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delldarling · 3 years

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bearberry bargain | pyre

male arctic fox shifter x gender/body neutral reader 10,261 words lemon | older shifter, knotting, oral, penetrative sex, no choking but there is throat touching, tricks and bargains, getting lost note: this was the Story of the Month for December 2020 over on my Patreon! It is loosely tied into the same world as my dragon fellow Arroven, but reading Arroven’s story first is most definitely not required.

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The tundra is a gorgeous, but unforgiving landscape. You can hear the words on repeat in your head, clear as a twice damned bell. Worse than that, you can see Bristle, the orc woman that had served as your guide out here, in your mind's eye saying the words as she gestured to the fog drenched terrain. And The Mirrored Teeth are a little more dangerous than most. In the rain, or like now, in the fog, the stone spires gleam. They are beautiful, and all too easy to mistake for a far off porch light, or street lamp—but that isn’t what’s truly dangerous out here.

Bristle’s partner, a curly haired satyr by name of Rhim, with coins jingling in his carefully coiffed beard, had then stepped up to speak. Unfortunately, The Mirrored Teeth weren’t named for the teeth-like spires alone. The mirroring, or in this case, echoing, is the real danger. Voices carry strangely out here when the fog is thick, and if someone is lost? Our first instinct is to travel towards a light, or someone shouting. Whether the voices are our own, bouncing back to us from the spires or the mountains, or they’re the product of a still-living magical area?

They’d both spoken in unison then, smiling at each other with the ease of familiarity: Don’t follow the voices.

Each person in the tour group had been given a small token after their list of safety precautions, to serve as a tracker in case someone was separated. One person had asked if it was likely to get lost, and Bristle had snorted before she’d adopted her tour guide voice again. To come out here in the first place, everyone had been asked to sign a waiver because, inevitably, someone did end up wandering away. They followed voices that sounded like loved ones from past or present. They followed voices that sounded like themselves, calling out warnings. It was generally why people ended up taking the tour in the first place, listening eagerly for a voice they’d long since thought lost, or some kind of warning from their future self, so compelling and entrancing that they must be the product of magic. Most, though not all, of the people were generally found. Overtired and aching from sleeping on the ground out in the cold, but otherwise unharmed. Whatever caused the voices, magic or not, didn’t seem to hurt people, only leave them confused.

A few of the others currently with the group had come out for more academic reasons. Art and science in most cases, but otherwise those going on the tour were magic chasers, looking to record the fog voice phenomena for further study.

You might not have come out here with a recorder, but you can’t exactly deny that magic chaser applies to you as well. Claims of The Mirrored Teeth holding tangible residual magic are terribly rampant. You’ve wanted to witness it for yourself, to hear the voices, or feel the soft ache of magical energy on your skin, just the once. You’ve wanted… Well, it’s hard sometimes, not to want to feel the call of magic.

“And look where it’s led you,” you mutter, searching your pockets for the hundredth time. You know you won’t find the token, that you must have lost it when you slipped on some slick moss about an hour ago, but you can’t stop yourself now. It’s like trying to leave a loose thread alone once nervous fingers have found it. You keep reaching for the token, keep trying to find it, even though you know nothing you do will help any longer. You don’t recognize any of the surrounding terrain.

When you’d started out with the tour group, there hadn’t been anything but fog and the scrubby ground, hardened by a hidden layer of permafrost. You’d seen pictures of the teeth-like spires, but hadn’t been able to spot any when you first arrived. Now, every time you turn around it feels like you’re surrounded by the damned things. They radiate a soft glow, magnified further by the heavy mist and from far off? They look just like the teeth they’re named for. “Done in by moss,” you add, straining your eyes to see further through the fog. ”Not even by the voices!” Which, frankly, was disappointing. Not that you wanted to be lost in the first place, but hearing some of the voices the Mirrored Teeth are known for would have at least given you a better reason. An expected reason to be lost or wandering away from the group. Instead you’d simply slipped, brushed off a handful of withered greenery and pebbles, and had gotten back to your feet to find yourself alone.

You’d shouted yourself hoarse after the first half hour, calling out for Bristle and Rhim, staying in the same place, or assuming you’d stayed in the same place. You’d bent to find the token again, but even that had apparently been too much movement. Every time you lifted your head to look away from the ground, there was a different bit of flora springing up in front of you—and then you’d nearly smacked yourself head first into one of the spires, none of which are clearly marked on the map you have of the surrounding area. There’s always too much mist to plot them.

“Bristle! Rhim?” You call out again, cupping your hands around your mouth, not knowing if you should even hope for some kind of answer. What if they don’t answer because of the echoes? What if that’s the reason they’ve yet to answer in the first place?

The soft crack of a branch makes you whirl, throat growing tight when you spot the shadow of three figures through the fog. They straighten up, huffing, and the fog slowly spins away, shadows coalescing and revealing an older man shouldering a pack that he’s clearly just dug up from the ground. For a moment, he’s silent, staring, hand clenching tight at his pack as his eyes rove over your face. His gaze dips to your feet and lifts quickly back to your face before he wipes the surprise from his expression. “I hoped I was mistaken,” he grouses in a soft voice, tossing his head to get his ragged mane of salt and pepper hair out of his eyes. “But ‘lo, a human. Those tours are getting earlier and earlier every year, aren’t they?” He sighs, not asking like he expects an answer, but more like he’s just making an unpleasant statement. For half a second you have a retort on your lips, but the longer you stare, the more words vanish from your vocabulary.

The man has clearly tried to tame his ragged hair, weaving it into a messy, short braid that’s just long enough to hang over his right shoulder. There are earrings hanging from his right earlobe, dangly things that clink softly while he brushes impatiently at the dirt on his knees. His jacket, once a lovely heather gray, and obviously a match to a long lost suit, is patched and worn in multiple places. His jeans are nothing to write home about either, with frayed hems and patched knees. He has silvery stubble on his cheeks, and crows feet at the corners of his copper eyes, and—and a long tail, like a bottlebrush, fur standing on end. Until he sees that you’re watching. The tail vanishes behind his legs and your eyes zero in on his sharp nailed fingers, the backs of his knuckles covered with pale, soft looking hair. He grimaces, baring razor edged teeth, and promptly makes to stride past you, not even bothering to wait for you to get out of the way. He draws a rough breath as soon as he bumps into you, flinching away from actually knocking you to the ground, but it’s near enough to set your temper stoking.

Frankly? His manners are atrocious. But you’re also lost somewhere out in the tundra, and even if he doesn’t know where your tour is, he knows of them. You wrestle your temper into staying silent and rush after him.

“Wait! Hey, wait up,” you ask, ignoring the thrill that runs through you when you snag hold of his jacket sleeve and his tail bristles again. He’s not just hiding a tail either. His feet look more like great canine paws, which means—

The man whirls, and you spot two furred ears hidden under his uneven hair before he yanks his arm away from you, breathing far too fast. “Surely you know better than to grab at a shifter?” He hisses, leaning in close to your face. For half a second, he’s close enough for you to feel warmth radiating off of his body, but then his nostrils flare and his voice grows quiet. “Or are you from one of those backwater humans only villages in the East?”

“I’m—I’m sorry for grabbing you,” you blurt, mildly startled by his proximity to your face. “And while yes, that wasn’t a smart idea, I’m lost out here. Would it have been smarter of me to let you leave me in the dust before I asked for directions?” You take a slow step back, though you don’t let your eyes drop from his. You’re not going to take your eyes off of him for even a second if it means the fog is going to swallow him up and leave you all on your lonesome again.

The shifter narrows his copper eyes, highlighting the faint wrinkles in his brown skin. “Lost, you said?” He straightens, and keeps staring, eerily still. His frown only grows more pronounced when you nod your head. “You’re three days out from where the tours start. How long have you been lost?”

“Three days,” you repeat, uncomprehending. For another few seconds, the words don’t make any kind of sense. You’ve been separated from your group, according to your watch, for just over an hour. When you glance at the timepiece, only another handful of minutes have passed, but not enough time to even come close to explaining three days worth of travel. Your pulse is already racing, but it’s beginning to grow past the point of discomfort and into painful territory with how hard your heart is working. How the hell are you supposed to get back? “That’s not possible,” you breathe.

He doesn’t soften, but for a few moments he doesn’t look quite so irritated. “If you heard anything at all on that tour, then I’m sure you know it is possible. Residual magic, yes? It can do quite a bit more than just throw voices like a puppeteer.” He shifts his weight, like he’s ready to leave the moment you give him a chance.

“I’ve been lost for an hour,” you say, hoping that will spell out exactly how ridiculous you find his claims. “And I did my best to stay in one place. I’ve barely even begun to walk anywhere, and I didn’t—didn’t feel anything magical.”

“Isn’t it terribly rare to feel anything magical?” He asks, only gently mocking. “So few people even notice when something magical has happened to them. Now, it sounds as if the fog leapfrogged you through space,” he adds, wrinkling his nose. “Or did those green guides of yours not mention that something like this might happen?” He waits, but when you don’t immediately answer, the shifter sighs again, shakes his head and pivots, heading back into the still-swirling fog, ready to leave you behind.

You make another desperate grab for his sleeve, thankful that he only grimaces when he turns back to face you again. “In fact, yes, they did forget to mention! If you happen to have a satellite phone, or maybe-”

The shifter laughs and your grip on his sleeve grows slack. He’s rather handsome when he smiles, and looks like some kind of down-on-his-luck musician, dreaming of his glory days. You hastily let go of his sleeve, before he decides to yank himself away a second time. “Me? Ol’ Pyre, wandering about the tundra with a satellite phone?” He lifts his bag, clumps of dirt still falling from it. “I’m coming out this way to spend the winter in my other skin, and generally? Foxes have no use for phones.” He lifts his chin, scenting the air, and then nods his head in the direction behind you. “Head that way and the fog is likely to lead you right back.”

“Likely or certain?” You press, scowling. “Because there’s a rather large difference between those two options, and I’m not going to risk myself on likely.”

Pyre huffs out a sharp edged: “Which do you think?” before he registers the way your hands are starting to shake with nerves. His mouth opens, and then snaps shut. For a long moment he’s quiet, gritting his teeth, eyebrows furrowed. “You’re not prepared for more than an evening trek through the tundra, are you? Enough food for a snack and dinner round a campfire before they herd you back?”

A small wave of relief loosens your shoulders. If he’s asking, then surely he’s not going to turn tail and leave you all by your lonesome? You start to smile, ready and willing to ask for further help, but Pyre turns away with a quiet curse.

“Pitiful idiots,” he says, glancing up at the sky, even though he can’t see anything but the vague hint of daylight through the thick fog. “Three days. And leaving would be akin to murder.” He bares his teeth, still looking up for a few seconds longer before he turns a sharp look your way, fingers curling and uncurling at his side. “I’ll lead you as far as the Slavering river. If you stick to that and keep yourself from wandering off into the fog again, you’ll certainly make it close enough for those idiot guides to find you.”

Slavering, the river is called, Bristle’s voice picks up in your head again, because they once thought the tundra a hungry thing, with teeth besides. She’d gestured to the West, though none of the group had been able to spot or hear the roar of the water yet. It had just been another wall of fog over hard earth and low growing shrubs. We’ll end our hike there.

You offer Pyre your hand, still worried about the trek, still ill at ease with what the fog has done, but feeling decidedly less panicked. Residual magic my ass. As soon as I’m back, the guides are going to expand that little safety speech of theirs.

“Thank you, really. I appreciate it. If I hadn’t—”

“Save your breath for the walk,” Pyre mutters and fully ignores your outstretched hand, skirting around you in a wide arch so he won’t risk touching you accidentally. He doesn’t get more than a few paces away though before he’s turning to look at you over his shoulder. “And keep up. If the fog decides to deposit you somewhere else, there aren’t many other helpful shifters wandering about the area.” He saunters off ahead, trusting you to make your own way, but the fur on his tail doesn’t lay flat until you’re jogging to catch up with him.

“Are there dangerous shifters then?” You risk asking, thankful for your heavy coat and the weight of your own pack. Bristle and Rhim hadn’t mentioned any shifters in the area at all, but then they also hadn’t told any of you that the residual magic might move you without your knowledge. Perhaps they would have, if you’d been allowed to stick around, but it feels like a glaring oversight, now that you’re all the way out here. Maybe this is why they make everyone sign the waiver. Not because of some idiotic, siren-like voices, but because of magical fog.

Pyre’s ears twitch, visible for only a split second through his hair. “Don’t wander off,” is all he chooses to add before he falls silent, doing his best to stay several steps ahead of you to discourage speech.

“That’s encouraging,” you mutter, and his ears twitch again, but he doesn’t respond. The walk to the Slavering is going to feel like a very long one from the looks of it, and it isn’t just because everything looks much the same no matter which way you turn. You shove your hands deep in your coat pockets, watching the middle of Pyre’s back, and do your best not to unconsciously search for the lost token. You already know your pockets are still empty.

————-　🦊　————-

Despite Pyre’s desire for absolute silence, he mutters about things without thinking. He comments quietly on a hare speeding away when a noise startles you. He grabs up handfuls of wild berries off of the scrubby bushes you pass, promptly dropping any that are too spoiled to be edible. He flicks some of them away with soft, but mocking farewells until he recalls that you’re not far behind him, listening to everything he says. Pyre’s threadbare shoulders always rise with embarrassment, but after the third time it happens and he remembers you’re there, he sighs, shaking off his chagrin. He pauses just long enough to grab your arm and slap some of the berries into your open palm, doing his best not to meet your eyes.

When he speaks, he keeps his eyes on your fingers, touch careful and tense. “Eat those if you’re feeling peckish, or save them for this evening and you can boil them down into tea. Don’t dive into any of your stores if you can until sometime tomorrow.”

“What about you?” You ask, noticing that he’s barely kept any at all for himself. A berry or two slips away, rolling off of your hand and dropping to the ground.

Pyre arches a brow, closing your hand around the berries so no more can fall before he takes a step back. “I’ll be hunting as soon as I leave you by the river. I’m more than well equipped to look after myself out here. A few berries won’t make much of a difference.”

“Is this a regular thing for you then? Coming out here to the tundra once a month for shifting?”

“For the winter,” Pyre corrects in a sour tone, and then turns back to his chosen path again. “Coming out to the tundra isn’t a regular thing for you though, is it? Or was it just the magic that left you so frightened?”

The berries he’s given you are small and gleaming red, and you don’t much care for his continued irritable attitude. You pop three into your mouth while you ignore him, expecting it to be, at the worst, bitter. Instead it’s dry. You make a noise of distaste, which makes Pyre glance back again. He stops, confused for all of two seconds before his eyes widen and he chokes on his laugh. The sour twist of your mouth is clue enough. “Definitely not a regular traveling spot,” he states. “Unfamiliar with bearberries?”

“I hope that isn’t what they taste like when they’re boiled,” you mumble, doing your best to refrain from scrubbing at your tongue. “And no, the tundra isn’t really a prime vacation spot for me or most anyone else. The draw of lingering, tangible magic is a little too much for some people to ignore though. Maybe not everyone, but some of us.”

Pyre hums, tail raising when he hops over a strange looking crack in the earth. “Feeling a call?” He asks, voice far too even to be pleasant.

