending you a grateful glance before scurrying away), your father sidles up to you.

“He told me, years ago, that he’d marry you y’know.” Your father states gruffly after a reminiscent pause, and you’re not surprised, thinking of prom night. You’d giggled uncontrollably when Jihoon confessed his teenage determination to your father that evening, much to your parent’s disbelief. “Guess he proved me wrong.”

A comfortable pause fills the gaps. You watch as Jihoon eggs the others on into teasing Mingyu about his encounter with your grandmother, an amused smile blooming on your features.

“He treats you well?”

Jihoon catches your gaze, sending you a wink. Happiness glows in your chest.

“Always.”

✧ taglist: @seijoh @soranihimawari @peachy-yabbay

#caratwritersclub #lee jihoon x reader #lee jihoon imagines #jihoon x reader #jihoon imagines #woozi imagines #woozi x reader #svt x you #svt x reader #seventeen imagines #seventeen x reader #seventeen x you #svt imagines

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vizhi0nw · 3 years

Text

Ghost

Pairing: Kenny Ackerman/OC

Warnings: Violence, Language. This chapter in particular contains extremely graphic content - rape, as well as disturbing gore. There is consensual smut, as well.

Words: 5.5k

Summary: Kenny Ackerman had never met someone with a reputation just as bad as his own.

AO3

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4

Part 2 of 4

Citadel

Eight months passed before another stranger burst through the door to Leyla’s shop.

The bottle of booze she’d shared with Kenny still sat, half empty, on the shelf. She hadn’t touched it once - it remained stationary, a reminder of her meeting with Kenny that she still, eight months later, couldn’t get out of her head.

She couldn’t get him - that cocky smile emphasized by pearly white teeth, the smell of tobacco and sweat and blood, out of her head. Part of her had hoped he’d return, maybe offer to purchase something from the shop even though it wasn’t a shop anymore, it was just Leyla’s getaway.

When the strangers entered, Leyla looked up, eyebrows raised, as she expected to see him - but instead she saw an unfamiliar face. Two unfamiliar faces, rough looking men with somber demeanors. They weren’t MP’s - they would have worn their uniforms, all poised and professional. No, MP’s weren’t this quiet.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” Leyla finished wiping down the countertop, tossing the rag aside and bracing both arms on the slick-clean surface. “This isn’t a shop. I know it says it on the sign but...we’ve been closed for a while.”

The two men looked at each other, exchanging glances. Leyla pushed herself up, fingers creeping beneath the countertop where she’d tucked a gun away, right between two bottles of liquor. Her hand closed over the handle right as the two men moved.

Two bottles crashed to the floor as Leyla yanked her hand back, raising the gun and firing off a shot that caught the first man in the stomach. The impact of the buckshot knocked him back, and before Leyla could fire again, his companion had vaulted over the countertop. Ensuring that she had a firm grip on the weapon, she braced herself as she was slammed, hard, against the liquor shelf. More bottles toppled from their resting place, crashing against the floor. Wet, sticky wine cascaded down Leyla’s face, obscuring her vision, but her fingers managed to grasp the neck of a bottle.

She screamed and smashed the half-empty bottle of booze that she and Kenny had shared together against the side of her attackers face. He groaned and covered his eyes, face marred from glass - Leyla fired off another shot from her gun at random and felt something splatter against her skin.

Blood, not wine.

Furiously wiping her eyes, Leyla blinked. There was a body slumped in front of her. Her other assailant was approaching, knife in hand, seemingly oblivious to the hole Leyla had blasted through his gut. She barely had time to brace herself before she was caught and flung across the countertop, tumbling and landing on the other side, hard. She heard something crack, but wasn’t sure what it was - a wrist, perhaps?

Leyla’s gun was gone, missing. She lay, disoriented, on the ground.

“Stupid bitch,” the man spat, palm clutching his stomach to prevent his guts from leaking out all over Leyla’s nice, clean floor. He snarled and kicked her in the abdomen with a steel-toed boot. Leyla grunted, teeth clenching together. “Gonna...fucking kill you. Gotta kill you.”

“Like hell you are.”

Precision.

With what little strength she had, Leyla launched herself forward and caught him by the legs. He fell, arms flailing. Leyla immediately went for the wound, gushing blood - she slammed her fist over and over into the bloody pit until her hands were stained crimson. Then, she reached down and twisted. His guttural screams filled the shop, until they didn’t.

By the time she was done, he was dead, or very nearly dead. His fingers were twitching, eyes open but glossy.

“Fuck,” Leyla grasped the lapels of his coat. “Who the fuck are you?”

She received only a groan. She reared back and slapped him, hard, and she seemed to refocus.

“Answer me! You’re about to die anyway - tell me so I can fucking kill whoever sent you on this mission!”

“L-Lord Byren. He s-sent us.”

“Who the fuck is that?”

No response. There was no more life in his eyes.

Leyla released him and let his head fall unceremoniously against the wooden tiles.

The shop was silent, save for the drip, drip, drip of spilt wine and liquor. It was all over Leyla’s face, shirt, and arms. The red liquid mingled with the blood and she couldn’t tell which was which or how much of each there really was. It made her nauseous.

She slipped off the corpse, finally realizing just how badly she hurt. Her ribs ached, throbbed, and she assumed they were broken. She had a split lip and she could feel a bruise coming in on her cheek. Her left wrist was most definitely sprained.

Still, she lived.

______________

Kenny’s usual nightly walks through the alleyways of Mitras were normally the only time he truly had to be alone.

It reminded him of his “wild days,” as he’d fondly referred to it, sneaking around and slitting throats by order of the King. Now, he was the leader of his own squad, and while he relished in the fact that he got to leap into action-head on and wield guns instead of knives, part of him missed it. The solitude. The mystery. The patience it took to stalk his prey and move in for the kill. Each time he walked along the riverside, he was reminded of the many times he’d frequented the water to toss corpses. He’d lost count of how many MP’s he’d stripped and dumped. It had to be in the dozens - hundreds, maybe? That’s what the legends were saying.

Kenny never listened to the legends. He, for some wild reason, found strangers recounts of his “wild days” to be boring. It was much better to do, not hear.

The cigarette between his lips was starting to taste bitter. He discarded it, grinding it beneath his foot. When he looked up, he caught a flash of grey before he felt a surprisingly firm hand lay flat against his chest and back him against the alley wall.

His knife was in his hand before the figure could even speak.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

Kenny paused. He was close, oh so close, to spilling the girls guts across the ground. He recognized her voice immediately, pausing only when she lifted her head to look him in the eye.

A bruise marred the deep brown skin of her cheek. Her eyes were bloodshot, as if she hadn’t been getting enough sleep. Her full lips were stretched into a line, nose crinkled as she glared daggers at Kenny.

“I need your help,” her voice was strained. “Kenny.”

He raised his eyebrows. She eased off him, stepping back a few feet. She wore an oversized jacket, hood flipped up over her head. She looked just as grimy and suspicious as Kenny did, and he almost laughed at the comedy of it all.

He’d tried to kill her eight months ago. Yet here she was, asking him for help.

“You know, I never caught your name before.”

“Leyla.”

“Leyla,” he tested the name on his lips. It was a pretty name for a pretty girl, he concluded. “What exactly do you need me for, Leyla?”

“I need information.”

“Information on what?”

Leyla glanced around. It was the dead of night, and Mitras seemed even deader. There were no MP’s slinking around at this time, nor were there any civilians out. This was Kenny’s hour, and nobody else’s.

Except for now.

“Two men attacked me yesterday. I managed to kill one and interrogate the other before he succumbed to his own wounds,” Leyla gestured to her bruised face with one jabbing finger. “Before he died...he said that a man named Lord Byren sent them. Does that name sound familiar to you?”

Lord Byren.

Kenny winced. He almost considered lying - he knew Lord Byren, of course. Or, he knew of him. The tales were far from delightful. The idea that he was going to potentially get involved with Leyla’s drama with Byren made him hesitate even telling her the information in the first place.