That’s a personal question in most places, and Pyre has already quietly mocked your interest in magic once. He does seem the type to poke at uncomfortable topics though, to try and get a rise out of someone. His tail is still bristled out as well, quietly hinting that he’s not in a pleasant mood. “Is that why you come out here during the winter? I don’t hear much about other shifters vanishing for an entire season, fox or not.”

“The only call I’ll ever feel is the one to shift,” he grumps, but he does smack his lips and slow down for a moment, letting you keep pace. “I make bad decisions,” Pyre finally adds, as if that clarifies anything at all.

“All the time? Or-”

“Smartass.”

“That wasn’t even hard, are you really going to fault me for that one?” You wait, patiently, but no answer is forthcoming, and then he rushes forward a few steps ahead. “I’ll take that as a yes?” You call out, but Pyre just keeps walking, like he’s reached the end of his tolerance for speaking politely with another living being. “Well, that was nice while it lasted,” you mumble, frowning when you spot his shaking shoulders. He’s—he’s laughing. Maybe he isn’t suffering from lack of manners entirely, but instead has been too long out of practice.

“Not all the time,” Pyre calls back when he trusts his rasp of a voice not to betray his amusement. “Just a fourth of it.”

For the season, he’d said. You snort and don’t even try to hold back a smile when Pyre tilts his head to look at you. His head immediately snaps forward and he shakes it, as if to ward off an unhappy thought. He’s grumpy because... he’s awkward and shy? The last of your fear, still borne aloft by the way he’s spoken thus far, by his quiet mutter of akin to murder eases immeasurably. You follow after him now in less strained silence, a bit more confident now that you’ll make it back to the tour group in one piece.

————-　🦊　————-

Your confidence lasts until early evening, when visibility is becoming a huge issue for you. No matter how well you might see in the dark, the fog feels like it’s pressing in on you from all sides. Pyre hasn’t slowed by much, but then you see the pale, rapid swish of his tail, moving so fast it looks for a moment like he has more and then you recall that he’s a shifter. His eyesight, as well as his sense of smell, are by far better than your own. He might be able to keep going well into the night, but—You grunt, catching your toe on a white rock the height of your ankle. Before you can fall, or do much more than exclaim in quiet pain, Pyre has his hands on your shoulders, keeping you up and steady.

“It’s dark,” he says quietly, by way of apology. “We’ll stop for the night just up ahead. Can you make it?”

“Without tripping over rocks or falling on my face, you mean?” You breathe in, and promptly swallow. He smells a bit like fresh campfire smoke and the faint citrusy scent of the bearberries and he’s entirely too close. You don’t necessarily want him to move away though, not with the darkness growing thick around you. “Probably not,” you admit quietly.

Pyre hums, breathing in slowly, and the sound is terribly intimate. “...you need a hand?”

“Unless you’d rather I trip and skin my knees and palms in the dark? Yes.”

“Humans,” Pyre says, amused, and clucks his tongue as he takes hold of your wrist, turning away to continue on and pull you after him. He only pauses when you try to tug your hand away.

“You can hold my hand instead of towing me along like a kid at the fair. I don’t even have sticky fingers.” You turn your hand, thankful when he lets you adjust his hold. His fingernails, thicker due to his shifting nature, dig a little too hard into the side of your hand before he reflexes his grip.

He pauses, tense, even though his palm is a soothing warmth against yours. “Not sticky,” he finally agrees. Pyre hesitates, like he wants to say more, but a low, strange voice calls out something from far off. As soon as you hear it, the voice has it’s hooks in you. Your entire body grows tense, hair prickling, listening as hard as you can to try to make out the words. “No,” Pyre says in a low growl, trying to interrupt your concentration. He’s only barely louder than the voice. “Don’t listen. It’s all too easy to-”

“That sounds like—”

“It sounds like nothing that matters. Even if you know the voice, it doesn’t matter.” Pyre grunts when you turn your head, trying to follow the fading voice with your ear alone. He rips his hand out of yours so he can take hold of your face, pulling you close until you’re nearly nose to nose with him, thumbs on your cheekbones, fingernails scratching gently behind your ears. “Right now, the only thing that matters is making camp for the night. We’re heading this way and you are not going to go looking for that voice in the dark.”

You suck down a fierce breath, closing your eyes as the last of the echoing voice fades away. As soon as it’s gone, your shoulders start to slump, and you feel strangely hollow. “That is why they make us sign that waiver?” You ask, opening your eyes to find Pyre still terribly close, his hands still cradling your face.

For a moment, he lingers, breath warm against your lips, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening the longer he stares at you up close. The bright copper of his eyes is muted in the darkness, but the white in his hair, in his eyebrows, stands out brilliantly, and you think there might be more of it now than there was earlier this afternoon. “I knew you’d be a bad decision,” he whispers, and inexplicably, you think he might be about to kiss you. Your heart begins to gallop around your chest, your hands lifting to grasp at his wrists, his own still on your face—and then Pyre pulls away, dragging his nails over your skin. He tangles his fingers with yours and leads you quietly through the dark.

You’re not sure whether you should ask about his other bad decisions again… But you desperately want to.

Putting together the camp is a chilly affair at best. The shelter you help Pyre fumble through in the dark, though of course he has no trouble navigating the process, is little more than a heavy tarp tied securely between two of the tall, white teeth. There isn’t much wind, but now the mist is heavy enough to dot your eyelashes and bead along your sleeves. You don’t quite believe Pyre when he says he can get a fire going, forcing you to sit next to the small ring of stones he’s gathered. “There’s a copse of trees not far from here,” he explains, tilting his head to your right, though you can’t see anything through the fog, and especially not in the dark. “And I’ll be able to scrounge up enough for a fire.”

You want to ask him if he’ll be able to find his way back to you. If he thinks you’ll be safe sitting here on your own, especially after the voice from earlier. Voicing your concerns feels a bit too much like an invitation for bad luck though, and you still don't know Pyre very well. He might be helping you out of the goodness of his heart, but he's already dubbed you a bad decision. You're not sure you want to push things. “Won’t the wood be wet?” You ask instead, chafing your hands together to stir up a little bit of heat.

“No fear of shifters,” Pyre scoffs, straightening up and pulling his bag off of his back. “No screaming at strangers when you're lost in the foggy tundra, but you're worried about damp firewood?" You scowl, knowing full well he can see your expression. That surprises a rough sounding laugh out of him. "I may choose to spend my winter as a fox, but that doesn't mean I don't turn back into a man when spring comes." Pyre brandishes a small box, a tin filled with what sounds like matches. He rattles them about for emphasis. “Charmed matches are a necessity out here, not optional. Even if the wood is damp, they’ll catch well enough to last us the night.”

Charmed matches aren’t exactly common. A package of them, when used only in dire situations, should last someone a score of years at least, and as the spells to make them are some of the few guarantees of still working magic… They cost a pretty penny. “...should you be wasting them on me when I’m supposed to find the tour guides tomorrow?”

Pyre shakes the box at you, silently insisting you take it from his hand. When you take it from him, there’s more hair, more fur on his fingers than there was earlier in the day. You wonder if it’s a conscious change to help stave off the chill, or if it’s simply too close to when he shifts. “We need some way to boil a bit of water for bearberry tea, don’t we? Unless you’d rather eat them plain.” He sounds like he’s smiling, but the dark is getting more oppressive and you can’t see it. Pyre’s tone turns a little more serious, a little more apologetic as he continues: “And using them seems to keep away the voices, so yes. As I’ve taken responsibility for your safety—”

“Responsibility,” you murmur, arching a brow, but you can’t exactly disagree.

“—I’ll do exactly as I said. You’ll get to the Slavering, and I’ll even give you a match as a gift. You can make a torch as you head back and the voices should leave you be.”

You don’t shake the tin of them, knowing that they’re valuable, but you stroke your finger over the top, following the raised patterns of letters. “Will they work, even if they’re unlit?”

Pyre waits, and you don’t know whether he’s reluctant to give you an answer or he doesn’t actually know. “Are you worried about me going to grab the firewood?”

Well, it was kind of ridiculous, trying to hide your nervousness from him anyway. You’re lost in the tundra with someone you don’t know. No matter how resilient you are, it’s going to be nerve wracking. “I’ve never felt quite as strange as when I heard that voice, even with you pulling me back from it…” You stop, a frown growing on your lips. “But the voice didn’t do anything to you. You had no problem telling me not to listen to it.”

Pyre crouches, his knees popping, and groans quietly, rubbing at the patch just under his left kneecap. You can see his hands, pale fur the only spot of brightness in the night. “They don’t much affect shifters. We’re…. We’re already rather full of magic ourselves, even if it isn’t the kind one can use by uttering spells or mixing ingredients in a pot. Whatever the reason, the voices don’t seem to like magic. So a box of those matches?” He reaches out to tap on the tin with one long nail. “It should keep you from falling prey for the few moments it will take me to gather wood. I still wouldn’t get up though, then you might risk dropping it.”

You don’t know everything about the tundra, even with what research you did before you came on the trip, and the talk of magic here? It’s still something people want to study. One of the ones that came with a recorder would probably be thrilled to hear this much about the place from… Pyre might not be a year-round local, but he knows quite a bit. If he can hold off his shifting, maybe you’ll ask him to talk to one of them. “I’ll be safe,” you say, extrapolating, “as long as I stay sitting here. You’ll be able to find me again?”

“...I’ll be able to follow your scent, yes,” he admits, like he expects you to be irritated with the thought. Far, far away, another voice echoes, much fainter than the one you’d heard before. It doesn’t sound pained or panicked though, it sounds a bit like—Pyre takes your fingers, almost crushing them around the tin box in your hands. The voice vanishes. “You’ll be safe,” Pyre repeats, and a breeze whisks through the area, catching at his wild grey and white hair.

“Then get the wood,” you say, before you lose your nerve. “I’ll wait.” Pyre’s hand, still curled tightly around your fingers, eases. He brushes his thumb over the valleys between your knuckles and then pulls away.

“A few moments only. I promise,” he whispers, and then his canine-like feet are scuffing through the hard dirt and lichen covered rocks.

As soon as he’s gone, you soothe yourself by running your fingers over the tin of matches, trying to figure out what words are written along the top in fine, curling letters. There are too many loops though and when you do your best to try and focus on it, bringing it up close to your face, all you can see is that places on the tin have been worn down. Whatever it might say, the color on the tin won’t help you figure it out. It feels like only seconds, but another noise echoes in the darkness, your heart jumping back into overdrive. You clutch at the matchbox, but then Pyre is stepping out of the heavy fog, dropping a heaving armful of twisted branches and thick tangles of what looks like weeds.

“Moments, I thought you said! What was that, 30 seconds?” You ask, trying to calm your racing heart.

Pyre laughs. “I think you were just lost in thought, hm? It’s easy to lose track of time in the dark.” He kneels at the ring of rocks, cursing, even though you can’t hear any popping in his limbs this time. “Now, give me the matches and let’s get things a bit warmer, hm?”

You hand them over, and then get to work. You feel more than see Pyre’s surprise when you start picking up the branches and weeds. “I may be human, but I can help do a bit of work. It’s the last I can do after you helping me like this, what with your shifting getting close.”

“Noticed that, did you?” He asks, tin creaking as he opens and closes the lid. You glance over, but other than his pale fur, you can’t make out what he’s actually doing. A second later and he’s striking one of the charmed matches over a rough rock, and then it blazes merrily in a bit of fire smaller than a penny. “I won’t be a danger. I’m old enough to keep my wits. My… I should warn you, my breed of shifting isn’t always so pretty as others though.”

“Is that why you come out here?”

“One of many reasons,” Pyre mutters and holds the match to the wood in the fire pit. The match doesn’t burn down immediately though, or even catch the weeds when he touches it to them. Pyre deposits it carefully in the exact middle of arrangement, planting it almost like a seedling in the wood and weeds. Only after he removes his hand does the match start to spark, and then fire twists open like a blooming flower. It’s gorgeous. You lift your eyes to Pyre, awe clear in your gaze, and then you have to blink. He’s still the older man you saw this afternoon. He still has a mostly human face, but his arms look longer now, and his copper eyes flash strangely in the firelight. He glances at you, and you see that his mouth has grown wider, the edges either curling back towards his cheekbones or… Or his jaws are elongating. “Frightened?” He asks, and then you realize that you’ve been staring.

“Mildly startled,” you correct, refusing to look away. Whether he’s a pretty kind of shifter or not, you can still see him in his eyes and the way he holds himself.

He chuffs, and the noise warms something deep in your chest. “Smartass,” he says, sounding very fond. “I’ll make some of that tea now then, if you’d like it.”

“Bearberry tea,” you muse, reaching in your pocket for the rest of the berries he’d given you. Pyre unearths a small cooking pot from his bag, as well as an earthenware mug, glazed some kind of deep green. He hands you the mug and then holds out the pot, nodding his head when you lift your berry filled hand over it. It takes longer than you would like. Pyre has to mash the berries down and then he surprises you by standing and tugging at the tarp edge of your shelter. Water, mist really, beaded so heavily along the taut plastic that there’s enough to fill the pot near to overflowing. It’s much more than you would have thought, but Pyre seems unsurprised, even though you’ve both been relatively dry since he started building the fire.

“Alright,” you finally say, watching Pyre stir the faintly pink water with a metal spoon from his bag. “You mentioned bad decisions, and I’m not wise enough to leave it well alone. What are all these ‘bad decisions’ that drive you out into the tundra for an entire season? And, I can’t not clarify, were they flings?”

Pyre stares at you, eyes gleaming in the firelight, his too wide jaw falling open due to your blunt questions. When he laughs this time, it’s a sharp bark and more fox-like than human. “Oh, you are one of them. Much more perceptive than many of the others.” He licks his lips, still human-smooth, but his ears have grown longer. They’re peeking out from the sides of his head, poking through his hair now. “Some of them were flings. Some of them were just… A way to stave off loneliness, even if they were unpleasant.”

“And where am I falling on that scale?”

Pyre arches a thicker brow, baring his sharp teeth in a slightly eerie smile. “I wouldn’t be opposed to a fling with someone like you, but your companionship is more than enough if that’s all you want to give.��

You can’t help but laugh. “Then how, exactly, am I a ‘bad decision’? Making friends isn’t a bad thing, is it?”

Pyre’s smile wavers. “No, no it isn’t.” He looks away, into the middle of the fire, where the charmed match is still blazing like a seed of flame. “The bad decision is that my loneliness drives me to go looking in the first place.”

You let a few moments pass in relative silence, puzzling over his words. It sounds more than strange, but you can’t put your finger on why. “What does that mean?” You finally ask, noting the way he’s digging his nails into his thighs.

He looks back at you. “Anyone who wanders out here is an offering, of sorts. To help bear the brunt of winter. The tours… They’re more like a ritual than those guides of yours realize.”