Part of him, however, couldn’t lie. The stories about Byren painted him as relentless. He’d send more men and Leyla would die.

Kenny coughed. He needed another smoke.

“I know of him. Evil bastard, he is. He ain’t someone you wanna mess with.”

“I never stole from his estate-”

“Doesn’t matter,” Kenny hummed, lighting another cigarette and letting it hang from his mouth. “I told you last time, the people up here talk about you. The phantom. He probably sent those men because he assumed you’d come for his shit next.”

“I don’t know how he found me.”

“I sure as fuck didn’t tell him. Byren isn’t someone who’s company I frequent,” Kenny waved a hand. “You’re shit out of luck. That’s all I can tell you.”

Leyla reached up and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She let out a deep sigh, eyes closing for a minute, before they opened, shining with renewed determination.

“I need you to take me to him.”

“Oh, for fucks sake, Leyla-”

“I have a plan and I need you for it. Please. You’re my way in,” Leyla gulped. “I need to get these people off my back before I can keep doing what I’m doing-”

“Have you considered that what you’re doing is stupid?” Kenny snapped. He tilted his head back and blew a long stream of smoke into the night sky. “I know you care about those people in the Underground, but take it from an old timer - they ain’t worth it.”

“Maybe to you.”

“You really wanna get yourself killed for those people?”

“Why the fuck not?”

Kenny stubbed his cigarette a little too hard against the alley wall, ashes and embers falling to the floor. She was a stubborn brat. A stubborn brat who needed to wake up and realize that she was going down a path that would eventually get her killed.

It had taken Kuchel’s death for him to finally, officially, shed the mantle of Kenny the Ripper and let his notoriety fade away. He knew that Leyla didn’t have the same luxury of family.

“You’d toss it all away. Your life,” Kenny murmured. “For a bunch of bottom-feeders. Fucking pathetic.”

“I want this asshole off my back and I want you to help. You can either pussy out now or I’ll do it myself-”

“You ain’t doing it yourself. I’ll help you,” Kenny pushed himself off the alley wall, glancing down at Leyla. “On the condition that, once you’re in, I be nowhere near the scene when all hell breaks loose.”

“Deal.”

____________

Kenny was staring.

Leyla had caught him, multiple times. He’d tear his eyes away and pretend to be fiddling with his anti-personnel gear, his guns and his hooks. Then, his eyes would wander. His gaze would float across the expanse of her thigh, up past the corset squeezing her waist, to the mounts of her breast, the curve of her neck. He’d lick his lips, and when Leyla would gesture, he’d sharply turn his head and pretend not to be looking.

Rinse, and then repeat.

Leyla hadn’t donned her work uniform in several years. She’d only worked at the brothel after her grandfather had died - he would have been ashamed to see her dressed like a harlot and taking cock for cash. She’d needed the money and had been desperate. She’d been lucky to have avoided the more...primal clientele, and when she’d left, she’d managed to save up a decent amount of cash to get by. It was then that she’d realized her true purpose.

She’d kept the outfit for sentimental reasons, having never thought that she’d be putting it on again. She was painting her face, now making sure her cheeks were flushed pink and her lips were a deep ruby red. She’d styled the coils atop her head into a neat bun, with Kenny having observed, mildly fascinated, for part of the time.

“Women and their hair,” he’d snorted and gone back to cleaning his gun.

“Men and their guns. Always so volatile.”

Kenny had ducked his head to hide his smile, then.

Now, they were ready, with Leyla having donned an overcoat to hide her outfit, while Kenny’s own coat was hiding the armory of anti-personnel gear he’d strapped to his body. Then, they linked arms and began walking towards Byren’s palace, with Kenny taking the lead.

The sun was beginning to sink beneath the horizon, and Mitras was winding down for the night. It was the first time Leyla had ever dared reveal her face to the above-ground public, though she knew she wouldn’t be recognized by any of the civilians, or even the MP’s.

She truly was a phantom.

“Keep your mouth shut and let me talk,” Kenny pinched her arm as they approached the Byren estate. It was a mansion, similar to that of other nobility, right near the east side, near the wall. The house was a beautiful, architectural wonder with an impressive courtyard and columns made of bright, white stone. The gates were tall and made of iron.

There were guards - two of them. When they saw who was approaching, they stepped forward.

“Kenny.”

Kenny tipped his hat. He slipped his arm from around Leyla’s and gripped her shoulder, hard. “I have a gift for Vibro. I heard he’s collecting whores.”

Leyla bit her lower lip. This part had been Kenny’s idea - he’d revealed to her that Byren had a particular taste for women who couldn’t fight back, something that disgusted Leyla to her very core.

“He is,” the guard said. He approached Leyla rather languidly, reaching out to unceremoniously grip her chin with one gloved hand. Resisting the screaming urge to bite his fingers, she allowed him to tilt her face upward, a thumb tapping her lips and indicating for her to open her mouth. “She has all her teeth. Good.”

“I thought he’d want them toothless. Less bitin’.”

“Will do.”

The guard shrugged. “He likes to take risks. She’s good - we’ll take her in.”

Kenny’s smile was wide and almost grotesque. “Tell him this is a ‘thank you’ for getting me out of a tight spot with the MP’s. I owe him.”

Kenny spun on his heels and walked away, not even bothering to shoot Leyla a final look. She could only watch him go for a moment, her heart pounding in her chest before the guard began dragging her past the gates and towards the house.

The courtyard and the columns were becoming less and less beautiful by the second. The architecture seemed demonic instead of angelic. She felt as if she were being dragged into hell.

_____________

Lord Vibro Byren was a disgusting creature. Middle aged, relatively solidly built. He had these blue eyes that seemed to swim with smug malice, and the shock of red hair atop his head was thin, but no less vibrant. He was the opposite of Kenny - dignified, polished, but Leyla knew it was all fake. It was all a ruse. There was a monster lurking beneath his nobility.

Unlike Kenny, he tried to hide it. Perhaps it was because he had an image to keep up.

The mansion's great room was open, with shockingly high ceilings and hanging chandeliers. The floorboards were a polished, deep brown wood and the walls were plastered with family portraits and painted landscapes. Leyla had been discarded before Byren, who was seated on a large, velvety couch. There was a woman splayed across his lap and a book in his hand, though he’d snapped it shut the minute Leyla had been tossed like a ragdoll into the room.

Now, he was staring, eyes narrowed to slits.

“She’s a gift, from Kenny,” the guard said. “This is his ‘thank you’ for what you did last month.”

Byren hummed. The woman laying across him lifted her head from his chest and looked at Leyla’s with big, glassy doe eyes. She seemed under the influence of some sort of narcotic - opium, most likely - though Leyla saw no pipe. She moved at Byren’s command, scrambling off towards the kitchen when he lightly tapped her on the shoulder.

Leyla could see a few other girls seated in the corner, huddled around. They were all dressed like her. Something about them seemed familiar, but Leyla didn’t have time to analyze their faces before Byren’s harsh voice snapped her back into reality.

“Leave.”

The guard nodded and disappeared through the double doors from which he’d come. Leyla was alone with the beast, sitting before him on her hands and knees.

He sat up fully, adjusting his crinkled dress shirt.

“Name?”

“Rose.”

“Hm,” Byren looked her up and down, his eyes, of course, lingering on her breasts. “You look decently fed. A bit too thin for my taste but...a whore is a whore. I’ll make use for you.”

“T-thank you.”

“Kenny brought you, huh?”

Leyla’s face felt hot. In a soft voice, she said, “yes.”

“Did he fuck you before he brought you here?”

Leyla shook her head. Byren seemed pleased, rubbing his hands together. He stood up, suddenly, and headed towards the kitchen. When he returned, he held a bottle of wine in his tight grip. Very slowly, be beckoned for Leyla to come closer. She obeyed, shuffling forward until she was standing in front of his seated form, the toe of her foot end-to-end with his own.

He brought the uncorked bottle of wine to his lips, taking a massive swig. Then, he offered the bottle to Leyla.

“Drink.”

“I...I’m not-”

“Drink.”

It wasn’t anything other than a direct order. Leyla’s snatched the bottle from his hand and down a massive gulp, gritting her teeth at the bitter taste. He took the bottle back and let it sit on the table by the arm of the couch. Leyla still stood, awkwardly fiddling with the hem of her skirt before she was yanked into Byron’s lap.

Big hands fondled her cheek. His lips were rough against Leyla’s own, and she had to kiss him back - she hated it. She hated how, for good measure, she shoved her tongue into his mouth and scraped her fingers across his scalp.

He needed to believe her. He needed to believe her for just a few more minutes.

There was a knife strapped to her upper thigh, and he had yet to find it.

Leyla placed suckling kisses against his lower lip, tugging at the skin with her teeth. His hands were planted firmly on her waist, keeping her in his lap. Leyla’s own hands were free, one creeping very slowly beneath his dress shirt to palm the firm muscles of his chest, the other slipping beneath her skirt to grab the -

He seized her wrist, suddenly.

No.

When Leyla ripped her lips from his own, he was smiling.

“I knew a Rose, back in the day. She looked surprisingly like you.”

Leyla was discarded from Byren’s lap and onto the floor. His cheeks were flushed red, the buttons of his dress shirt popped open to reveal a heaving, tan chest. Those sick blue eyes were wide, and as Leyla scrambled to unsheath the knife from her hip, she heard the click of a gun.

It was the doe-eyed woman. She held the weapon steady, though Leyla could see the faintest tremble in her hand.

“She had a knack for poking her nose where she shouldn’t,” Byren began buttoning his shirt. “As did her husband. They were smart as a whip, both of them.”

Leyla sat back on her haunches and watched as Byren stood, sauntering back into the kitchen and returning with a gun of his own. This one was older, with a wooden handle carved with what appeared to be the estate’s official insignia. He held it up, angling it so Leyla could get a full view of the weapon. “I shot them with this gun, right here in this very room.”

Leyla’s throat went dry. Her tongue felt huge in her mouth, and she could only glare at Byren as he continued to talk as casually as if he were addressing the weather. There was a ringing in her ear and Byren’s next words sounded muffled, as if she were hearing him through a tunnel.

“The woman choked on her own blood while her husband tried to save her. I shot him in the head. It was far quicker than what he deserved. I killed them both because they didn’t like what I was doing here. They didn’t like how I ran my estate and how I spent my own money. A shame, really. I considered them friends. They had a child, too. Cute little thing. Her name was Leyla, if I recall. I never forget a face, even if that face is all grown up.”

“You killed my parents.”

Byren tilted his chin upwards. He extended an empty hand and barked, “Marissa!”

The trio of girls huddled in the corner of the room all perked up. One of them - a plump girl with round cheeks and bright, blonde hair, walked over on shaky legs. All color was rapidly disappearing from her face as she came to stand beside Byren, shoulders bunched up, head ducked.

“They didn’t like what I did to my toys.”

Leyla gasped as Byren cracked Marissa in the back of the head with the butt of his gun. The girl collapsed, letting out a keening wail. The double doors to the great room burst open, and half a dozen guards rushed in, guns drawn.

Despair settled over Leyla like a raincloud. Byren was very slowly kneeling, having pulled his belt free from its loops. Marissa was lying on her back, trembling, as Byren very slowly peeled her skirt away from her legs. His fisted his cock and began to stroke, while the barrel of his gun prodded at the exposed lips of her cunt.

“They didn’t like what I did,” Byren seemed to be speaking to himself, now, furiously getting himself off, eyes glued to Marissa. “They didn’t...they didn’t think it was right.”

He slipped the barrel of his gun past her hole. Marissa gave a wail. Leyla’s nails were scraping against the floorboard, and she was going to move - she had to move, gun be damned. She could move fast enough only if she -

BOOM.

Blood splattered against Leyla’s cheek and she screamed.

She heard one of the guards stumble away and vomit.

Leyla turned her head away before she could fully take in the gore. She heard Byren grunt as his orgasm ripped through his body, and Leyla could only imagine him painting Marissa’s corpse with evidence of his release.

She was dry heaving, the panic truly setting in. She heard Byron zip up his pants, the floorboard creaking as he stood. When Leyla finally dared to look up at him, she saw that his once pristine, white shirt was doused in crimson, and his hand, along with his gun, was drenched.

“I’m going to keep you,” Byren said wearily. “I couldn’t keep your mother. But I can keep you-”

“Like hell you are!”

Byren’s hand, the hand that was clutching his gun, practically exploded in a mist of flesh and fingers. More loud pops rang out, and several of the guards dropped dead. Leyla caught a glimpse of a figure zooming above the rafters of the high ceiling and out of sight.

Leyla ran, fully expecting to feel a bullet pierce through her back. The guards were busy with Kenny, firing up at the ceiling, only to drop like insects when Kenny returned the favor.

She didn’t. When she looked back, the woman, the doe-eyed woman, was still standing still, gun trained on the spot where Leyla had been lying moments ago. Byren was curled up on the floor, clutching his ruined hand.

Leyla only had a moment to enjoy the fresh air of the outdoors before she was swept up by Kenny. She screamed and wrapped her arms around his neck, hearing him chuckle as he latched his hook onto a nearby building and soared over the gates of the Byren estate. Leyla kept her head buried into his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut as the wind tickled her bloodstained cheeks, tearing away her tears before they could fall.

Any other time, she mused, she might have enjoyed flying.

_____________

“You’re shaking, kid,” Kenny said softly. His own bottle of beer was half empty. Leyla hadn’t even touched hers.

The amount of rules Kenny had broken for this girl was astronomical. Internally, he was screaming at himself, cursing, for even getting involved to begin with. He’d intended to walk away when he’d dropped her off at the Byren estate. Walk away, maybe creep in for just a moment to see how it was going, and then leave and, hopefully, never speak to the girl again. He hadn’t wished ill will on her - he would have been quite content, had she been able to kill Byren like she’d planned. But he hadn’t wanted to reveal himself like that, though he was unsure as to whether or not Byren, or the guards, had even seen him or really heard him to begin with.

Still, it had been stupid. He’d come back, and for what? Some girl? Some girl he’d been tasked to kill a year ago? Now, she was here, sitting at his kitchen table, wearing one of his shirts and a pair of pants that, back in the day, had belonged to Levi.

“He killed my parents,” Leyla said, her words barely audible. “I met him. I...I knew him. It was him. It was fucking him-”

“You still don’t know why he sent those men after you?”

Leyla shook her head. “I don’t know why. He’s sick, Kenny. He’s sick in the head.”

Her fingers were shaking so hard that her nails were clicking against the table. Kenny reached out and placed his hand over her own, stopping them. They sat like that for a moment, until eventually, Leyla seemed to come back into herself. She reached out and finally down some of her beer.

“I’m going to kill him.”

“Fuck, Leyla-”

“I won’t be able to do my job properly until he’s dead,” Leyla replied. “He knows who I am, now. He knows that I’m alive. He’ll keep sending people after me.”

“Not unless you leave. Get the hell outta’ the Underground. Go to Trost, or hell Shiganshina,” Kenny urged. He knew it was useless. She was a stubborn bitch. “This ain’t worth it, I swear.”

“I don’t fucking know anything else, Kenny!” Leyla erupted, her voice rising to a shrill cry. “I sneak and steal. Sometimes, I kill people. That’s all I fucking know how to do!”

“You can learn.”

“I can learn when he’s dead.”

“This ain’t even about those people anymore. It’s about your parents. You’re on a goddamn revenge trip.”

Leyla’s slap stung. Kenny was anticipating it, but he’d forgotten that the girl could put some power behind her hits. When he turned back to look at her, there were tears in her eyes and her hands were trembling yet again.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“See, that’s when I know you’re stuck. Ain’t nothing better you have to say,” Kenny ran a hand down his face. “Start livin’ in the real world, kid. There’s only one way this shit ends, and it’s with you six feet under.”

“I’m killing him. You can’t convince me otherwise. I’ll do it alone, too. You don’t have to get involved.”