Your head feels strangely empty. Ritual, he’d said. Slowly, you think back to the myths linked to the tundra, to the Mirrored Teeth, to the folktales attached to cities and Serpent Towers. There had been something about bearing the brunt of winter, holding it back from sweeping over the land…

“Your time here will be no more than the three days I promised. You will be taken back to the Slavering, with only this time gone from the memories of others, and I will do nothing but what I promise: to lead you back, if that is all you desire.” Pyre creeps closer, long arms and long fingers bracing himself on the dirt. All it takes is a single stretch and he’s by your side, towering over you in his half shifted form. “The bad decision was that I was given the right to choose without any warning. That I could only claim those I charmed away.”

“You charmed me?” You whisper.

“You heard my voice,” Pyre explains and your heart beats painfully in your chest. He is why people vanish from the tours and come back tired and dirty but… But most of them come back unharmed.

“What happens to those that don’t make it back?” You ask, trying to quell your panic.

Pyre’s shoulders hunch. “Sometimes people react poorly, and they run. Running in the fog is never wise.”

“How am I… How am I supposed to help you keep winter from swallowing the world?”

Pyre barks out another laugh, though he’s grimacing. “Those years I don’t have a companion, winter escapes my hold. It’s much easier to keep in check with help.”

“Helping how?” You ask, voice going brittle.

“Companionship. You’re already bound to the three days,” he says quietly, nodding his head to the pot of slow boiling bearberries on the fire. “You ate three of them. If…. If you choose to help, to spend the winter with me, then you can drink. You’ll be with me through the entire season—”

“Out in the middle of the tundra, with nothing but a tarp and an evening's supply of food?” You ask, getting to your feet. You take a step away from the fire, nervous energy making you move, and then freeze when you hear a far off voice again. You glance down at Pyre, angry and convinced it must be him, but then you recognize it. The voice, low and soft as it echoes strangely through the fog, is you.

“The voices are possibilities only,” Pyre says, talking over the needy sounding moan. It vanishes, like nothing more than smoke on a fast moving breeze. “And I would take you back to my home, I wouldn’t make you wander out here and sleep on the freezing ground!” Pyre starts to get to his feet and then thinks better of it. He stays where he is, looking up at you, holding out a hand. “If you drink, all I require is companionship. Loneliness lets the ice creep further out, but friendship, or, or anger or passion keeps it at bay. With your help I can bind the overflow of ice in the teeth. But if three days is all you’ll allow, then I’ll find another, I promise. You’ll be free of this, and you’ll forget this ever happened.”

You’re out in the middle of the tundra, wreathed in magical fog and standing before a shifter, a… a spirit? A deity? That keeps winter at bay. You did want magic, didn’t you? You ask yourself. You look down to his open hand, brown palm calloused, nails long and sharp, white fox fur growing longer along his arm.

“No one will even notice I’ve been gone?”

“You’ll be lost in the fog for three days, according to them. What life you’ve missed will feel like a blink, but no. They won’t realize you’ll have been gone for the entire winter.” Pyre’s mouth closes, stubbled throat working as he swallows.

Slowly, you sit back down, picking up the glazed green mug and holding it out for Pyre to fill. “The winter then. If we end up hating one another? You have no one to blame but yourself.”

Pyre doesn’t answer, but he watches like a predator after he fills the mug with bearberry tea, copper eyes caught on your lips. You finish half the cup, and what chill lingered in your bones slowly fades away. Carefully, Pyre takes the cup back and downs the rest, long tongue licking stray droplets off of his lips.

————-　🦊　————-

You travel with Pyre for three days before you reach the banks of the Slavering, only when you do, the tour guides aren’t waiting for you. This is where the Slavering begins, the thick snowmelt coming off of the high mountaintops and rolling down through the craggy rocks to make a river. There’s a cave entrance not far from the rapids, covered over with weeds and just large enough for Pyre to stoop over and fit into. You stop at the entrance, with him close behind you, and stare into the far off dark.

“It’s not like a dungeon in there, is it?”

Pyre grumbles, somewhere between indignation and a laugh. “You always know just what to say. No, it’s not like a dungeon. There’s plenty of modern day amenities inside. I’m a shifter, not a beast.”

Cautiously, still not entirely trusting him, you head inside. It’s dark at first, and earthy smelling, just like a cave, but then Pyre strikes another one of his charmed matches and pulls you to the side so he can lead. There’s a lamp up ahead, the frosted glass globe just big enough for Pyre to reach in and set the match. Heat and light seem to roll through the entire area, a locked, wooden door revealing itself to the side of the lamp. The cave floor, still cold and a bit damp, is actually stones, pieced together into what looks like a strange little map. You frown down at the stones, eyes tracing the edges of a single, deep blue vein, wondering why the chips of pale rock surrounding it strike you as strange.

“The Teeth,” you murmur suddenly. “You have a map of the teeth in front of your door?” Some of the spots are much smaller than others, more like a pinprick of pale stone as opposed to some of the hefty chips. If you unfocus your eyes, the map looks like a reflection of the stars.

“Magic,” Pyre explains, though he doesn’t sound pleased with his own answer. “There’s plenty to talk about when it comes to the Teeth, and the voices, just… Let’s go inside. It’s going to start snowing soon.”

When he opens the door, all the lamps inside are lit. Much like Pyre himself, his decor is frayed and worn down. There are heavy furs on the walls, and tapestries too, both simple and grand, but fragile looking. There are furs on some of the furniture as well. There’s a large stone fireplace, with hooks over the mantle made of horn and a set of stone stairs that curve out of sight. There’s no sign of things like phones or televisions, but you feel like you should have expected that. Companionship through a screen probably didn't fulfill the parameters of his… his curse?

That’s something you decide to ask about later. After all, you have the rest of the winter to spend with him, and he explained plenty over the three day trip to the mountain. The teeth are made of contained winter. The larger the teeth are, the more someone helped Pyre through that season. Through friendship, or anger, or passion, they melted the ice and snow. Pyre would take the melt and bind it in magic-made spires, but he couldn’t build on only one. Each spire was the product of a different person, each fling or friend made or fight had melted the snow at different rates. If your help has already begun, then you know some of the snow must have melted already due to your anger over the past few days, but it’s not something you think you can hold onto. Pyre tricked you into the three days, gave you the bearberries and bid you eat if you were hungry. You’d eaten three of them. The rest of the winter though? That you chose yourself. At least for a while, you’re ready to try and enjoy a little bit of the magic, keeping back winter or no.

“It’s not quite past midday,” Pyre says quietly, voice a strange melding of fox and man. “If you’d like food, I will make it for you. If you’d like a rest, I’ll show you to your room.”

“My room?” You ask, only sounding mildly sarcastic.

Pyre narrows those coppery eyes of his. “Sometimes I think you say these things on purpose. Yes. Your room.” He heads for the staircase, his toenails clicking on the stone floor before he reaches the layers of rugs, the soft padding of his feet on them makes you smile. “I would hardly complain if you decided to join me in mine, but even so, you will have your own space.” He tosses his head, earrings catching in his hair and then vanishes up the stairs.

You move at a much more sedate pace, still examining your surroundings. There’s a very old looking table, covered with the remnants of a puzzle that looks to be from forty years ago at least. There’s a rack of old bottles, some of them look like wine, but others are clearly beer, and still others look like glass bottles of soda, the liquid half evaporated. Pyre’s house is going to be a treasure trove of history, of things left behind by others. The winter is going to be very long, you’re certain, but it won’t be forever. All of the people that left these things behind have obviously left and returned to their homes. You turn on your heel, slip your bag off of your shoulders and leave it at the foot of the stairs. You can come back for it later.

The lamps, all seemingly lit from that single charmed match, spiral up the staircase. There aren’t any doors that open up off the sides, only a hallway at the very top and three open doors leading to the far end. The first one you pass is a bathroom, with a large tub carved out of the stone of the mountain. There are elderly looking cupboards in there, and what looks like a wood burning stove, though it’s empty. The toilet, you assume, is behind the drawscreen, and when you peek your head farther in, there’s also a shining, copper mirror hanging on the wall. The second room is where Pyre is, hands fussing over the thick curtains around the bed. There’s a fireplace against the wall, and a nightstand next to the bed, and more furs draped over a chair made of wood and horn in the corner. There’s a worn desk, obviously hand-made by someone unskilled, but a beautiful bookcase next to it, filled with books in various states of wear. Some of the spines are cracked, but others still are pristine. To the right of the bed, there’s a single paned window. Snow is coating the sill outside, thick flurries weighing down the weeds that are growing in the cracked stone.

Despite the magic, despite the voices and his promise, it still hadn’t felt quite so real, wandering through the tundra with him. He’d said the snow would be coming down soon though.

“It’s lovely,” you answer, honestly, even if not everything is to your taste. It almost makes you want to laugh though, because it definitely looks like it’s somewhere removed from the normal world, some kind of strange mish-mash of time periods all pressed into a two story place. You wonder, without Pyre, would anyone ever find this place?

“Parts of it,” Pyre says, strange looking hands pausing in their tying of the curtains. He’s looking at the headboard, you realize. There’s a faint gouge in the dark wood, but it doesn’t look like it was from Pyre. It looks like a very human scratch. Warmth crawls over the back of your neck, though you’re not sure whether it’s embarrassment or eagerness. You’d been feeling a healthy dose of attraction with Pyre before he told you about everything, and it had taken a bit to sort through your feelings on the matter, even with you making the final choice to come here. You still don’t know how things will continue, but for now…

“Let me see what I can do to help make a few more lovely memories then,” you say suddenly. Heat is pulsing through you now, warming your cheeks and the tips of your ears and zinging down along your spine. Pyre’s head snaps to the side to find your hands working slowly at your clothes. He doesn’t move any further, doesn’t even tip back his head, just stares at you over the crest of his shoulder, pupils swallowing down the copper of his irises.

“If—you don’t have to do anything,” he insists, and his tail swishes, slowly, just the once. It doesn’t bristle out as it had when you’d first spotted him.

Your coat drops to the floor, and his eyes follow it. “I know. We were flirting though, before you told me about all of this, and I still…” You glance away, only for your eyes to snap back to Pyre as he drags his patched suit jacket off of his shoulders.

He slows when he realizes you’re watching, but doesn’t stop. A slow grin pulls at the corners of his wide mouth. “You still want to feel magic?” He taunts, and laughs when you roll your eyes. He stops laughing when the rest of your clothes hit the floor, the hint of a whine escaping him when you take a step closer, shivering when you feel the temperature of the stone on your bare feet. “My room,” Pyre says roughly, though you can’t tear your eyes away from him. He’s still a wonderfully strange mix of man and fox. His face is still humanoid, with lips and stubbled cheeks, and so is the shape of his shoulders through his holey t-shirt. There’s soft curls of hair peeking out of the stretched neck of his shirt, but along the backs of his arms it looks more like fur and his feet are still wholly canine. His tails, tails plural, are starting to grow longer too, and you recall the way he’d seemed to coalesce into one person when the fog had rolled back.

Pyre crosses the room, hesitating before he places his hands on your shoulders, thumbnails scratching gently at your bare skin. The chill of the room had been seeping into you, but at his touch, warmth chases it all away. When you slide your hands up his chest, Pyre’s eyes fall closed, gray lashes bright against his skin. “M’ room,” he repeats again, but pulls you into a kiss as he tows you out the door. There’s no more time for examining the hallway or the knick-knacks he might be keeping in his own space. There’s his lips and his stubble scratching at your skin and his hands splayed over the back of your neck and the base of your spine. He coaxes you into his room with deep, slow kisses that leave your head spinning, whispering things that make your pulse speed. “Want, want the smell of you on my sheets,” he says against your neck, dragging sharp teeth carefully over your throat. He growls when your hands dip to undo his trousers, your thumb following the trail of hair that vanishes beneath his underwear. “If this is, if it’s—”

“I agreed to the winter,” you remind him and then he’s turning you and letting you fall back onto his bed. You have a moment to register soft fur, and crocheted blankets, and comforters too, before Pyre is pulling his shirt off and tossing it across the room. He wrestles with the rest of his clothes, leaving you another moment to admire him. The hair on his chest and trailing down his abdomen looks human, much coarser than the fur on his arms and below his knees. Between his legs is a thick cock, hard and beginning to leak, with a small bulge near the base of him, and then your gaze is drawn back up as he crawls onto the bed, moving much slower than he had in the hall. He doesn’t press, doesn’t rush, just leans his body over yours to kiss you again, careful with his teeth. He groans when you reach up and tug at his braid, pulling the rough tie away and tossing it to the side. You comb your fingers through his hair, tangling your fingers in it to keep him kissing you and tense when his cock slides over your thigh, hot and hard and enough to make you buck up, already seeking friction. Pyre kisses you until you’re breathless, leaving you sucking at your own lips and trying to calm yourself as he urges you further up the bed, back to a veritable nest of pillows.

He isn’t slow when he settles himself between your legs, hands curling around your thighs and pushing them carefully back towards your chest. He isn’t slow when he drags his tongue over you, hot and slick and slightly rough. He’s careful as he can be with his teeth, but there are a few pinches that make you gasp and tremble. He laves his tongue over them, soothing the sting, but his nails are pressing hard into your skin and you’re fairly certain you’re going to bruise, simply from the continued pressure. Pyre is noisy too, whining and groaning as he tastes you, as you do your best to rock yourself against his tongue, hand tugging at his hair while he sucks and eats. The ache of orgasm, painful-but-sweet, is starting to build, starting to make you tense everytime he opens his jaw, teeth dragging over tender skin, leaving you wet and shuddering. He huffs when you whimper, and pulls away before you can come, copper eyes as bright as flame when he moves to sit back against his headboard. The loss of him feels sudden, and the cold is sharp without his warmth against you.

“That was on purpose,” you murmur. Pyre arches a brow, trying to keep from smiling when you scowl at his crooking finger. You still get up, on shaking knees and gasp when he tugs you over and onto his lap, your back against his chest, cock slick and sticky against your ass.

“I want to feel everything when you shake apart,” he murmurs, hand splaying over your sternum as he helps you arrange your legs. By the time you’re straddling his thighs, his fingertips are dipping into the hollow of your throat and his cock is rutting against your thigh and every part of you is on edge, desperate for more. You’d been so close. Pyre licks at the side of your throat, pressing his hand harder against your chest to keep your back still. “Lift your hips,” he urges, and takes his cock in hand, dragging the head over you as you do your best to listen. Like fitting a key into a lock, Pyre finds the correct angle, breathing raggedly as you press yourself down. As soon as you’ve taken enough of him, he lets go of himself and then presses on the top of your thighs, making you gasp out his name as you take him in deeper. He eases off after a moment, letting you adjust, letting you wriggle and groans out your name roughly as you do your best to ride him.

You think for a moment about saying something, about teasing him or trying to rile him up, but it’s all you can do to keep up what rhythm you have, heart beating terribly fast against the hand he has on your chest. He lets you move, lets you reach back and clutch at the messy locks of his hair, his breath warm against your throat and the top of your shoulder and then Pyre pushes roughly against your thigh again, thrusting up until his knot is grinding against you. “Fuck, fuck, Pyre, that—”

“Too much?” He asks, waiting while you shake, trying to steady your breath. You’re probably going to ache later, probably won’t want to do much but doze or take a bath in that massive stone tub, but right now? Right now you want to be greedy.

“More,” you get out and Pyre laughs, that eerie, fox-like noise echoing in your ear as he teases you with the knot, pressing you down and then pulling back his hips. Pillows cascade off the edges of the bed, spilling over the floor. You start squeezing, doing your best to drive him over the edge, so sensitive it almost hurts. “Please,” you whisper and then you’re too busy for speech. His knot stretches you and his hand dips between your thighs, stroking and his fingers press into the base of your throat. He’s not choking you, but he’s starting to squeeze and then you’re coming. Pleasure washes over you in a fierce, pulsing ache that shoots down to your toes and fountains back up your body. You shout out his name and shake in his arms, eyes falling closed as his knot expands, locking you in place. Your eyes flutter open and closed and drift to a steamed up window, much like the one in your own room. Weeds are still poking up through the cracks, but now it’s not snowing outside, it’s raining.

Pyre turns his nose to the space behind your ear, breathing deep, his own limbs growing loose. “The winter might well be softer this year,” Pyre mumbles, voice raspy, his hand smoothing down your sternum and over your hips. “And I have you to thank for that.”

“We still have the rest of the winter ahead of us,” you remind him, but you’re too sleepy to argue with him any further. Whether you end up enjoying the rest of your time here, you do know one thing: Passion will definitely be a huge part of fulfilling your bargain for the winter.

————-　🦊　————-

#exophilia #werefox boyfriend #male werefox #shifter boyfriend #d.darling writes #d.darling queues

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slashingdisneypasta · 3 years

Text

Slender Brothers x Reader || Imagine

One day the Slender Brothers each turn to stone (In separate places- separate countries even) and not even Zalgo can figure out why or how to unfreeze them.

Slender's in the forest, moss and different vines growing over his shoulders and twisting around the seamless, smooth (Too seamless, and too smooth, to be man made) stone of his tentacles. His Proxies are still there, protecting the place, but they cant get everyone- pictures have been taken of the mysterious forest statue and posted online, and he's become an urban legend (in a world where he wasn't already obviously). He makes a beautiful statue... but eerie as hell. He has been graffitied a couple times over the years but those who dared to do such a thing quickly got viciously but down by the formerly mentioned Proxies, who then spend hours and hours cleaning him up again. They don't know what else to do. What can they do?

Splender is sitting wait at Offender's place (A townhouse in New York), having been there to talk to him about something important but got frozen before his brother could even get home- he now gathers dust, one leg stuck draped gracefully over the other and his long thin fingers previously edging towards a (now room temperature, ruined) cup of tea. At times, he's heated up by strips of sunlight coming from the window blinds (which remain closed all these years- Splender didn't want to give Offender any heads up that he was there lest the fucker skip town immediately like he did sometimes when he just wasn't in the mood for lectures, or 'chats'), and others he's blanketed in the cold, grey darkness of a home that was never really 'home', to anyone.

Off in a not-often visited glade somewhere in Scotland's highlands is Trender, curled up in the grass and the dirt and the daisies, facing a beautiful, imposing mountain- sketchbook still rested against his legs and pencil between his fingers. The pages have been weathered and now curl inwards but if you ever found him, which is unlikely, you could still see some faint pencil lines on the first page. Rain, lightning, snow, hail, sweltering heat, wind and a number of other natural beatings have hit him but he continues to sit there, peaceful and relaxed looking and utterly unchanged.

Offender now lives in the back of some alleyway in Melbourne. He looks like a gargoyle, all shoulders and sharp teeth. People have tried to break him, and have covered him in years and years of multicoloured spray paint that now just looks brown but he does not break. He does not shift. He stays, leaning against the wall by a couple of bins, the menacing, perfect, sharp lines of his coat and his teeth still clear as the day he was frozen. His smirk is still a warning despite his helpless state; Women who see him assume that he's a sign without a label, a bit of street art telling them to get outta the fucking alley if you want to live. You get a cold, tight feeling in your chest just looking at him.

Then, decades later, one by one... they wake up. First Trender, then Slender a month later, Offender 2 years after that and finally Splender, a good half a decade after Offender. No rhyme or reason to it, seemingly. No one had found them at that particular moment, Zalgo had given up trying to figure this out years ago, Slender's Proxies had died...

They wake up, but they wake up... different. Parts of them are still stone. Both Slender and Splender have a hand that's still totally made of stone, stuck in the position it was last in, Offenders legs is stuck entirely too straight (So he walks like a pirate), and Trender's chest is still and makes it hard for him to bend or twist.

Still, they go on with their lives. Mystified entirely as to why they lost decades of their lives and now they still weren't allowed to completely recover, but still- eager to move on with their lives.

18 years after he woke up, Trender meets someone called Y/N Who could not be older then 18 years old themselves. Not that Trender considers that at all at first and his chest suddenly... softens, again, finally. The stone cracks and crumbles away, turning to nothing but warm air before it can even slip off him. His skin and muscle is sitting right behind, like it was always there. He takes some deep breathes and clutches his chest, experiencing the long forgotten feel of it, hidden behind the sweater he's wearing (which it had been for years and years, since turning to stone), rising and falling once again...

It wasn't until weeks later that he thought to link some things... and asked Y/N when their birthday is.

Casually, they recite the date that Trender was brought back to life.

The same thing happens of course to the other three. They meet their Y/N 18 years after coming back to life and fond out that they were born that very day. Like someone, or something, some inexplicable force stopped their ageing until the person they were supposed to be with came into existance.

Basically, Soulmate AU with room for Brother angst (and fluff) in between.

Its a work in progress.

Some dot points to add:

Having Trender be the first to wake up was a a very conscious choice XD- Allows him to be the main brother for a while. I cant skip out on giving him some prime time.

And having Splender be the last is important too, as it means a n g s t. His three brothers are awake and they're wondering where the fuck their brother is (Splender would have found us if he was awake. Where is he), until Offender finally wakes up and goes home... and him. And he, (Offender), the least loving and most disgusting of them gets to find his brother (one of the only things he gives even the most miniscule damn about) sitting grey and made of stone, alone at his breakfast table. Waiting for him. But even now that he's finally home, his brother cant wake up and and greet him. Cant be happy his wait is over. No. Offender gets to sit there at the table with him instead, in his own house, and wonder what the hell Splender wanted to talk to him about. And how long it'll be before Splender wakes up again.

Obviously, Slender doesn't come to the 'soulmate' conclusion without some help. He's very uncomfortable and suspicious about, first the person Trender found, and then his own. So you're telling me, this person was born on the same day we were brought back to life? And just meeting them made your stone cracks away finally? And you don't think this is truly coincidental, and actually quite suspicious at all???

I really like that Offenders gonna walk around like a pirate for 18 years. Don't mind me XD

Yes, they all get shat on by many animals. Except Splender.

#Slender Brothers x Reader #Slender Brothers #Zalgo #Slenderman #Trenderman #Splenderman #Offenderman #Slenderman x reader #Offenderman x Reader #Trenderman x Reader #Splenderman x reader #Imagine #Creepypasta

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mxvladdy · 3 years

Text

Flutter

Fandom: Devil May Cry

Contains: pregnancy talk (kinda), angst, and drama

Pairing: Dante x GN!Reader

Word Count: 4.8k

Warnings: mentions of pregnancy and a brief mention of terminating (like a sentence but still)

Back on my bullshit with the baby fics lol. I love the trope idk why.

Thump thump thump-thump thump thump

Dante stirs with a huff of annoyance, his ears twitch focusing on the insufferable rhythm that was stopping him from resting. It started a few hours ago. Nothing major, something he could definitely doze through. The slow irregular was almost calming, until it got louder. At first he had chalked it up to one of the many freaky experimental weapons dangling in Nico’s tiny workspace at the back of the crowded van. They tended to pop and hiss if some raw materials got too close. But it had picked up in the past hour, growing consistent and strong, really strong. Strong enough to make it hard to ignore. Dante cracks open a bloodshot eye looking around at the van’s occupants to find the culprit.

Nero sat oblivious to the world on the floor across from him leaning on the side of the van’s tire well. His eyes are shut, and his face relaxes as the adrenaline of the day finally starts to seep out of his system. He nods his head along to the tunes blasting out of the jukebox in the corner. He was oblivious to the accusatory glare of his uncle. Dante crosses the kid off as the likely suspect of his annoyance. Nero looked about ready to pass out, each bobble of his head becoming more erratic and jerky as sleep started to take over. He clearly wasn’t hearing this.

So, he turns to the front of the van to check on the others. The ladies were chatting idly in the front. Nothing super exciting gossip wise. The three of them were tossing little jabs at each other. Well, Lady and Trish were, Nico was hiding a smirk behind a freshly lit cigarette as the two grew heated. The three of them called it “friendly bitching” but he still wasn’t all that sure. Whenever Lady or Trish used that tone with him he was about to either get robbed eight ways to Sunday by one of them or his ass kicked. The two human women seemed oblivious to the noise...perhaps Trish heard it? Hmmm-nah. Trish didn’t seem to notice the steady thumping that had now become a hyper fixation to him.

Huffing the hunter settles back down in the couch cushions of the couch to look out the window at the blur of the scenery passing by. The hum of the van’s engine and the low roar of the A/C were almost enough to drown out the noise filling his skull. He pops a finger in his ear digging out some wax. Did that smack across the head early knock something? Did a gun go off too close? Wait... shouldn’t he hear ringing if that was the case? Ye, the more he focused on it, it wasn’t inside his head. He checks out the window, his hand itching for a gun. Was a demon really that dumb to follow a van filled with demon hunters? He snorts at his question. Of course, they were. He was pretty sure they had finished the contract with a 100% kill count. Still, he checks out the window, just in case.

“I’m guessing you hear it too?” Vergil stirs from his meditative stupor, popping his neck with a satisfying grunt before turning his gaze to Dante. All of his younger brother’s squirming finally got too much for him to ignore. Vergil focused on his sibling, arms crossed over his freshly bandaged chest. “Really?” He looks down to his lap in disgust. Dante smirks, wiggling his muddy boots where they rested crossed on his thighs.

“What can I say? You’re ridiculously comfy.” Dante smirks. He knew his dick of a brother would threaten to stab him for dirtying his clothes, but he had a trump card, and he was going to use it. They both look down at your sleeping form sprawled on Dante’s chest and a part of Vergil's legs. You lay on him, curled up in a neat little ball on his chest. A dark spot grew beneath where your cheek was squished on his cotton shirt. Dante can’t help the smile that creeps across his face. He pulls his signature coat tighter around you and strokes your face with a only slightly grimy finger. Vergil sighs, settling back down, careful not to wake you either. He had a big ol’ sweet spot for you, and damn Dante couldn’t blame him.

Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump

Dante hisses, pulling away from your peaceful expression, jealous for a brief moment that your weak human hearing couldn’t pick up on the invasive noise. “You sense where it’s coming from?” He rumbles low in his chest, careful not to disturb you. His brother sits silently for a moment wiping at his drowsy eyes. Dante watches his ear twitch minutely picking up on every sound in the immediate vicinity.

“No, I-” His head snaps back to Dante so fast he was surprised Vergil didn’t give himself whiplash. His silver eyes are wide with shock for a moment before softening to an expression Dante only saw when he would talk with Kyrie over dinner. It was warm, protective, and far too gentle a face for him to be pulled out for him. Dante looks back over his shoulder on instinct before it hits him, hard. Vergil wasn’t looking at him, he was looking at you. Oh shit, oh shit.

Dante focuses his senses on you before he had been merely using his broad range listening figuring it was an outside threat. He smells you first, your natural scent was a soft and sweet thing, like moss by a river bed, or freshly turned soil. It only got earthier after a day of hard work. The faint scent of gunpowder lingered on you too, and something else, something more hormonal and almost floral. Beneath your changing scent, he hears your heart thumping steadily in your chest. That was always a comforting sound to him, an anchor whenever he worried for your safety. But underneath it, he heard it. It was a rapid rhythm over yours, in you.

Dante jerks up, tumbling to the floor and cracking his head hard on the metal guards of the stairs. You would have toppled with him if Vergil hadn’t lunged to grab you. “What?” You look around confused but alert. The van is silent in the aftermath of the sudden burst of energy, all faces now turned to the three of you. Vergil holding you close to his chest while you focus on Dante. “You ok?” You look him over, noticing how pale he suddenly was as he looked at you. He was breathing heavily and panicked. His silver-grey eyes flitting between yours and up to Vergil’s.

“Ye,” He croaks, running a hand through his dirty hair not moving from his spot on the dirty floor. “Ye-shit, sorry just slipped in my sleep.”

“Quite a ‘slip’.” You wiggle out of Vergil’s hold and come to bend over Dante. You put the back of your hand to his forehead. You had all gotten pretty banged up this mission, and as usual, Dante had taken the brunt of it. He laughs a little too forcefully to be considered natural and pushes your hand away to get up.

“You know me. I’m full of surprises.” He flops back onto the couch looking at you oddly before opening his arms up to you. He fights against the tremble he feels spreading across his whole body.

You catch the sour look growing on Vergil’s face, it was boiling over to murderous. He shakes his head before sitting back in his spot and reaching for a magazine.

“Everything alright back there?” Nico shouts looking up into the rearview mirror.

“Yeh-yeh.” Dante waves not taking his eyes off you. “Just my old man senses getting to me.” The van collectively snorts at that, all turning back to what they were originally doing. Picking up his discarded coat you climb back into the cradle of your boyfriend's arms.

Boyfriend. You smile into his sweaty neck. It was a new term for both of you and your relationship. You two have been skirting around the idea of a committed relationship for months now. You’ve been with the gang for years now, flitting in and out of each other's life mission after mission as a freelance mercenary. Dante welcomed you into the fold of his merry band of misfits well enough, but you could see the line in the sand he drew pretty easily.

You respected it. Life in this business was hard and sometimes very short. He was slow to open up and trust, not with just you, but anyone. You got it, you understand his hesitation. Once you both established that the feelings you felt for each other went beyond good friends the lines and walls he built began to fade. The few months of you two trying out the word have been going well. Or, at least you thought so. Dante seemed pleased enough too. The few dates you two were able to scrap your collective pennies together for were a blast. Spontaneous coffee dates, walks down none demon-infested streets and parks. Once he even took a weekend off to go cross country with you. That weekend had been the most relaxed you had ever seen him, and as a bonus, the sex had been phenomenal too.

“You ok?” You kiss the stubble on his strong jaw, taking in the hard look in his eyes. His arms were rigid around you, protective yet also isolating. He looked shut-off, lost deep in his mind back in that place you knew he went whenever something was deeply troubling him. Dante said nothing for a moment, his large palm rubbing your lower back in stiff robotic movements. “Dante?”

He snaps out of it with a jerk. “Ye babe- just tired.” He kisses the worry from your brow and slips back into your original position, arms locking securely over your middle. He listens to your breathing and heart slow as you drift off, the little thumping underneath beating on.

From the moment Dante stepped out of the van he shut down. Not just from you, but everyone. He wasn’t sure if it was intentional or just instinct after years of protecting himself. He noticed it happening from afar like he was on the sidelines and completely unable to control what he was doing. He took job after job that Morrison threw at him, not waiting for backup or help. He began staying in his room, slinking upstairs instead of his usual hang out spot down in his office to be social. He just leaves everyone behind. He knows Lady and Trish will blow it off, they were used to the odd mood swing by now, chalking it up to mission fatigue. You knew better though, and he loved you for it. Even if it irritated him right now.