“Good, cus’ I ain’t,” Kenny chuckled. “This one is on you.”

“That’s fine,” Leyla levelled a steely eyed gaze at Kenny, sinking back into her chair. She crossed her arms and stared at her bottle of alcohol. Letting out a tch noise, she pushed it across the table. “Finish this for me.”

“Can’t. I’m done for the night,” Kenny’s eyes flickered to the window. It was dark out. “You headin’ back home?”

Leyla followed his gaze to the night sky. She seemed to ponder over something for a moment, tongue flicking out to wet her lips. After a while, she made a low humming noise and said, “I feel like...I feel like I should do something thank you. I want to do something to thank you.”

“You can thank me by not going on a suicide mission,” Leyla shot him a sharp look, and Kenny raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Fine, fine. I’ll drop the damn topic.”

“I saw you staring at me, when I was getting ready.”

“I didn’t know you used to be a whore.”

“Only for a little bit, after my grandfather died.”

“The profession doesn’t suit you,” Kenny mused. Part of him wished he’d been more direct with his staring. Leyla was attractive. She was half his age, probably, but she still filled out a corset rather well, and her tits were nice. “You don’t take too kindly to men telling you what to do, it seems.”

“Who says they were the ones telling me what to do?”

“When I fuck a whore, I like her to be responsive. When I tell her to cum, she cums. When I tell her to suck me off, she sucks me off,” Kenny sneered. “I like being in charge.”

“So do I.”

“Then thank me this way,” Kenny murmured. “Let me take the lead.”

The noise Leyla made was intoxicating. Kenny’s dick twitched in his pants as Leyla languidly tiptoed over to him, her soft palm cradling his face. Then, she casually slipped her shirt over her head. Next, her pants, and then, her undergarments. She stood naked as the day she was born before him, shameless.

She jerked her head towards Kenny’s dingy little bedroom, and he’d never stood so fast in his life. All thought flew from his mind and the only thing he could focus on was Leyla’s cute, round ass, her perky tits, the smooth plane of her stomach and the sparse, dark curls between her thighs.

When her lips met his, he was in heaven. Or something close to it.

“Kenny,” his name rolled off her lips like sweet, sweet honey. His clothes were everywhere, on the floor, across his headboard - he didn’t care. He was tossing everything off as quickly as he could, craving raw, skin-on-skin contact with the woman currently lying beneath him. How long had it been since he’d taken someone? Years, possibly. Most definitely since before Uri’s death.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Kenny pressed his forehead against Leyla’s shoulder. She’d taken his long cock in her small, yet rough hands and was stroking fervently. He turned his head and caught her in a quick kiss. “Gonna make me bust - let me in.”

Leyla kissed him again, chuckling against his mouth. He’d prepared her well with a few pumps of his finger into her tight cunt, and now, she was ready for him - all tight and wet and hot, just like he’d remembered. No, better than he’d remembered. Leyla wasn’t like the others he’d had before. She was different.

He couldn’t put a finger on why, she just...was. Perhaps it was the familiarity.

“So good. So fucking good,” Kenny gasped. He curled over her, pounding her into the mattress, one hand reaching up to grab the headboard. Her legs curled around his hips and her mouth was open, her moans punctuating the wet smack of skin against skin. There was fire twisting within Kenny’s gut, a raging inferno that made him feel as if it could burn an entire forest, an entire town, to the ground. It was all rage, all pent up energy - he needed it out. He needed it inside of her, nowhere else.

“K-Kenny,” Leyla gave a strangled gasp, reaching up to drag her nails down his back as she came up. Kenny yanked himself out and painted her thighs with his release, reaching down to squeeze the last few drops against her skin, for good measure. He collapsed by her side, and Leyla leaned over to press a kiss against his shoulder.

“Just stay the night,” he breathed. “I’m not going to be able to walk you home after that shit.”

“Didn’t know you’d offered.”

“I’m a...goddamn gentleman. And an old man, at that,” Kenny’s eyes fluttered shut, and he heard Leyla chuckle. “Don’t start takin’ advantage of my generosity, though.”

“I won’t,” Leyla’s lips found his forehead. “I...thank you. For everything you did today.”

Kenny was already asleep. He dreamed of Kuchel, that night, like he always did. Her corpse, cold and hollow, lying in the bed. He dreamed of Uri as well, though he hadn’t gotten to witness his friends death, and he was glad for it. The dreams never got any more pleasant, any happier. Shorter, maybe, but never better.

He wondered what Leyla dreamed about. He would have asked her the next morning, but when he awoke, she was gone.

#kenny ackerman x reader #attack on titan #snk #shingeki no kyoujin #attack on titan fanfiction #kenny ackerman #kenny ackerman/reader #my writing

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thesurielships · 4 years

Note

feysand + “you promised me a cookie!”

kiss me like your ex is in the room

note: this is super late, I’m sorry. I hope you’re doing well, and I look forward to read your next creations when you feel better. Enjoy :))

note 2: uncle Colm is a character from Derry Girls and his lines are quoted from the show. It's a really good show, BTW.

Word count: 1.6k | Masterlist | ao3

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Rita’s bakery is the best in Velaris. They specialize in finger foods and exquisite little pastries, each more exotic and original than the next; but the town’s favorite – or at least, Feyre’s favorite – will always be their double chocolate chip cookies.

These are no simple cookies. Even though they have been critiqued by many a reputed culinary writer, the secret to the complexity of their taste has yet to be uncovered. With a chewy center and crispy edges, chocolate chips that explode in your mouth and a bittersweet aftertaste that is nothing short of addictive, plus the extreme exclusivity of Rita’s services, they are nothing short of an urban legend. In fact, hiring Rita for an event earns you a spot on the local gossip column for weeks, no questions asked.

Feyre supposes she shouldn’t be surprised that her cunning devil of a sister managed to get them to cater for her wedding. Or that she only made her maid of honor in order to work her to the bone. Nevertheless, as she gazes at Nesta’s dazzling smile and the absolutely enamored look in Cassian’s eyes, Feyre finds she is glad to be here. Even though she didn’t get to the cookies in time.

Her friend Alis catches her eye from a few tables away and as she walks towards her, a familiar voice makes her pause.

“Now, I don't mind a bit of a breeze, if any, I prefer it. But that one was aggressive. So I says to myself. I say 'Colm, this is no day for a do'. ”

The steadiness of his monotone never fails to amaze her.

“When the bride arrives, and I say by this stage, the wind was fierce. I've never heard wind like it -”

Feyre dares a peek at the new victim of her uncle Colm’s boring and endless ramblings, and the sight that greets her almost makes up for the missing cookies. Rhysand - the best man and general pain in her ass ever since she met him a couple of months ago – is the portrait of boredom. He is slouching in his chair, his chin in his hand and his eyelids drooping as he struggles to focus on uncle Colm’s story. It’s the first time she sees him without his usual smirk, and she hates that she misses it.

“Howling like a banshee it was,” her uncle drones on. “So the poor girl –”

Feyre clears her throat and Rhysand starts. She bites back a laugh at the hope that kindles in his face when he sees her.

“Feyre dear, I was just telling this handsome young fellow about –”

“The windy wedding story?”

Uncle Colm smiles at her fondly. “You remember?”

She nods solemnly. “It’s a very funny story. You should hear the rest of it, Rhysand,” she adds with a smirk.

Rhysand’s eyes are wide with horror. She can almost hear him shout ‘save me!’

“So the poor girl,” her uncle resumes his retelling, “the bride now this is –”

Feyre raises a brow defiantly. Why should I?

“She arrives and –”

He glances to his side and she follows his gaze. The prick has not one, not two, but three of Rita’s cookies on a plate.

“Isn't she no –”

“Uncle Colm,” she exclaims in a high pitched tone, “I’m sorry to interrupt such a good story, but I actually need Rhysand for a very urgent matter.”

The usually unflappable best man practically jumps out of his seat. “Duty calls, uncle Colm.”