The first few days after that mission Dante saw you trying to pretend like you didn’t notice the walls he was rebuilding around himself. He wanted to believe that you couldn’t see how he turned up the jukebox every time you stepped into Devil May Cry, or that you pretend not to notice how his eyes would drift to look at anything but you when you stood in front of him. It hurt, it hurt to do this, but he couldn’t stop this self sabotage he was inflicting on himself and the stress he was pushing onto you. He just couldn’t take it.

He saw his mother every time he looked at you, could smell the ash and sulfur, could remember how his young lungs filled with smoke as he cried for something he could never get back while his childhood burned around him. He couldn’t do it, so he stopped seeing you. Not that it helped much. He heard the beating every time you came near trying to talk to him, so he stopped listening too. He didn’t know what else to do.

“If you put your hair back I swear I wouldn’t be able to tell you apart from your brother anymore, especially with that new attitude you're sporting.” Dante hears the slight edge in your voice. You sat in your now usual spot on the edge of his desk, before that day his lap would have been filled with your warm sweet body. You didn’t look happy in the least bit. You looked exhausted. He doesn’t look up from his magazine, a slow buzz of panic begins to fill his ears. Were you sick? Did you know?

He puts up another wall. “Doubt it,” He flips a page of his magazine reaching blindly for his beer. “I’m still the better looking one.” More silence. Dante feels your hard stare from where you sat.

“Need something?”

Your shoulders slump. “No-it’s nothing Dante.” He feels himself break just a little at the moisture threatening to spill from your lashes before they are blinked away. You leave without saying goodbye. He doesn’t see you again after that, your spot is soon replaced with piles of empty bottles.

“I expected better from you.”

Dante chokes on his beer, the foam shooting up into his nose and bringing tears to his eyes as it burns its way back to his throat. “Damn it, Vergil! Knock sometime?” His brother says nothing storming over to his desk and kicking a chair out to sit next to him. The look on his face was venomous. “Don’t give me that look.” Dante sighs, popping the cap off of another beer bottle.

“What look?”

Dante waves the butt of his bottle at him. “That! That look. It’s the one you always give me right before you stab me.”

Vergil chuckles humourlessly. “I just might if you continue to ignore your growing issue.” He pushes leaning into Dante’s space.

Dante bristles feeling like a trapped dog. “They should find out on their own-”

“Brother-”

Dante cuts him off with a swipe of his hand, amber liquid sloshing over his desk and lap. He feels his control slipping. The heat of his devil form simmering just below the surface. “I don’t want to talk about this.” I don’t want to acknowledge this.

“It’s been weeks.” Vergil presses on lean in close to his twin. “Will there ever be a right time?”

Dante bares his fangs in warning. His fingers itching to curl up and punch his brother. “That is rich coming from you. Remind me again, how many times have you tried to kill your son?” He meant for it to hurt, to let that barb sink in deep and fester. Vergil doesn’t even react, his gaze still cool and steady.

“I regret it-in parts. But I am not doing this for you.” Dante frowns. He had figured that. When Vergil arrived with Dante all those months ago torn up and bloodied from quite literally crawling out of Hell the welcome he got from the crew had been...lukewarm to put it mildly. They weren’t openly hostile, but it got pretty close sometimes. Only you and Nero had been pleasant to his brother right off the bat. The others came around eventually, but Vergil had taken a real shine to you. You were inquisitive and hungry to prove yourself, but smart enough to know when to back down. It’s what drew him to you, so it would make sense Vergil liked it too. “I cannot change my past actions, nor would I,” Dante scoffs. “But you have been given yet another opportunity that I envy.” He looks over his shoulder to the empty office. He couldn’t lie and say that he didn’t still envy his younger brother and his successes. To be free-to have had a life, dare he say to act almost human? Dante had always been the friendlier and kinder of the two, even as kids. He was sociable and street smart. Most importantly, people trusted him.

Then he found you, a most extraordinary mate. Vergil knew Dante would never admit it vocally but he shows his love with how he acts around you. Dante was always brash and foolhardy but he was milder with you. Whenever you were in the room his sole focus was always on you. His eyes, his body, every part of his being just seemed to gravitate to you. Whenever you paced, pissed from a recent job he would follow in his chair rolling left and right to keep his body in line with you. Even on the field, he stayed close, a towering figure of red and flames. To have him cast you out like this... Vergil shakes his head. “Why are you stalling?” He asks.

“They should find out on their own,” Dante repeats himself.

“And what if they decide not to tell you? What if they decide not to go through with it? You are limiting their time frame, Dante. You are putting them both in danger.” Vergil’s words strike deep. If he can’t get his brother to see reason now, then he will have to intervene. If Dante never forgave him for this transgression, then so be it.

The roar of primal rage was the only warning Vergil got before he was airborne. His back colliding hard against the old oak bookshelves across the room, Dante’s splintered desk pinning him for a moment before he is being dragged up the shelves by his neck. Empty bottles and old tomes clatter to the floor. He matches his brother’s energy shifting in a blaze of blue fury until he faces his red counterpart. “You lash out, why? Because you know I’m right?” He hisses around bared razor sharp fangs. “Do you hope they will leave you?” Something passes through Dante’s scleraless eyes. “It won’t be like before, brother.”

The whine Dante emits sounds like a wounded animal. It was high and reedy, it was filled with turmoil. Vergil couldn’t stop the sharp bark of laughter that fell from his lips. Unbelievable. “Dante.” Vergil grabs one of the claws locked around his throat. “For all your foolish and idiotic behavior you have built yourself a family. Do you honestly think any of them would let something happen? Do you think I would let something happen?” The fist around his neck loosens and drops.

“I want them to live a normal life.” Dante steps away, his voice uncertain. “Look at us- at Nero and Kyrie. Being what we are, we have royally screwed them over.” He stares down at his rough armored hands. His elytra pulses red veins with demonic energy. “And a damn kid? Nero got by alright, but narrowly. Do I look like someone that can handle this?”

“No.” Vergil can’t lie, it would only hurt you in the end. “Not at first. While I have no right to talk about being a father, I know you can do it far better than I.” He smiles to himself. “‘sides, at least your better half has a head on their shoulders.”

“Gee, thanks.” Dante grunts retreating to where his desk used to be. He breathed deeply and shifted back to his human form. Damn it, he had just paid off the repairs from the last time he wrecked the place. Bending over to pick up his magazine, the two were interrupted by his door bursting open. Nero and Lady bursting through bickering heatedly at each other before they notice the mess.

“Did we interrupt something?” Nero steps open the splinters of Dante’s old desk taking in his half triggered father.

“No.” The brothers say in unison.

“Good-” Lady pushes forwards, tossing a missive to Dante. He catches it with deft fingers and rips it open. “Normally I would have taken this on myself with the kid-since you’ve been sulking.” She shoots him a scathing look. “But we need all boots on the ground. Trish and your flickering flame are already there, but this portal just isn’t budging.”

“What!” Vergil snaps. Dante stares blankly at the letter, a high pitch whining growing in his ears. It was getting hard to breathe. “You left them there? They are vulnerable.” The blue devil grabs the letter from his brother looking at the address briefly before grabbing Yamato before rushing for the door.

Nero shouts after his father in confusion, his outburst uncharacteristic for him. “The hell was that about?” Nero watches the skies as the blue figure disappears. “They are perfectly capable of handling themselves…”

“Get in the van. I’ll see you there.” Dante grits out, crumbling the paper up and tossing it aside. He flys out moments later, guns and swords are forgotten. Anything that touches you would be getting ripped to shreds with his bare hands. He travels in a blur of panic fighting the sense of guilt threatening to overcome him. How could he be so stupid? Just because you weren’t at the office didn’t mean that you weren’t still taking jobs. He always worried when you went out solo- or without him, but he was confident in your abilities. A few scrapes and bruises weren’t anything to stress over. It wasn’t something to stress about before. You were still on the field and it was his damn fault.

The sound of gunfire and the roars of dying demons draws him in. Dante’s sharp eyes find you immediately. You were holding your own. You back in a corner but your guns were hot, dropping demon after demon with near flawless aim. Instinctively his demon side rumbles in pride before he squashes the feeling. Now wasn’t the time. Vergil beat him there by minutes but was already covered in gore as he assists you from above, slicing through the almost endless wave of beasts. Dante lands near you grabbing a Fury in midjump throwing it away to splatter against a building yards away. “About time you showed up!” Trish shouted from her perch lightning crackling around her. He ignores her, instead he launches himself at the gaping maw of the portal. He fights with reckless abandon, each wound and injury fueling his fire. One more hit on him just meant one less directed at you.

The fighting didn’t last long after Nero and Lady arrived adding enough fire support that he was able to destroy the portal and clean up the remaining hellspawn. The moment it was Dante was on you. “The hell were you thinking!” He rounds on you his massive body crowding your space.

You hold your ground staring up at him. “Hey, so glad to finally hear from you.” You crane your neck up to meet his glowing eyes. “I love it when my boyfriend finally remembers I exist.”

“You could have gotten hurt!” He glosses over your snark and checks you out. You were fine, good.

You back away from him throwing your hands up in confusion. “Yes? That’s kind of par for the course isn’t it?” You were baffled by his behavior. Weeks. Weeks! Weeks of ignoring your calls, and a conveniently empty office every time you tried to drop by, and now that you have his attention the first thing he does is yell at you? Where did he get off? In fact, his shit attitude only angered you more. “Ya know what? I don’t want to hear it.” You turn your head to where Nico sat leaning out of her driver-side window. She waves at you. “Can you give me a lift back to my place? I got to grab some fresh clips before heading back out.”

A red hand blocks your exit. “No-” Dante grabs your forearm gently tugging you to look at him. His natural heat was a comfort you didn’t realize you missed so much. “Babe-let me handle it.”

“Dante,” You try to pull away. “It’s my job. What has gotten into you?”

He looks over to his brother, the conflict he had been trying to avoid closing in too fast for him.

Vergil holds his stare and shrugs. “Come-the two need to talk, let’s head back for now.” Asshole. The rest of the group follows his eldest brother casting curious glances over their shoulders as they pile into the van. He really wasn’t ready for this.

The two of you watch them go in silence. “Let me take you back? Please?” Dante let’s go of your arm. You nod, it’s not like you have any choice now. Well, you could walk, your body screams at the thought of moving any more than necessary. You’ve been getting exhausted faster and faster these days. Perhaps the stress of the job was getting to you. He scoops you up in his giant arms stretching his wings out to their full and impressive length before taking to the sky. He glides through the city taking extra care to make it as smooth as possible for you. His landing was as silent on the empty streets surrounding your apartment building.

The mid-afternoon sun was high overhead, the perpetual fog of the city finally breaking enough to let in the heat of the day. You slide from his arms and lead him up the steps to your door. Swinging the door wide you look up at him. “Do you mind?”

“What?”

You point to his devil form. “Shrinking? I don’t think you can fit.”

Oh right. He chuckles nervously. “Ain’t nothing a bit of lube and patience can’t fix right?” You don’t laugh, your lips pull taught. He coughs shifting in a flash of heat. Once he’s human he squeezes through the narrow door frame and just stares at you. Dante shuffles from side to side. Great. Now what?

You rub at your neck weary you could feel another knot growing. Weeks ago you had a whole speech laid out for when you got him through your door. You wanted to chew him out, to yell at him for cutting you out so unceremoniously. Shout that if he was going to break up with you at least do it cleanly, not this emotional roller coaster. A sense of anger fills you. Damn it, was this really it? It wasn’t like this was the first time a partner has done this. You just had hoped that Dante would be different. He had always been so dependable. “Just make it quick, Dante.” You didn’t have the steam for this right now. You felt nauseous and a pulsing head coming on. Ugh, and you still have that job waiting for you.

Dante’s silver brows scrunch up. “Make what quick?”

You wave at the distance between the two of you. “This. This breakup. Do it fast so it’ll give me the adrenaline to get through my next job so I can pass out tonight and get some sleep.”

Any other day Dante’s look of sheer shock would have been hilarious- today just wasn’t one of those days. “You think? Heh-shit yes, I can see why...” He rakes a hand through his disheveled hair. “It’s not like that, I- I was running from my problems again.”

Your hackles raise in anger. “I’m a problem now?”

“What! No, that’s not what I’m trying to say.” He points to himself. “I’m the problem. I ruin everything I touch!” His hurt cuts through your aggression.

“Dante-” You have had this discussion before. “You know I don’t think that.”

“You should.” He cuts you off, his expression imploring. “I messed up-I messed up big time with you. I should have said something the moment I knew but I just locked up and ran, like always.”

Knew? Knew what? “Dante, I don’t understand.”

“I-you...how are you feeling of late? I don’t know anything about this stuff, different?” His eyes swipe over your dusty battle garb. You feel his eyes stop at your navel holding there too long to be considered a coincidence before dropping to your feet.

“I’m sorry.” His breath hitches, getting dangerously close to a feeling he had been bottling up for too long. You are quiet, doing the math in your head. He hears your heartbeat pick up, your breathing becoming fast and shallow.

“Get out.”

His heart sinks. What did he expect? Closing the distance between you he reaches for you, his hand hovering by your face waiting to see if you will let him touch you. You don’t move, don’t even look up at him when his hands cup your face. So he moves crouching down to get a look at you. Your gaze is blank but resolute.

“I’m sorry.” He tries again. You ignore him far too engrossed in your revelation. Idly you trace a palm down to your stomach before flinching away is burned. “I’ll-I’ll be around…” He trails off all steam lost. At a loss he does the only thing he can think to do and flees, disappearing back into the streets outside your home like the coward he was.

#devil may cry #dante x reader

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fandom-space-princess · 3 years

Text

The Game of Us

Rating: T (gen, no warnings)

Chapter 3: Raphael

Read below the cut, or on AO3

************************************

With Gabriel gone, the shades begin to dissipate, and soon Michael finds himself alone once again.

It doesn’t last long.

“Well done,” comes a voice from behind him. The tone is the same as before, but now the words are spoken aloud. The entity’s form has shifted. It wears a body that, while still indistinct and hazy, appears far closer to human than it had previously done.

Michael scrambles to his feet. He can feel his own form shifting as well, physical appearance undergoing continental drift atop his roiling grace.

“You took her. Gabriel. What have you done with her?”

“Please try to keep up, my boy. I took nothing and no one. The messenger is safe and well, merely—well, let’s call it offstage, for the moment. And she came quite willingly, as you saw for yourself.” The entity folds its hands neatly in front of it. “I see that she has given you much to consider. I trust your time together was informative?”

“That’s—one way of phrasing it.” The entity moves away, beckoning, and Michael doesn’t fight the impulse to follow. At the termination of the crevice, just outside the circle of crumbling stones, he is unsurprised to see that the path continues deeper into the forest.

As they walk, low-hanging branches catch and drag at his hair, his clothing. Michael feels as though he might be leaving snippets of himself behind, like fur snagged in brambles along the trail. He thinks of Gabriel’s wispy audience with sorrow. “So much of the Host, dead and gone. So many shades. I knew, of course I knew. But seeing them there... it’s not the same.” Regret swirls within him, settling as a tightness around his eyes; he can feel it there, performing the subtle work of reshaping the image he wears.

Into what, though—he doesn’t yet know.

The being at his side nods, curt. “You must understand where your actions lead. Not solely for yourself, but for others. You cannot abdicate your duty to your nature by refusing to choose, any more than you can by making choices.” He gets the impression that it raises its eyebrows meaningfully in his direction. “In your brief period of freedom, you knew the state of Heaven, and yet you turned your back on your responsibilities. On Earth, with that human—that wasn’t choosing. You were hiding.”

The words dig at him, slivers of ice working their way into the center of his grace. Adam. “He needed me. And I needed to keep him safe.”

“That’s a partial truth at best, and I’ve no interest in coddling self-delusion. Try again.”

Being dead, he is discovering, has a way of making it harder to lie to himself. Shame flares low in his stomach. “I... I should have done better by them all. They were my family, and I failed them. I couldn’t face them. Couldn’t face—”

He stops. The path has led them to the edge of another river. Crystalline and clear, smooth as glass, it burbles quietly past their feet. It winds away in lazy curves, disappearing into the deeper shade of the trees.

Michael looks down at his reflection, and his Father’s face looks back at him.

A hand on his shoulder. “I am not without sympathy for your pain,” the being at his back says, gently. “But running from it is no solution. The realm of Heaven is in disarray. Without you and your kin, it will fall, new God or no. And then—whatever it is you love, whatever it is you fear—then there will truly be nothing left to salvage.”

Michael crouches down, touches fingertips to the image of Chuck’s face. Tiny ripples distort the surface, rebounding off each other, spreading and fading away. “This isn’t the Styx. None of this should be here at all. What have you done to the local reality? And to what purpose?”

“Ask your next brother. They always were the wisest of you.”

This time, Michael doesn’t need to turn to know he is alone.

************************************

He follows the river further into the wilds, meandering gradually down the mountainside. The underbrush thins with the change in altitude, and the straggling trees grow steadily sparser. Before long he finds himself among yet more ruins, though these appear considerably more modern than the last. The river glides through the bones of a forgotten city. He picks his way along streets of stone dwellings adorned by grand archways, airy courtyards, monolithic houses of worship. Mist twines in and among the silent remains of civilization, and everywhere he looks he sees the incursion of the forest: trees growing in cracking walls, moss overhanging low rooftops.

Near the center of the city, both buildings and trees grow abruptly denser once again. A thicket of olive trees and creeping ivy, solid and unassailable, tangle up through ruined foundations and collapsed walls. The river seeps between the roots and disappears under a wall, alongside a single narrow entryway into what must once have been a church. It is barely wide enough to permit him entrance.

He pushes forward, through the vines.

An uneasy aura pervades the air within, musty and stifling, heavy across his shoulders and thick in his lungs. The further in he travels, the stronger it becomes. As it intensifies, he realizes that the feeling is not solely physical; a heady and potent psychic residue that he recognizes as grief only when he finds himself choking back a sob, without understanding quite why.

Down an overgrown corridor, and as suddenly as the vegetation had closed in upon him, it clears. He finds himself in an interior courtyard, roof all but gone, open under the sky.

“So, I get to see you again, after all. Hello, Michael.”

He looks around, confused, for a moment unable to identify the source of the words. Then, all at once, he sees.

In the quiet grove that has sprung up to consume this once-thriving city stands a sparkling pool, the termination point of the river’s above-ground course. Here the water stagnates, swirling deeper into a reservoir carved through foundation and bedrock to disappear into the earth. A stand of trees grows about the edge, roots worming deep down to seek the water through cracks in the floor. What he had originally taken for a statue carved into that living wood shifts minutely. Raphael meditates among the trunks, limbs now gnarled branches, head crowned by thick twisting ivy.

They are, he realizes, the source of the pain imbuing this place. He circles the pool and seats himself beside them, back bending under the onerous weight of their distress.

“You’ve taken His face,” they observe. Their voice holds neither scorn nor approval. Only sorrow. “Don’t take this personally, but I don’t think it suits you.”

“I’m not so certain of that,” he replies morosely. He brushes his hand lightly over the back of one of their own, firm and warm as olive wood. “And you’ve given up on a human form at all. I didn’t realize you held any fondness for dryads.”

“I needed—a change of perspective.” There is, momentarily, a hint of wry smile in their voice. Even on their worst days, he reflects, Raphael always held a spark of gentleness. It makes him ache for them; warrior and healer both, the only one among them as truly skilled in restoring life as taking it. They had never needed his protection, but he should have done more to uplift and support them, still. “Hamadryads have no skin to stitch. No bones to set. They neither bleed, nor do they break. They put down roots, and they grow, and they watch the world pass. It’s a peaceable enough existence.”

“Brother, you—you do realize where we are.”

Raphael rolls their eyes. “I’m dead, Michael, not blind.” They shake their head, ivy tumbling back and out of their face. Michael realizes, abruptly, that the ivy is a deep emerald green; like the blindfold Gabriel had worn, it is the only point of color against the otherwise monochrome environment.

“Then maybe you can enlighten me. I was sent to find you. By... well, I still don’t really know by who.”

“Don’t you, though?”

“I don’t,” he replies, adamant. “I can’t see the purpose to this, any of this. We are asked to return to the world, but to what end? What makes him think—” Michael breaks off, defeated.

“What makes him think we’d do any good for it this time around?” Raphael finishes knowingly.

Michael studies his reflection in the water, and says nothing.

They shake their head again, turning to contemplate the pool. “Did you know this pool has no bottom? If you fell in, you’d sink for eternity. There’d be no point in swimming; you couldn’t save yourself.”

“Why do you sound like you’re considering it?”

Raphael sighs. “I tried so hard, Michael. I fought and bled and died for our family, and still, it fell apart. You’re wearing His face, and for what? You blame yourself?” They look down at their palms, loose in their lap. The wood there is stained; in a place with light, with color, Michael wonders with a shiver if the stains might not appear the ruddy brown of old blood. “But I was our healer, Brother. And I tried and I tried, but I couldn’t heal anyone.” The sadness in the atmosphere redoubles, clawing over Michael’s skin.

Their voice cracks. “I couldn’t even heal myself. He wouldn’t even allow me that much.”

Michael’s head drops to his hands. This agony, like a breaking bone or a breaking heart, has been eating at their foundations for so long. Gabriel struck speechless, Raphael in tatters, and himself—what had he done for them? Other than carry out the edicts of a creator who treated his creation as no better than toys, to be discarded when He was bored of them?

He feels tears bead at the corners of his eyes, and overflow. To his astonishment, they do not fall onto his hands. He draws back in surprise.

The tears hang suspended in the air before him, crystalline. Gently revolving, they slowly coalesce, and descend toward the pool. When at last they meet the surface of the water, they merge without a single ripple marring the glassy shine.

Raphael watches, impassive. “Our pain is not weakness, Michael. This grief... it took some time, but I did eventually come to understand. Why I awoke here, that is. You met Gabriel at the Styx? Fitting. Judgement always was her burden to bear. But this... this is mine. The Kokytos is fed by the tears of mourners.” Their voice rings hollow, but there is an underpinning of tenderness there, Michael thinks. Something patient. Something compassionate. “My own contribution was long overdue.”

“How do you know where I came from? And why the rivers at all?”

“My stubborn, immovable brother.” Raphael’s smile is weary, but fond, even in their grief. “This place is his to command, he who sent you here, beyond mortality as it is. Knowledge flows through it. You need only listen for it.”

Michael scrubs hands across his eyes, and takes slow, steadying breaths. “Raphael. You don't belong here, not like this. Please. Move on from this place with me. We can do it together.”

Their eyes crinkle at the corners. Gently, they extend a hand down to break the surface of the pool. “No, Michael. In that, you are mistaken. It has been too long since I allowed myself to sit with my pain, and learn what it has to teach me. Give me time. I’ll catch up with you.” They draw the hand to their face. Trace their fingers over their lips. The tip of their tongue flicks out, catching at the water that beads there. “If I am to heal, first I must let myself mourn. Don’t worry too much about me. I know how far the river of lamentation runs; I will not drink so deeply of this well that I drown.”

The thought of leaving Raphael behind fills him with dread, but he nods. Stands. They reach up to him, trace a hand over his wrist as he pulls away.

“I wish I could have done more for you, too,” they murmur. “But you aren’t Him, Michael. Please remember that. You’re nothing like Him. I wish I could have helped you to see that more clearly.”

Michael resists the urge to look back into the pool, to see his reflection there. “I don’t know what I am. But I’ll keep searching until I do know.”

“That’s all I could hope for. See you soon.”

He feels the edges of his countenance shift and blur again. When he exits the room, his companion is waiting.

************************************

(Chapter notes:

- The city in which Michael finds Raphael is inspired by the ghost city of Kayaköy, currently part of Turkey; by its former inhabitants, it was referred to in modern Greek as Levissi. Between World War I and the Greco-Turkish war, its entire population was either forcibly exiled or killed. Despite the horror of that recent history, until that point it had been a relatively peaceful place, its mixed Muslim and Orthodox Christian populations living together harmoniously. It is now officially under the protection of historical conservation, and there have been some attempts at restoration. I think Raphael would consider such a place deeply meaningful, and be able to find healing in the possibility of moving on even in the wake of such tragedy.)

#hugs for raphael <3 #spnarchangelweek #day 2 raphael #michael spn #gabriel spn #raphael spn #lucifer spn #my fanfic #spn #supernatural

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firstbeachgoblin · 3 years

Text

And I like you.

a/n: Hey everybody, I love lorde and 400 Lux is one of my favourite songs. It gave me inspiration for an Embry piece that I hope you all enjoy. I have another one planned for Jacob and Leah so keep an eye out for those and the fics I'm writing for the requests I've received. Also I wrote this at 10 p.m. so if it's a little janky thats why heheh.

enjoy loves!

Warnings: mentions of intoxication.

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

We're never done with killing time

Can I kill it with you?

'Til the veins run red and blue

We come around here all the time

Got a lot to not do, let me kill it with you

My free time is usually spent killing time on the beach or driving around with friends, particularly Embry Call. We spend the whole day at the beach swimming in the ocean and cliff diving to feel the thrill of free falling.

Ending the day around a fire either intoxicated or sober laughing our guts out, singing songs at the tops of our lungs till our throats ached into the early hours of the morning. When intoxicated we all stumble our way home or pass out in truck beds that are piled up with blankets and pillows to keep warm.

When we aren’t belting our lungs out to whatever music that’s been put on Embry would play his guitar for us. He’d play on the lower key days, no partying, minimal yelling from the boys, everyone enjoying the atmosphere of good company and music.

You pick me up and take me home again

Head out the window again

We're hollow like the bottles that we drain

You drape your wrists over the steering wheel

Pulses can drive from here

We might be hollow, but we're brave

Embry always calls when he picks me up, he is my personal uber at this point. He never lets me pay him for gas money insisting that I don’t have to give him anything but my presence. Driving with him is one of my favourite things to do, it is special and we connect on a different level than we do with everyone else.

He drives with his wrist over the steering wheel and his free hand usually laced with mine on the console. Going forward, forward together. With the windows rolled down and the radio turned up Embry cracks jokes that make me smile and laugh till I can’t breathe anymore.

Turning in my seat I lean my head out the window to feel the wind blow through my hair as we barrel down the highway or through town in the late hours of the night. The sweet air filled with the scent of cedar, pine, moss, and ocean always left a lingering kiss on my skin brushing over my face, hands and hair.

Smiles always grace our faces even at what feels like our lowest moments, we're brave together. He has me and I have him.

I love these roads where the houses don't change (and I like you)

Where we can talk like there's something to say (and I like you)

I'm glad that we stopped kissing the tar on the highway (and I like you)

We move in the tree streets

I'd like it if you stayed

We wander through the same streets we prowled as kids, the same streets with the same houses that never changed growing up. The same roads that lead through La Push, lined with tall cedars and pines which tower over the town.

Everything with Embry was familiar, his touch, warmth, smile, laugh, his cologne. He made being out at night easier, he was there to protect me on the streets we moved through on foot or in a car. He protected me no matter where we were, he’s my safe place.

“You know what Embry?”

“I don’t know? What (y/n)?”

I breathed in and smiled at him, “I kinda like you.”

“I kinda like you too.” He wrapped his hand around mine sporting a small smile across his face.

One look at me and you can tell that I’m smitten with him. When people see us together we have looks of utter love plastered across our faces when we look at each other, like we're the definition of true love.

Now we're wearing long sleeves

And the heating comes on

(You buy me orange juice)

We're getting good at this

Dreams of clean teeth

I can tell that you're tired

But you keep the car on

While you're waiting out front

He gave me one of his long sleeve shirts that didn’t fit any more, it draped over my body filling my nose with his smell; warmth and comfort. God I like him.

I wear the shirt more on days that I turn the heat on, days when he’s not here. His shirt makes me feel a little bit closer to him, being without him makes me feel a bit hollow yet his shirt managed to fill that void.

When he comes back from patrol he waits out front keeping the car on despite my protests that he should sleep, I can tell that he’s tired. He calls and I pick up “I want to kill time with you and I bought you juice.”

“Fine, I hope you’re okay with pj’s though.”

You pick me up and take me home again

Head out the window again

We're hollow like the bottles that we drain

You drape your wrists over the steering wheel

Pulses can drive from here

We might be hollow, but we're brave

I love these roads where the houses don't change (and I like you)

Where we can talk like there's something to say (and I like you)

I'm glad that we stopped kissing the tar on the highway (and I like you)

We move in the tree streets

I'd like it if you stayed

Our feet kissed the tar on the road as we ran from the beach parking lot out to the shore, hanging out together we’d sometimes collect rocks seeing who can find the smoothest rock perfect for skipping across the surface of the sea.

Sometimes we’d kiss the tar on the highway stumbling back from a party ending up in a pile on his front lawn, spilling our guts to each other as our secrets filled the night.

A giggle erupts from my lips, “I like you Embry Call.”

“And I like you, (y/n)”

Embry and I can talk like there’s something to say while doing our own things, spending time with each other but enjoying our company. But we could also talk into the early hours of the morning if I’m able to convince him to stay over.

“I'd like it if you stayed.”

“Only because I want to and I like you.”

He kisses my cheek sending heat to my face along with the red tint that usually plasters my face.

We're never done with killing time

Can I kill it with you?

'Til the veins run red and blue

We come around here all the time

Got a lot to not do, let me kill it with you

I love these roads where the houses don't change (and I like you)

Where we can talk like there's something to say (and I like you)

I'm glad that we stopped kissing the tar on the highway (and I like you)

We move in the tree streets

I'd like it if you stayed

And I like you

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#twilight #embry call #embry call x reader #paul lahote #seth clearwater #jacob black #sam uley #jared cameron #quil ateara #wolf pack #twilight wolves #twilight wolf pack

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writefightandflightclub · 4 years

Text

Texture like sun (Llewyn Davis x reader)

Summary: Llewyn is your favourite season, whenever he comes around. Autumn vibes and Llewyn snuggles.