“That’s a shame,” her uncle sighs. “I was so close to the end. Are you sure –”

“Yes,” Rhysand squeaks, and Feyre coughs to hide her laugh. “Maybe next time,” he throws over his shoulder as he drags her away.

No sooner are they out of earshot that she collapses into a fit of giggles. Rhysand frowns and she laughs harder. He tries to keep his face stern but the corners of his lips are twitching. When she finally sobers up, Feyre offers him her hand, palm up.

One groomed eyebrow lifts. “What?”

“What do you mean, what? You promised me a cookie!”

Rhysand slides his hands into his pockets and Feyre’s heart sinks. “I did no such thing.”

“But, but,” she sputters, “I saw you! You looked at those cookies!”

He chuckles, low and soft. “Those cookies aren’t mine, Feyre darling.”

“You tricked me.”

She glares up at him but freezes when her eyes fall on the doors behind him. Tamlin is here. The blood drains from her face. She can feel herself quaking in her heels and she hates how he makes her feel small just by walking in the room.

“What’s wrong?”

She doesn’t answer.

What in the Cauldron is he doing here? Is he here for me?

Her chest is too tight. She can’t breathe.

He’s here for me, he’s here for me, he’s here for-

“Feyre.”

She startles at Rhysand’s voice. He turns to look behind him and she grabs him by the lapel. “Don’t,” she whispers.

He patiently waits for her to explain.

“Tamlin, my ex –”

Understanding dawns in his eyes. His smile is grim.

Feyre dares another glance over his shoulder. “He’s –” she croaks, swallows, clears her throat, “comin –”

Rhysand’s lips on hers stop her short.

Feyre just stands there, too stunned to react. He draws away slightly. His hands cup her face and his thumbs stroke her cheeks lovingly. His gaze is steady on hers as he waits for her to make the next move.

Her hands are still clutching his lapels so she pulls him close and kisses him.

She means to repel Tamlin, but as soon as their lips meet she forgets everything but the man that has been haunting her dreams for months. The kiss is slow and languorous, and Feyre wonders at the softness of his lips, the gentleness of his caress. Her fingers bury in his hair and his hands trail down to her waist, setting her skin burning on their wake. She moans and he smiles. She bites his lower lip so he allows her entry, and Feyre is so busy committing the taste of him, the feel of him to memory that it takes her a couple of minutes to realize that someone is watching.

A throat clears next to them, and Feyre pulls away. Rhysand’s eyes are a mirror of what she’s feeling: a mixture of surprise, delight and longing. His smile is slow as he reads the naked emotions on her face, his hold tightening around her waist. Her fingers are still caressing the soft hair at the base of his neck.

Tamlin clears his throat once again and Feyre reluctantly untangles herself from Rhysand, though he nestles his hand in the small of her back to keep her close.

“Tamlin,” she begins and is surprised to find her voice strong and her knees steady. She remembers something an old friend of hers told her in the dark days following their break up. ‘Only you can decide what breaks you.’ And here, in Nesta’s wedding and in Rhysand’s arms, Feyre decides she is done being afraid of her controlling asshole of an ex.

She levels a condescending glare at Tamlin and says nothing, but he’s too busy scowling at Rhys to notice. “Who. Are. You?”

Feyre’s nostrils flare. How typical of him to dismiss her, to address any one but her as though what she has to say doesn’t matter.

Rhysand’s only answer is his arrogant smirk, and she kind of wants to laugh.

“Tamlin.”

Now he looks at her, frowning at the smirk dancing on her lips, a mirror of her companion’s.

“This is my boyfriend, Rhys. But you can call him Rhysand.”

Her accomplice’s fingers poke her side in amusement. “And who might you be?” he asks, looking down his nose at the man who has been haunting her nightmares for months.

“I’m Feyre’s fiancé,” Tamlin bites back.

Rhysand’s face is disinterested, almost bored. “Darling, you didn’t tell me you were engaged.”

She shoots him a sheepish smile. “I guess it slipped my mind.” And because she just can’t help herself, she puts a hand back on his muscled chest and says in a sultry voice, “I can’t think of much when you’re around.”

The moment she says it, the truth of it resonates in her heart. She doesn’t know what gives her away, but something sparks in Rhysand’s eyes and he pulls her impossibly closer. “Yeah?”

She bites her lip. “Yeah.”

His smile takes her breath away. She doesn’t bother looking back at Tamlin as she declares, “For the record, asshole, we are not engaged. I refused your proposal three months ago.”

“You were confused. You don’t know what –” Tamlin starts but Rhysand interrupts him, “You heard the lady.”

Rhysand’s gaze doesn’t stray from hers for a second. Feyre is drowning, no, floating in this moment. She feels free, unmoored. She wants to throw her head back and laugh until she cries. She wants to dance until her feet ache. She wants to hold this man and never let go.

“Thank you,” her voice is earnest. “You saved me.”

He leans so close their noses touch. “You know, Tamlin left a few seconds ago.”

Feyre loops her arms around his neck. “Is that so?”

His eyes are brighter than stars. “About those cookies,” he begins, almost hesitantly. “I could bake you some.”

She raises a disbelieving brow.

“I know, I know. I’m no Rita, but I happen to have a mighty good recipe. Except instead of flour, I use oatmeal –”

Feyre grimaces.

“Instead of butter, coconut oil.”

She scrunches her nose in disgust.

“And instead of chocolate –”

“You’re replacing chocolate?”

“It could be a date.”

Feyre’s heart stumbles. She glances left and right then stands on the tips of her toes to whisper conspiratorially in his ear. “I would be burned at the stake if the people around here found out I chose this awful creation instead of a good ol’ Ritacookie –”

Rhysand rolls his eyes.

“But it’s a date.”

Tag list: @joyceortiz13 @bailey-4244 @quakeriders @standbislytherin @mariamuses @ignite14 @1800-fight-me @velarian-trash @rhysands-highlady @queenblueoffire @rowaelinforeverworld @feeoly @buckybvrnes @dayanna-hatter @shadowstar2313 @goldfishh20 @sleeping-and-books @crackedship @your-high-lady @thesirenwashere @whiskeybusiness1776 @amren-courtofdreams @tswaney17 @julemmaes @booksbooksbooksworld @queenofbumblebees @meowsekai @awkward-avocado-s

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myforeverforlife · 5 years

Text

wedding singer.

For another anon! Jongdae + 2. “Baby, you’re not a bother.” - “I’m too needy, you don’t deserve it.”

Masterlist

It’s always been widely-accepted that Jongdae looks good, no matter what he’s wearing. Even in his most questionable fashion choices, you’ve always begrudgingly admitted that he managed to make the clothes a bit more tolerable. But every time Jongdae wore a suit — it instantly took your breath away, without fail.

Jongdae stood in front of the bathroom mirror, buttoning up his shirt while his tie hung over his shoulder. You crept up behind him, making eye contact with his reflection in the mirror as you pressed a kiss to his neck.

“How are you doing, handsome?”

Your boyfriend chuckled as he got the last buttons fastened, leaving the top one unbuttoned. “Already trying to seduce me, beautiful? At least wait until the wedding’s over.”

“But it’s not even ours.” Your arms snaked around Jongdae’s waist, watching as he started to work on his tie. “Your mom is fussing over your brother’s outfit right now.”

Jongdae laughed even as his gaze hardened in concentration, fingers deftly managing the ends of his tie. “Well, he is the groom.” He gnawed on his bottom lip as he finished his tie, groaning in defeat. “It never comes out the way I want it to.”

“Here,” you offered. Jongdae turned around until he was facing you, letting you take over as you undid his work. He watched carefully as you took your time, going through each step until with a final pull, you were done. “How’s that?”

Jongdae looked at his reflection before turning his attention back to you, a grateful smile on his face. “It’s perfect. Thanks, beautiful.” He leaned closer to kiss you, much too quick and innocent for your liking.

You pulled him back by the lapels of his jacket, smirking when he gasped in surprise. Soon enough, he was kissing you back with just as much fervor, his hands wandering upwards as they searched for a place to stop, to revere and treasure you in his arms. His hands finally stopped at the nape of your neck, fingers tickling the baby hairs there.

“Dae,” you mumbled against his lips. “Don’t mess up my hair.”

Jongdae stopped to give you a once-over before swooping in for more kisses. “Your hair looks fine,” he breathed.

“You’re just saying that,” you quipped, leaving one final kiss before pulling away, hands coming up to smooth down your hair.

“It’s true,” Jongdae continued, moving so that now you were the one staring in the mirror while he hugged you from behind. “You always look beautiful — why do you think I gave you that nickname?”

“Hmm, and here I thought you were just always trying to stay on my good side.” You giggled as Jongdae started to pepper kisses on your neck, knowing how ticklish you were there. “Dae, stop! You’re going to make us late, and then your brother’s gonna be pissed.”

“So let him.” Jongdae was moving onto your shoulder, lips ghosting over the silky fabric of your dress.

“Dae, it’s his wedding. And you’re the best man.”

Jongdae sighed, a puff of air brushing against your arm. “You’re right. But,” he said as he straightened back up. “You look amazing in this dress, and it would be a waste not to continue things later.” He winked at you in the mirror, smoothing his hands over the skirt even as you rolled your eyes.

Turning around in his arms, you began pushing him towards the door. “Alright, Romeo. Save it for later, we have a wedding to attend.”

Jongdae was a picture of perfection in his role, an angelic smile on his face as he watched his brother exchange vows. He braved through the best man’s speech, something he had labored over for many nights, eager to get it done perfectly. As much as he loved a good wedding, Jongdae was relieved to get his duties over and done with, and to enjoy the rest of the reception.

You were among one of the teary-eyed guests, watching proudly now as Jongdae’s brother and new sister-in-law shared their first dance. Jongdae sat beside you, phone out and recording everything with not so much as a single tear in his eye.

“I’m surprised he hasn’t stepped on her feet at least once,” Jongdae whispered playfully, gasping when you poked him in the side.

“Be nice. You know if it was us up there, you’d be just as nervous.” You wiped at your eyes with a napkin, being careful not to smudge your makeup.

Jongdae eyed you fondly, even as he continued to record. “I know,” he admitted, reaching out to place his hand on your knee. He smiled to himself when you covered his hand with yours, squeezing it in reassurance.

The bride and groom glided across the dance floor as a singer crooned to Paul Kim’s “Every Day, Every Moment”. Jongdae sang along, his voice weaving in and blending with the song.

You rested against his shoulder, and Jongdae paused from his singing to kiss the top of your head. “I love you,” he whispered into your hair.

“I love you too.” You voice held a hint of wobbliness to it, overcome with the emotion in the room and your boyfriend’s affection.

“Thank you for everything, for loving me even when I bother you.”

You sat up, one hand reaching out to cup Jongdae’s cheek so that you could look him straight in the eyes. “Baby, you’re not a bother. Not even in the slightest.”

Jongdae shook his head. “I’m too needy, you don’t deserve it.”

“Kim Jongdae, listen to me. I love you for everything that you are. I don’t want you to worry about being too much of something, or not enough of another because I love you regardless.” Your thumb ran over his cheek, a comforting caress as Jongdae let his eyes flutter shut. He turned to kiss your palm, mouth curving into the smile that you loved.

“Thank you,” he murmured against your skin, eyes shining with warmth.

The band played the closing notes to their song, the wedded couple sharing a kiss as the guests cheered. The lead singer bowed with the rest of the band before leaning closer to the microphone. “And now, I’d like to call the best man up for a special surprise!”

Your eyes widened as Jongdae stood up, giving you a quick wink before strolling over to the stage. He took the mic from the singer with a grin before facing the crowd. “Hello, everyone. Let’s have another round of applause for our happy couple!”

Jongdae laughed as his brother’s face turned pink, embarrassed by all of the attention. “I just wanted to say again how happy I am for both of you on this very, very special day. I’ve always been better at expressing myself through music, so I’ve prepared a little something as a gift.” He breathed in deeply, nodding towards the band before bringing the microphone back to his lips.

As the band started up, you immediately recognized the song. It was a favorite of both of yours, for you to listen to and for Jongdae to sing.

“Tonight, I’ll send the glow of a firefly,” he crooned, a hush falling over the room. “To somewhere near your window.”

You let your eyes close for the song, focusing on Jongdae’s voice only as your feet tapped along to the slow, delicate rhythm. Jongdae was just as immersed in the song, eyes closed as he let the music wash over him. In times like these, it was easy for Jongdae to forget everything around him — well, everything except you. He sang knowing that you were out there listening, pouring every extra bit, every ounce of tenderness in him into the song.

Only after he sang the last line, the music dying down and being replaced with applause, did he dare to open his eyes again. He bowed to the newlyweds before looking for you, beaming widely when he made eye contact.

He made his way back to you, a lone boat drifting through the seas back to his lighthouse, until he was safe by your side.

“You were amazing,” you whispered to him, your fingers twining with his as he basked in your praise. “I’m proud of you, Dae.”

“Thank you,” he mumbled shyly. No matter how many times he was complimented on his singing, none of them touched them as deeply as yours.

The tender moment was interrupted by one of the groomsmen calling everyone onto the dance floor, the band starting into a setlist of feel-good pop songs. You let Jongdae drag you out there with everyone else, spinning and dancing to the beat with a smile on your face. There were a couple of times where you switched partners, going to dance with Jongdae’s parents, his brother, even his sister-in-law. Jongdae pretended to be annoyed when you were whisked off by one of his cousin’s kids, the four-year-old enamored with you and begging for dance after dance.

“Dance with me one more time?” she asked.

“Hey,” Jongdae spoke up, hands on his hips even as he was struggling to hide his laughter. “She’s my dance partner.”

“No, she’s mine!” The preschooler held onto your leg, sticking her tongue out at Jongdae. This had both of you breaking into giggles, much to the child’s confusion.

“You heard her,” you told Jongdae, shooing him away. “I’ll come find you when we’re done.”

Jongdae crouched down until he was eye level with the girl. “Be careful, she likes to step on people’s feet,” he said in a fake-whisper.

“No she doesn’t! Y/N’s a princess, and princesses are the best dancers!” The girl’s face was set in a frown, as if deeply offended that Jongdae would even dare to attack your dancing skills.

You and Jongdae exchanged an amused glance before he stood back up, shrugging his shoulders. “You’re right, I can’t argue with that.”

Although Jongdae wasn’t the one dancing with you, he still having just as much fun as if he were. He watched in delight as you spun the tiny girl around, laughing when she giggled as you dipped her. Being the good sport that she was, Jongdae’s niece gave you up good naturedly before finding another family member to dance with.

“She’s adorable,” you told him as you both watched the girl waltz off.

“She is. And she’s right about you being a princess.”

“You’re darn right she is.” Both of you giggled over this, foreheads pressed together. Neither one of you cared that the two of you were sweaty and growing tired from the festivities, grateful instead for all of the memories being made that night.

“This has to be one of the best nights of my life, and it’s not even my own wedding,” you said with a giggle.

Jongdae hummed in agreement, holding you close to him as both of you swayed back and forth. “Not yet, at least.”

He couldn’t see your face from where you had your head on his shoulder, but Jongdae knew you too well to know that you were smiling contentedly. “Not yet,” you repeated, hope blossoming.

Jongdae looked down at where your hands were joined, his thumb tracing the outline of your engagement ring.

“Someday.”

A/N: trust jongdae to get me out of my writer’s block 🤣 after seeing all of those posts of him singing at his brother’s wedding, i just knew i had to write about (semi) wedding singer jongdae

#exo #jongdae #jongdae scenario #jongdae fanfic #chen scenario #chen fanfic #exo scenario #exo fanfic #writings #drabbles

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beautiful-bau-beau · 6 years

Note

Hello! I am such a huge fan of your writing and its kept me entertained through the boring summer months lol. Anyways, since you were asking for requests, could you do a Spencer imagine, where he has been telling the team that he has a girlfriend but they don't believe him until he shows up to BAU in clothing/with a haircut that the reader bought him? Possibly set in like season 5 when Spencer's wardrobe was particularly "spencer reid"-y.