Rating: TEEN

Author’s note: I’m still mopping up some requests from soft blurb week. These will come when they come! Think I failed for this one as it’s a) probably too similar to the other Llewyn blurbs I wrote under this theme, and b) it’s not exactly what was requested (sorry Anon!). BUT, by the time I realised both these things it was already written (d’oh!), so you may as well have it, I guess? FYI, if I write Llewyn again I wanna be sure I give you something a bit different, so don’t worry, I have some ideas which will keep things fresh.

Warnings: swearing. cigs. too many metaphors, not enough plot. Zero. Sorry.

Llewyn’s cheeks are flushed with garnets as he crawls in from the cold night, lending an autumnal crimson to his olive skin.

Llewyn.

His gloom black, windswept curls are like a tangle of yarn as he enters headfirst through your window - like a mess of abandoned projects and half-finished scarves it feels good to tangle your fingers into on a cold, autumn evening.

Llewyn.

These days become shorter and his visits grow longer, and, increasingly, you can prevent neither him nor the autumn chill from climbing inside your apartment. You cannot prevent him from climbing inside your soul, filtering through the cracks.

No matter.

Llewyn is your favourite season, and you do not wish to keep him out.

He stands in front of you apologetically as he emerges out of the gloom. You pick-out the shape of his striking hair and beard first, hovering over him; soft and volumous like a dark cloud of curls.

Llewyn.

The chill from the still open window crawls along the floor and finds your bare legs, kissing goosebumps on to your skin as you stand, silhouetted against the amber light of your bedroom. The blare of car horns and sirens and chatter from the bodega downstairs filter up towards you, beats of the city like background music.

“Llewyn!” you say, the name finally falling like from your surprise-parted lips like a stubborn red leaf, the word sharp and vivid as the cold begins to bite at your ankles.

“Shit, sorry,” he mumbles, his breath a white cloud in front of him. He turns to wrestle the window down in its frame, swearing as his scarf gets jammed. Cursing, as he nips his finger on the second attempt.

“Llewyn,” you say when he turns back to you, his name falling from your lips again. This time it is orange; softer and warming, cushioned by the air between you as it drifts to settle on your floorboards.

Llewyn moves closer. Close enough that the amber light from behind you bathes his face, his eyes despondent and mysterious even as they shine softly. As his eyes meet yours, they brim with gathering clouds and half-written songs. Just like autumn, you never know whether to expect dull grey rain, or a glimpse of pure gold from a low-slung sun. Llewyn is your light when his clouds part.

Your eyes rove gently over his tired, disheveled form as he shrugs off his coat and fingerless gloves, resting them on the arm of your couch.

This time of year reminds you of him.

He is cinnamon and gingerbread and wool and frost.

He is loose leaf tobacco and the metallic twang of guitar strings on a rainy day.

His voice is low, golden light.

His soul is disappearing wisps of cigarette smoke.

He is at once the cold chill and the warm mug of tea beneath your fingers.

He is petrichor and gloom.

At times, he is a cantakerous, angry wasp at the end of its patience.

Llewyn and autumn are one.

Llewyn is your favourite season, though you’re never sure when he will arrive.

You watch him fold his woollen scarf and set it on top of his jacket, inching towards your throw blanket, looking ready to lie down and bundle himself up without another word. But, it has been too long since you held him, and one more word is teetering on your lips, ready to be shed. The same word, but painted a fresh colour.

“Llewyn,” you say softly, and this time, his name falls golden from your mouth. The word is gilded and aureate, like the final flare of summer, and it resonates in the space between you.

Llewyn is your favourite season, but you’re never sure when he will depart. You want to soak him up, texture like sun, whenever you can.

He looks up at you with cautious eyes, between warmth and cold, glowing and afraid all at once.

Llewyn.

His name whips through your head and through your blood like leaves on the wind.

You reach out for his hand, like you did when you walked in the park, sighs crunched beneath your feet when all the trees were giving up. When you both walked together like trembling leaves afraid to fall. Maybe Llewyn will never roar or blaze with love, but maybe, one leaf at a time you will carpet your floor with fire, until everywhere you walk is golden. Until everytime he comes home it is autumn.

Llewyn’s icy fingers wind around yours, and he does not resist your warmth - he lets himself bask in your ochre and your butterscotch and honey. His eyes light up and they are umber as you lead him to your bed - lead him to where everything is warm.

Llewyn.

He sheds his clothes and his reservations like a tree sheds its leaves. He sheds them one layer at a time, forming a blanket of warm hues of cord and wool on your floorboards.

Llewyn.

You pull him under the fluffy cloud of the blanket and hold him, his body slotting easily in beside you, limbs entwining with yours as you let him slip his cold feet in between your legs to thaw.

His head nuzzles into your chest, the tangled yarn of his hair brushing softly against your chest. His hair smells like the Gaslight and late night diners. Sticky ales and smoke and cinnamon waffles. Perhaps a few half-written songs are hiding in there too.

Llewyn.

You massage your hands through his hair as he reaches out to find your skin, his calloused, well-practised fingers digging into all his favourite spots as though he is playing a familiar song through his touch on your skin. He grips your arm, your back, your thigh like this, until you are humming chords for him, your sounds mellow and yellow in the warmth of this moment.

Llewyn plays your body with his fingers as though he can’t help himself. Whether he realises it or not, there are two times he lets his dark soul glow golden; when holding his guitar and when holding you.

Your hands are not musician’s hands, and yours skim over his back with greater trepidation as you coax this flighty soul to melt into you. Still, while he does not hum or sing for you, you at least feel him thaw beneath your touch. Sometimes, his silence is as golden as his voice, when you know it stems from contentment. When you put everything despondent and cantankerous and forlorn to bed. When you bring Llewyn to your bed.

“Llewyn?” you breathe, and this time when you say his name it is green. Fresh like spring and full of hope.

“Yep?” he responds efficiently, holding you a little tighter when you say his name with such kindness, garnets flushing his cheeks again.

“Don’t crawl out of my window.”

You soothe his hair and try to soothe his gentle, flightly soul along with it, lest he might disappear and take your carpet of leaves with him, gone with an eddying wind and swept out into the open street. Lest he might take all of the colour from your world along with him.

Llewyn.

You don’t want your warmth to leave you to a long, bleak, monochrome winter.

“Angel, it’s cold outside. I’m not going anywhere,” he mumbles sleepily into your chest.

You pull the blanket over both your heads and shimmy down to bury your face in his chest this time, pressing delicate kisses to skin. “Charming, Llewyn. Just a warm body to you, am I?”

“Shit. Fuck. S-sorry,” he says, pulling the blankets down again and re-bathing you in amber light. He looks at you deeply, fragments of unwritten songs and unspoken sentiments filtering across his eyes and being drawn together, knitted into coherency. You can see him beating himself up inwardly, his eyes dark bruises. “I meant...uh...”

“Sshhh, Llewyn,” you interupt softly. Gently.

His words are not ready, and you don’t want him to bare himself before all the leaves are fallen. For now, you will focus on shedding moments and words and feelings to create your carpet of leaves, until you can crunch them all beneath your feet, hand-in-hand.

For now, whilst you are literally bare -leafless- you can settle in for a long rest. Leaves turning in reverse, becoming fresh.

Llewyn.

He is crimson and russet and saffron and moss all at once. He is golden, and he lights up your world, even though he thinks himself dreary.

If only he knew you loved his dreary too.

This is autumn, and Llewyn and autumn are one.

He is your favourite season, and you go to sleep with his name on your tongue, his warmth in your arms, and his song in your heart.

Llewyn.

#llewyn davis x reader #llewyn davis #inside llewyn davis #llewyn x reader #inside llewyn davis fanfiction #oscar isaac

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vannahfanfics · 3 years

Text

Before you read, here’s the previous chapter. New? Start from the beginning!

Skyward

Ao3

Chapter 3: The Greatest Pain of All

Ochako’s heart was still a little troubled when she followed Katsuki back inside the house. Guilt hung heavy like chains on her body; she knew that Tomura and the pirates were scouring the countryside for her, and with their resources, it wouldn’t be long before they found her. Despite the fact that she’d agreed to accompany him into town since she would be more conspicuous by herself, it still made her feel burdensome. She would hate for him to get hurt because of her.

“Oi,” Katsuki said and poked her in the side of the head. “You’re goin’ spacey again, Cheeks. I asked if you wanted to take a bath.” Ochako blushed slightly as she rubbed her temple where he’d poked her. I really do tend to get absorbed in my thoughts around him.

“Sorry… A bath would be lovely, yes.” The airship had no working plumbing, so the last time she’d bathed had been the morning that she’d been plucked off her farm. Her hair was still messy from her plummet from the dirigible as well. Katsuki led her down the hall to his small washroom, procuring a towel for her. As she held the soft, cottony cloth, Katsuki looked her up and down with a small frown. When he scratched his head and surveyed her, heat rose to Ochako’s cheeks.

“Hmm… They’ll be a little big, but…” he mumbled to himself before shambling off. Ochako blinked, staring at the door where he’d just exited and wondering what to do. She continued to hug the towel as she leaned out the door frame, looking left and right with wide eyes. She could hear him shuffling around in the depths of the house, grumbling to himself and obviously rifling through something. Confused, she ducked back into the bathroom and looked at the tub.

It was a rather plain white tub with bronze accents. There was only a bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo resting on the side; though she would love the feel of soft, silky conditioner soaking into her hair, beggars couldn’t be choosers. She set the towel down on the closed toilet seat and flipped on the tap, then sat down on the edge of the bathtub. Water gushed forth from the spout, freezing cold when she dipped her fingers underneath the stream. Though numbness began to spread up from her fingertips, she enjoyed the water cascading against her finger pads with drumming intensity.

She became transfixed watching the water pour from the spout, her eyes growing lidded as she listened to the dull roar of the flow. It reminded her of the waterfall near her farm; the torrent plunged down the mountainside into a white-water river that carved through the valley. A small tributary splintered off near the base of the waterfall to trickle down a short moss-covered bluff to fill a small pool. Ochako would often walk there to swim or bathe in the clear, cold water, enjoying the fish swimming around her legs and the sand squishing between her toes.

“You really are a space case,” Katsuki suddenly snorted from behind her, making her jump. The water had grown warm, she realized, so she quickly tugged up the stopper to let the tub fill. She turned to look at Katsuki, and then squeaked in surprise when he shoved some cloth articles into her face. “Here. I know they’re boy’s clothes and not nearly as nice as your dress, but they’re all I’ve got. This’ll help you blend in until we get into town. I’ll buy you something else to wear there.”

“Oh… Thanks, but you don’t have t—” Her words died in her throat as he briskly walked out of the bathroom, leaving her alone. She blinked, then looked down at the clothes. It was a pair of cargo pants with a cotton shirt, much like what Katsuki was wearing. Curious, she brought it to her nose to take a sniff. A spicy, earthy scent flooded into her nose, making her flush when she realized that was probably what Katsuki smelled like. It’s nice, she thought dreamily, the scent making her mind cottony and muddled. She then tossed the clothes onto the toilet seat with a gasp, mortified at herself. What kind of freak was she, smelling a boy’s clothes? Groaning and hiding her bright red face, she hurried to close the door.

She took a moment to rest her forehead against the door, processing the whirlwind of events that had led her to Katsuki’s house on the hill. From being chased off the airship to falling down the cracked roof, she was emotionally exhausted. It was then that she finally allowed herself to cry, quiet sobs muffled by her hands and the pounding of the water filling the bathtub. She hadn’t given Tomura the satisfaction of seeing her cry; she’d kept it pent up inside, and now, here in this tiny bathroom, she finally felt safe enough to let out the tears. They puddled on the floor at her feet, filled with sadness and fear and trepidation.

She was still sniffling when she turned off the water and shed her clothes. She sank into the warm water, unable to suppress a loud moan when the warmth seeped into her muscles all the way to her bones. She slipped down until the water lapped just underneath her nose. The heat enveloped her whole being, washing away the toil and grief to leave her feeling raw, whole, clean . The shadow of Tomura had clung to her since she’d boarded that airship, and finally it felt like she was free of his cold touch on her arm and the warning that he would always be watching her with harsh, eagle-like eyes.

I wonder how close he is to the mining town, she thought, her eyes lidded as she watched the surface of the water ripple and slosh against the sides of the ceramic tub. Nervousness coiled in her belly as she thought of how angry he would be if he caught her. I don’t want to go back with him. I want to get far, far away… As tears began to brim in her eyes again, she thought of Katsuki. I wonder… If I asked him… If he would protect me. The thought alone made guilt flush through her body. She couldn’t possibly ask more of Katsuki than she already had. I’ll let him take me into town, buy me some clothes, and send me off somewhere I can get help. That will be that… That will be goodbye .

The word stung, making her sink underneath the water to submerge her head. Her hair floating in wispy tendrils around her was her only company. Tears pricked at her eyes again, blending with the warm water. If there was anything that she had learned in recent days, it was that loneliness was the greatest pain of all.

Though Ochako longed to soak in the water until it had gone cold and her skin had turned the consistency of a wrinkled prune, it would be rude to keep Katsuki waiting. After scrubbing her skin and washing her hair, she pulled the plug at the bottom of the tub and stepped out to dry herself. The towel felt fluffy and soft on her skin as she rubbed it all over; its downy fabric absorbed the beads of water still clingy to her skin, which was still rosy from the heat of the water. After coaxing as much liquid as she could from her damp brown locks, she used her fingers to comb through the strands, teasing out the knots. She used her hand to wipe away the steam clinging to the mirror. Her reflection seemed almost foreign to her, worry lines and eyebags that she’d never seen before that made her seem haggard.

It’s amazing what a night of stress can do to you. She frowned. Perhaps it wasn’t just the single night of stress, but the culmination of all her lonely nights in the mountains, sitting in an empty home that was once so full of life and love. As she thought of that empty valley, where the gentle brays of her yaks had failed to sustain her happiness, she wondered if she really wanted to go back at all.

It was just so, so lonely.

A bang sounding in the back of the house stirred Ochako out of her sulking. She gave herself one more pat-down with the towel before picking up Katsuki’s clothes. She flushed when she held up the pair of boxers to her waist; they seemed so large on her, the bottoms dangling down to her thighs. When she slipped them up her legs, there was a good inch of space between her waist and the elastic band. There’s no way that I can wear this! She thought, her face bright pink. Her underwear had only been worn for one day, so they should be all right, she thought with a small sigh as she slipped out of the boxers and replaced them with her simple cotton bloomers.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t just prance around with those. She had similar luck when she pulled on the pants; they hung loose on her hips, and the ends flopped over the tops of her feet. Luckily, Katsuki had thought ahead and brought her a belt. She slipped it through the loops and pulled it as tight as it could go, bunching the fabric up around her waist. She then rolled the pants up to her heels; though the pants were still baggy and loose, they didn’t flop right off her when she jumped up and down, so she supposed they would do until they could get into town. She wiggled into the cotton shirt, which draped over her like a curtain. At least it’ll help disguise that I’m a girl! She thought as she examined her reflection, turning this way and that. The billowy fabric hid her curves well. She retrieved the final piece of clothing, a dusty cap, and tucked as much of her hair into it as she could.