((I am unbeliveably flattered and actually love this request though I did change it a little bit. The article I mention is from 2014 when season 9 was actually shot but for the sake of the story we’re ignoring it. Also, not that it matters, as a kid I wanted to be a fashion designer and every Christmas I would get Project Runway sketchpads.))

Style

Spencer felt a little insecure walking into the office that morning. The suit he wore didn’t feel uncomfortable or itchy in any way, it just felt…unusual…too ‘stylish’ for his tastes. The only reason he was wearing this was for you.

A week prior

At the feel of your arms wrapping around his shoulders he immediatly shut the files he had ben working on, not wanting you to see any of the photos or read anything that would upset you. You were too pure. His hands came to rest on top of your palms, rubbing them gently.��

“What would you say if i shopped for you?” You asked, leaning your chin upon his shoulder, turning your head to face him. You saw his brows furrow and his bottom lip stuck out unconsciously.

“You don’t like the way I dress?” You shushed him, pressing a warm kiss to his cheek.

“I love the way you dress, Doctor, your sweater-vests and slacks will always flatter you, however; that’s not an answer to my question.” He leaned back in his chair, sighing softly.

“Y/n I go to work to….work,” to catch psychopathic killers, he wanted to say. “Not to flaunt of my fashion skills.” He turned to face you, your eyes playfully narrowed in mock annoyance.

“Are you avoiding my question because you don’t trust me to dress you?“

"I may miss social cues most of the time but I think I’ll be in trouble if I don’t just say ‘yes, you can dress me.’”

“You are a smart man.” You pressed another kiss to his cheek, and he could feel the excitement bubbling up within you, as you left his embrace and started heading to the bedroom. “I’m going shopping tomorrow, you’re going to look great, don’t worry!”

“Spence?” JJ’s jaw dropped in disbelief once her eyes landed on Spencer entering the B.A.U. floor. She stood next to Morgan who had his signature smirk across his face as he took in the new appearance . Emily wolf-whistled, setting her coffee cup down on her desk to clap excitedly, much to Spencer’s embarrassment.

“Guys…please…” He mumbled, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “It doesn’t look bad does it?” Spencer wore a white button up underneath a merlot tie, a black vest and an admiral blue blazer with matching slacks. On his feet were dark tipped oxfords, the same shade as his satchel.

“Holy sweet Jesus!” Garcia exclaimed, eyes wide as she pointed to his blazer. “Spencer you look absolutely amazing! Is that from the new Brooks Brothers catalog?” He looked down, biting his bottom lip.

“I-uh… I don’t know.” He paused. "My girlfriend got it for me.“ He admitted with a soft smile. He hadn’t figured out a way to inform the team of his newfound romance, wanting to make sure that unlike other dates or girls in the past like Lila, or god yes, even JJ, that you were a sure thing.

"Girlfriend? Is that what you’re calling the sales associates now?” Derek laughed, opening his mouth to say something else when he was cut off.

“New case.” Hotch called everyone to the round table, Rossi standing by his side. “You know,” Rossi exclaimed, eyeing Spencer for a moment. “I like the new look, kid. Stick with it.”

“So, what did everyone think of you in your suit?” You asked, excitement lacing your tone. The two of you sat in his apartment, one of the few occasions that you two were able to have dinner together at a reasonable hour.

“They liked it… I got some compliments.” He smiled softly to himself. You let a breathy chuckle escape you.

“That’s great! I’m glad they liked it.” You took a sip from your glass. “You liked it, didn’t you? If you didn’t, just lie to me.” You laughed again, studying him carefully to deduce his reaction.

“I’m not entirely sure. I know that the Journal of Experimental Social Psychology proved that enclothed cognition, wearing a garment with a strong cultural association can affect your cognitive processes, is real, but I think I may still be adjusting to the attention I’m getting.” You paused at his explanation, his words sounding familiar.

“Not too much attention, I hope.” You teased. “Wasn’t that 'enclothed cognition thing from an article in my… Vogue magazine I threw out a few weeks ago?” You recalled, watching as he shook his head.

“I have no idea what you’re referring to.” He denied quickly. “Even if women were falling left and right to gain my affection, no one’s attention is worth more than yours.”

“Oh I’m flattered.” You pretended to roll your eyes. “So are you going to let me dress you up tomorrow? I could make you even more attractive than you were today!”

“Yo’re not using me for my body are you?” He asked slyly, causing you to reach across the table to playfully shove his arm.

“No, I just never had a Ken Doll growing up.” You reorted, rolling your eyes. After a moment you declared, “I’m styling you again tomorrow.” The soft smile on Spencer’s face didn’t go unnoticed.

As soon as Spencer opened the doors to the bullpen he was met with the sound of a camera clicking, the device held in the hands of one Penelope Garcia.

“I just had to make sure I had evidence in case I wake up tomorrow and think I hallucinated this.” She justified, admiring the photo. “I think that shade of red really suits you. Like a mahogany or sangria…can’t tell which one.” Spencer just blinked as the techie rambled, not entirely sure what she was talking about.

Spencer wore a wine-red blazer and slacks along with a white button up. On his feet and waist he wore a black belt with matching black oxford. You had even convinced him to unbuttoned the top button. He had to admit he did secretly like the dark suit, especially how you picked it out for him.

Spencer had been reading a few of your magazines over the span of your relationship, telling himself that he was only trying to find something to read. A few different magazines had informed him how red was associated with love, passion, desire, romance, joy, courage, along with a few other explicit meanings. Other articles mentioned wearing red meant the wearer was assertive, daring, and powerful, and he couldn’t help but feel more confident.

Throughout the day the team seemed to pick up on Spencer’s slightly changed attitude, as well as some others around the building.

“Seems like you’re catching a few stares, pretty boy.” Morgan mentioned, his eyes flickering over to a coworker who smiled warmly in Spencer’s direction. The two men were walking from the breakroom to their desks, steaming mugs residing in their grasps.The corner of Spencer’s mouth twitched, although not into a smile. “What?” Derek questioned. “Is she not your type?"

"I told you yesterday, I have a girlfriend. She’s the one buying my new outfits.” Morgan stared suspiciously. “Do you really think I would be able to throw something like this together in a million years?”

“Touche.” Morgan nodded. “So, when are we going to be able to meet her?” Spencer stilled in thought.

"I’m sure y/n would want for her and I to plan something out together, so I’ll have to get back to you.“ Spencer headed towards his desk.

"Hey Reid.” Morgan called before they parted. “Does this girl of yours have a sister?” Spencer couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Not one desperate enough to meet you.” Spencer answered mischievously, spinning on his heel.

“Are you as excited as I am?!” You exclaimed, rushing around the apartment to make sure everything was going to be perfect. The two of you had decided to invite the team over for a nice dinner you prepared, snacks and refreshments in the kitchen as well. Although you seemed cheery, Spencer could tell you were nervous.

“Y/n you can calm down. Everything is going to be fine. What’s the worst you think will happen?” Your boyfriend asked, resting his hands on your waist to still your frantic movements.

“They’ll profile me as the loser I truly am.” You snickered. “Especially because I was behind the butchering of your lovely locks.” Your fingers threaded through Spencer’s new short hair, slightly frowning.

“Nonsense, I’m sure they were getting tired of seeing my unruly hair grow day after day. I’m glad it’s gone. I was starting to wonder if I would have to join into the 'man-bun’ phase.”

“What do you think of your suit?” You asked, gesturing to his outfit. You gave him a currant red button up with a navy jacket, vest and slacks. The buttons of his jacket were a bright tan, pairing well with the dark colors he wore. You had told him that he was a 'Deep Autumn’ and that dark and warm colors would benefit his skin-tone greatly. To top of his whole look, you tucked a crimson carnation into the lapel of his jacket.

“I feel…confident. Thank you for this. I always felt comfortable in my sweater-vests and button-ups but I believe the new work clothes have given me newfound respect from my coworkers and higher-ups at work.” You both shared a soft kiss before the apartment buzzer went off.

You opened the door to find friendly faces smiling back at you. “Welcome! Come on in!” Spencer doesn’t like to talk about work often but he speaks of you all fondly. I won’t pretend to guess who’s who.“ The team entered the living space, introducing themselves.

"Hey!” Spencer joined the group, a grin growing on his face when they all cheered encouragingly at his appearance, greeting his coworkers.

“I’d like to sincerly congratulate you for convincing him to branch out a little bit.” Emily patted your arm.

“Oh!” Penelope cried out happily. “You should come with Emily and I to DeMile’s! They’re having this great big blow-out sale! It’s obvious you have great taste so I wouldn’t object to you styling me every once and awhile."

Conversation seemed to fade for Spencer who watched as you interacted happily with his friends, a warm smile on his face. He had been made fun of before with some clothing items he had chosen to wear but you had just opened his possibilities and helped to expand his comfort zone. He was so lucky to have someone as caring and patient as you in his life. He knew he would spend the rest of his days trying to make sure he was worthy of someone like you.

#Criminal Minds #Spencer Reid #Spencer Reid x reader #Criminal Minds x reader #Spencer Reid x reider #Criminal Minds x reider #Spencer x reader #Spencer x reider #Spencer reid imagines #Criminal Minds imagines #Spencer reid imagine #Criminal Minds imagine #Criminal Minds fanfiction #Spencer reid fanfiction #Criminal Minds fanfic #Spencer reid fanfic #Criminal Minds fanfics #Spencer reid fanfics

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pitiflame-archived · 6 years

Note

“Wed Me”

Leave a “Wed Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about our characters under the subject of wedlock

I recommend listening to this or this to fit the mood.

This day had been one the two had been planning since their teenage years. Everything about their wedding day had been planned out down to every last detail. The location, who would attend, the decorations they wanted, even so much as down to the color scheme of it all. Everything was planned, everything was perfect. Centuries upon centuries of work and ideas had been put into this moment and now that it was here, the two could finally let out a much needed sigh of relief at this new chapter in their lives that they would write together.

Their wedding would be a rather small one, neither Eryis nor Rommath particularly cared for some grand exaggerated gala that so many nobles were revered for. That was never their style anyways. Even back in their youth, when he was merely a lowborn commoner and she a higher class mage trying to find her way. They never had the eye catching flair of nobility nor had they ever craved it. Right now, how things were, it was perfect. They had each other, alive and well, and everything was right with the world.

The event had taken place near one of their meeting spots when they were wily teens, near a secluded small park area between the two gates of the city. A great oak tree cast a cool shadow over the entire area, a multitude of colorful flowers added vibrant colors to the soft blues and greens of the decorations that had been set up. Only those closest to them would be in attendance as well, wanting their wedding to be a private only event.

Their twin daughters, Sima and Feana, both wore matching light blue dresses, one having an elaborate lace scarf tied around her waist cinched together with a small cluster of pearls while the other had a bow tied around her. Both girls had glistening white tiaras to accent their outfits and had been given the duty of throwing the flower petals, each wearing wide grins, matching the garden that grew around them in a rainbow of colors, as their mother trailed behind them.

Even the family’s dogs had been allowed to attend the wedding, they were also important members of the family after all. Corgwell and Whiskey had both been made specially tailored light tan tuxedos. Rommath had laughed when he had found out that Eryis had trained the both of them to be the ring bearers as well once it came time to exchange the rings.

Eryis herself was stunning. Of course, Rommath had always thought that but now standing before him in her own blue dress. It hung off both shoulders as was her usual fashion choice, the sleeves billowing out near the elbows into a sheer leafy lace pattern. It framed her body perfectly, a short trail behind her in the same lace pattern as her sleeves. Her hair had been put up in an elaborate braid, held together with the veil that partially covered her face as she approached Rommath. The arrangement of flowers she carried consisted of a wide array of different shaped flowers, each of them either snow white, mint green, or sky blue.

As she walked up the isle, Rommath felt his chest swell with pride and affection watching his soon-to-be wife approach him with an equally excited, if not slightly teary eyed, gaze. He himself wore the same colors, a light blue suit with the cuffs and collar embroidered with the same leaf patterns she wore. He saw no reason to wear the mask he constantly hid behind, finding a slight amusement in the fact many in attendance would have never seen him without it otherwise. The only ‘normal’ thing about him was he still wore his hair back in a tight ponytail. As she finally reached him, he took her hands in his own with a reassuring squeeze.

Behind him, he rolled his eyes softly in amusement as he heard soft sniffling. Lor’themar, Halduron, and Aethas, three of who he would dare call his closer friends, despite the fact he constantly berated the trio on a daily basis, stood as his groomsmen. Lor’themar, not surprisingly, had been the one to serve as his best man. The three wore their own tan tuxes, each adding their own flair to the suits. Aethas had a red phoenix emblem of their peoples crest tailored onto one of the sleeves sides, Halduron with a golden arrow across one of his breasts, ever was the proud Farstrider he, and finally Lor’themar simply had a white rose pinned to his lapel.

Currently, Halduron and Aethas leaned heavily on each other, each pressing their own handkerchief to their noses and blew as they watched the newly weds. At that, Eryis hid a soft giggle behind a hand and Rommath sighed. Always the drama queens, those two. In contrast, at least Eryis’s own bridesmaids were holding themselves together more than his own groomsmen were, so at least not everyone was a snotty mess.

Her bridesmaids consisted of her sisters. Amarna, Faiyde, and Artemyis stood nearest to Eryis, dressed in their own far more simpler gowns of pastel greens. All three sisters wore white roses as well around one of their wrists, similar to the Regent Lord. Amarna and Artemyis both smiled, looking generally pleased for their sister and her new husband, though Faiyde’s remained unreadable. As Rommath made eye contact briefly with the rogue, she made a quick motion with her thumb over her throat at the Grand Magister. Another sigh.

As the priest began the ceremony, finally, the twos attention had snapped back to each other. Through the words spoken, through every small touch, every word spoken between them in those moments, they could almost physically feel their bond they shared growing closer and heavier, binding the two more than it had previously. Both Eryis and Rommath smiled fondly at each other as the warm feelings following this realization settled over them, a newfound love kindling between the already bright flames they shared.

“ I take you to be my partner for life, I promise above all else to live in truth with you And to communicate fully and fearlessly, I give you my hand and my heart As a sanctuary of warmth and peace And pledge my love, devotion, faith and honor As I join my life to yours. “

As they spoke their vows, both of their gazes had traveled briefly to the few seats that remained empty nearest the front rows. Three chairs had been reserved despite knowing those they were reserved for would not show. They had been for both of their parents, with the exception of Eryis’s father for obvious and clear reasons unspoken between the two, all of which had been killed during the scourge invasions so many years prior. It still felt like a dream without them but the harsh reality was they would not wake up from this the next day.

Each chair held a wreath and garland as well as a burning candle, lit with a controlled arcane fire so as to not catch the foliage around them aflame. Flower petals littered the three empty chairs around the other decorations laid for them. Both elves felt a pang of sadness and loss.

Their parents had always spoke about Eryis and Rommath’s wedding and it hurt them deeply to know none of them would get to witness their children’s spectacular day. Deep down, they wanted to at least believe whatever afterlife they currently resided in, they were looking down on the two. Eryis and Rom didn’t need much imagination to know how proud and happy they would have been should they be here now.

Both of them let out a sigh only heard by the other, soft gazes looking into the other in a mutual understanding. Once the priest had given the words to kiss the bride, Rommath didn’t hesitate to kiss her. It was deep and lasted a tad longer than it should have. When they parted, Eryis rested her chin on his shoulder as his arms went around her.

“I love you so much, moon of my life.” She whispered into his ear.

“And I love you most, my sun and stars.” He replied.

#ll flamestrike (IC)#( verse. Cause all of me loves all of you )#( ship. Eryis & Rommath)

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