Yep! I’m the picture of a street rat! She thought with a giggle. It was kind of exciting, donning a disguise. Yet the fear of Tomura and the pirates soon swallowed up that excitement, leaving her hollow and cold. I hope they don’t find me here. I hope I can get away in time… And I don’t cause Katsuki any trouble.

She didn’t want him to come knocking at the bathroom door calling her spacey again, so she hurriedly exited the bathroom. However, he was nowhere in sight. She looked up and down the small hallway, unable to hear him within the depths of the house anymore. Maybe he went back outside with the dogs? The problem was that she was still unfamiliar with the house and wasn’t quite sure how to get back outside. Frowning, she wandered off in a direction that felt right. She wasn’t brought to the front door, but instead to a large room.

Most of the floor space was occupied by a large half-constructed, bird-like structure. A plane? She thought as she approached, gliding her fingers over the light wood composing the contraption’s skeleton. She looked to the wall to find a workbench, yet the tools and schematics were covered in a thick coating of dust. This place hasn’t been used in quite some time… Blueprints of many flying machines were inked onto thick paper, accompanied by mathematical equations she couldn’t comprehend. Are these Katsuki’s? But some of this looks like a woman’s handwriting. She frowned as she leafed through the pages. Some of the script was small and hurried print, while other equations were scrawled in larger, more cursive numbers and letters.

As she turned, still flipping through the fascinating schematics, a flash of white on the other wall caught her attention. She looked up to see a large framed photograph. The papers slipped from her grasp as she began to walk close, her mouth falling open in a silent gasp— she was transfixed by the photograph. Her fingers were trembling as she reached up to stroke the glass of the frame, unable to touch the swirls of white cloud just centimeters under the barrier. Out of the whorls of white burst a large castle, ominous and grand and littered with plant life. A gold plaque bore an inscription of a single word, and that mere word had Ochako quivering with confusion and awe.

“Uravity,” Katsuki’s voice said from the doorway. She didn’t move, just stared at the photograph with wide eyes. She heard the heavy footsteps of his boots as he walked across the room to stand at her side, and the hard thunk of another pair hitting the floor. She felt him cross his arms next to her, and that was when she looked up; he was scowling at the photograph, his vermilion eyes filled with hatred. “The legendary castle in the sky. My parents spent their whole lives hunting for it; tales about the floating castles have existed here for ages, and they were determined to be the first to discover it and claim its treasures. They even tried building their own flying machines, but could never get high enough above the cloud banks where it’s said to lurk.”

Ochako looked back to the photograph, at the thick swirl of clouds writhing around the impressive structure. It would take a mighty craft indeed to best the gales sure to surround it.

“When they heard that someone was selling a dirigible in the next town over, they scraped up every penny they had to buy it. They were sure that it would be enough to bring them to Uravity. That was the last I saw of them, taking off from the cliffs,” he breathed, hanging his head. Ochako could see the tension rising in his body as he clenched every inch of himself. “They made it, all right… Up above the clouds where no human should go. Uravity is surrounded by a mighty storm that no ship can breach. Instead of turning back, they were determined to get as close as they could so they could snap that photograph.”

His parents took this? She looked back at the frame in amazement.

“It was the last thing they ever did because that storm ripped that aircraft into pieces.” Katsuki's voice shook with anger and sorrow. She turned to see him curling in on himself, shoulders shaking. “We never found their bodies, just that stupid camera hanging off some of the wreckage. All I had was two empty tombstones to grieve for.”

“Katsuki…” Ochako murmured, reflexively reaching out to touch his shoulder. He flinched away from her, but before she could retract her hand, he leaned into her touch, nudging her fingers with his jaw. Her fingertips skimmed over his cheek to find them wet with salty tears. He gazed at her with puffy, teary eyes drowning in heartbreak and confusion.

“I hate it, Ochako. I hate Uravity and the stupid sky it’s in because they took them from me. They always loved it more than me, and that’s why they left me here. Sometimes I wished I’d died with them, because maybe then I would have felt like they loved me.”

Ochako didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t expected this boy that she’d just met to cry in front of her, to bear his heart to her, to look at her so pleadingly for answers. She didn’t think she had any, but she couldn’t stand that miserable, wretched look on his face, so she said what her heart told her to.

“They loved you, Katsuki,” she murmured. He didn’t resist her when she slipped his arms around him in a gentle back hug. She pressed her cheek between his shoulder blades and he tipped back his head, gently tapping it against hers as he drew a shaky breath. “I’m sure that more than anything they wanted to do something to make you proud because they loved you that much.”

“I didn’t need that. I just needed them to be here .” His voice cracked at the last word. “Ever since then I’ve had to deal with their shitty legacy. Everyone calls them liars and frauds, going so far as to fake their own deaths to get that stupid picture. Can you believe that shit?” He laughed sardonically, and the pain in it broke Ochako’s heart into pieces. “I don’t want that stupid picture or that stupid legacy. I just don’t want to be alone anymore, Ochako.”

“I know. It’s scary, being all by yourself, so very scary… ” she said, burying her face into him as tears welled up in her eyes, too. His scent wafted up into her nose, spicy yet earthy. “You didn’t die because you weren’t meant to. You still have something left to do in this world. I don’t know what that is… But don’t lose hope, okay?”

Because if you lose hope, I’ll lose hope, she finished silently. Her hope was already so fragile; she didn’t know what she would do if the little shred she had was lost. That scared her.

But what scared her more than anything was that picture on the wall, that castle looming in the sky far above their heads, and what Katsuki would do when he found out that this was not the first time Ochako had heard “ Uravity .” Her crystal felt heavy on her chest, digging into her skin with the weight of all the uncertainties bearing down on her small shoulders.

Yet she clung to Katsuki and swallowed that fear because loneliness really was the greatest pain of all, and orphans like them had to take care of each other.

Enjoy this story? Here’s the next chapter! Please consider perusing my Table of Contents.

#kacchako #bakuraka #bakugo x ochako #ochako x bakugo #bakugo katsuki #katsuki bakugo #ochako uraraka #uraraka ochako #my hero academy spoilers #mha #boku no hero academia #bnha

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lady-o-ren · 4 years

Text

The Hunger of My Heart

//PROLOGUE//

//PART ONE//

Long before he begged his heart away,wrecked and ruined beneath his breast.

It had beaten with love, irrevocable as breath

_________

Carried by the briny seawinds and over the jutting peaks of the highland mountains was an inexplicable sound of a bell-like hum that had bewildered Jamie since boyhood, seeping like a sun-touched caress to his heart, calling him to elsewhere.

When the lad finally came of age he was determined to do something about it. Longing to know why it was only he and no one else who could hear this incessant other.

He followed the beseeching siren across land and begrudgingly by sea, supported only on his savings, then as a freelance writer when the money went dry, submitting scribblings of his misadventures to local papers and occasionally something worthwhile to stamp the family name to.

Now it beckoned him to London.

But over a year of living little better than a vagabond Jamie's hope began to wane and he questioned if this chase towards wonderment was nothing more than a delusion spurring him further and further into madness.

Then the tether that bound him to the unearthly other twisted sharp and taut around his doubtful heart, scarcely could he breathe til he yielded to its shrill command that drummed wordless in his ears.

"Whither thou goest, I must go, eh?" He gasped breathless with defeat.

So be it then.

Once more he'd follow. To London he'd go. But after that he would journey no farther, let it tear his heart out by the roots, he dared. Maybe he'd finally know peace. Be free to roam where he desired like he did as a corbie in his dreams, always flying towards home.

To Lallybroch.

He'd soar between the rocky crags and across the sweeping hills, swoop down to the fields dotted white with sheep, fat and spoilt by his sister, and forever escaping their pen. Then there at the end of the valley, thick with oak and larches, would be the auld stone manor glowing umber in the warm sunlight with his mother's roses climbing up on either side of the doorway, welcoming him home.

And Jamie was sure the second he crossed the threshold his sister would clout him over the head like the diminutive Valkyrie she was for being away so long. Then just as suddenly grab him by his curls, "Be still, ruadh," she would order and hold him close like when he was a bairn and all that was left to mother him.

Thinking on it, he well deserved her bumps and bruisings.

Upon first footing off the plane, Jamie felt an electric spark rush hot underneath his skin, heard a silvery chime in the air that signaled the alluring presence was near.

But for once the sensation hadn't faded to a distant echo like it had always done before. Only growing stronger, more pronounced, the longer he stayed in the city, stalked the insufferably crowded streets. Nights left him bleary-eyed, for how dare he try to sleep when enchantment was out there closer than he'd ever come before.

If only he knew what he was supposed to be searching for.

After days of endless wandering, Jamie was lured to a barren, nameless street. The pull there suddenly faint as a wind-swept whisper, piercing his heart with dread that he'd been abandoned once again.

Then noise blared all around him violent as a storm, rattling down to the throbbing marrow of his bones.

He staggered blindly, head spinning, to reach for a rusty lamppost when he felt a palm press strongly at his chest, and another inquiring as moth wings to cup his stubbled cheek. He breathed a ragged sigh, a moan, as their thumb stroked and stroked the furrow from his brow and the chaos in Jamie's head was replaced with the rousing sound of his heartbeat aflame.

A voice gentled with kindness then spoke to him. An ethereal sound he'd been tortured by, had ached to know.

"Open your eyes for me, lad. Let me know if you can hear my voice, see my face. Else I'll have to throw you across my back and carry you to a bench. A damn feat I assure you that would be."

The breath of a broken laugh passed between his lips as his hand rose shakily to envelope hers so much smaller than his own and so very, very real.

"I've heard ye all my life, lass."

Jamie then opened his eyes to hers radiant as a midnight flame with curls spiriting frightfully, beautifully awry around her face, lovelier than any delusion could ever conjure.

A siren had captured him indeed.

"A charmer you are," said the woman resisting the urge to roll her eyes and slipped her hand from his reluctant grasp (that was quick to find solace against her other still lingering between the catching rise of his breasts), pressing two fingers against his pulse that fluttered keenly underneath his jaw.

"Tell me, has this happened to you before or is this just a stumble from the pub?"

Jamie shook his head, blushing brightly pink

"I've had naught but water to drink and barely even that I assure ye. And this, here wi' ye -" He gazed at her half in awe, half in disbelief. "I feel all the better just having yer kind touch upon me, lass," he said with breath coming short, but enough to grasp the scent of oak moss, dirt and leaves dewed with rain, spun sweetly around her as if she'd ran through a glade to find him.

Had she?

This willow-curled faerie, this freckled nosed nymph?

Unaware of the utter besottment beaming in his face the woman responded with a huff, more concerned with this babbling stranger's alarming color and the way his body heavily leaned as if to envelope hers.

"Is that so, charmer?" She held him by his shoulders, surprisingly strong she was. "Because you're likely to fall and crack your head with the way you're swaying. Both your arms too if I were to leave you where you stand. And I will eventually have to."

"Leave?!" Jamie choked, squeezing tightly to her wrists that left her worried-eyed.

Had she not heard his voice calling from afar all these years as he?

"But I've only just found ye, know ye to be real. Myself no' insane wi' the haunting of ye!" His haggard voice then cracked on the verge of a sob. "I - I dinna even ken yer name."

His grip ashamedly loosened then, coiling anxious between them, but his gaze stayed fixed to hers. Desperate, imploring.

But she remained silent. Cocking her head to one side in scrutiny of him. Her eyes glowing like the wild nameless thing Jamie imagined her to be as they searched his, delving deep til he felt an extraordinary brush of Her within him somehow, curling impossibly around his wearied heart with exquisite gentleness.

A shuddered gasp escaped them both as she brushed against a tender wound that Jamie had felt all his life and all at once her face softened with understanding and sympathy.

"Oh dear lad, my name is Claire," she breathed softly, soothing his cheek.

"And yours?"

It took Jamie a second too long to gather his dumbing wits as Claire's name wove itself to the gaping part of his soul he never knew was missing. When he found his voice, he gave all five of his names. But she neither laughed, nor commented on his parents indecisiveness, only hummed the one that mattered most, "Jamie," with a curious glimmer in her eyes.

"And you say you've been searching for me?"

He nodded, his forehead nearly flushed against hers. "Aye, for sae long. I thought I was going mad. Am I, ye think?"

Claire shook her head, the cloud of her curls bouncing eager as her grin. She then wove her arm in the crook of his.

"The better question is how can I help you?"

_____

A/N: So...this happened....I feel like there are a million mistakes. I won't see them until I post. Definitely could be better written. Be kind please. Just skip right over if it sucks. Also I haven’t posted in forever so sorry if the format looks wonky.

Descriptions of Lallybroch and the bit of the corbie are taken and reworded from the first two books as well as the quote whither thou goest.

#jamie x claire #Outlander #outlander fanfiction #outlander fanfic

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cyberneticlagomorph · 3 years

Text

Is there anything more daunting and dangerous than the blank white expanse of a page?

It glitters and glows like the spit-slick teeth of a predator, hungry for words that you cannot give it. No matter how much you want to.

Its gaze alone freezes all trains of thought, even in the minds of Writers and authors and artists alike, even those more powerful than I.

And as I sit here, trembling, at the mercy of Writer's Block and my own anxieties… I can think of nothing that I want more than to run, to leave this page blank, and my readers guessing.

The End is Nigh, dear readers, and I am afraid.

So very afraid.

"I'm afraid too," says the rabbit we all know and love, his legs swallowed by moss and weeds and misshapen dreams. He stands right where we left him, sword in hand, broken sky above, the End of Everything staring him down.

All seven of Her glowing green eyes blaze with something worse than hate, and I wish for all the world that this was a much different story. A happy story, with a happy Ending.

But I've never written a happy Ending in my life.

There is silence now, neither Protagonist or Antagonist moves or breathes or blinks.

They know that this is how it Ends.

One of them will die today.

So it is Written.

So it will be.

"Shut. Up." The End snarls, lips curling back over venomous fangs that drip oily green liquid onto the cracked asphalt below. Flowers bloom from the puddle, and spread like a rainbow rash down the street. "This. This is all YOUR fault!"

I know.

I'm sorry.

"LIAR!!" Her scream echoes across the fourth wall and cracks my computer screen.

This…

This is where I leave you, dear readers.

I'm sorry.

Fangs sink deep into the papery flesh of the Narrative, tearing it apart as it is poisoned. Thorns grow from its wounds and strangle it like trembling hands.

Writer be damned.

Plot be damned.

I am the End of EVERYTHING, I will End this miserable excuse for story on my own terms.

Or die trying.

You have not won, sweet stupid rabbit, no one can save you now, no one will stop me now. The world is a page upon which fate is Written and I will burn it all to the ground. May its ashes be lost and forgotten.

Your dark eyes narrow at me, bone blade glittering as you charge. But I am in control now, and I don't play fair.

Deep beneath the earth, humans sit snug and safe in their bunkers, thinking themselves free of the horrors outside. From the canteens comes a deep and terrible shattering like teeth against an eggshell, and a figure crawls lazily from the steam wafting from any number of bubbling pots set on stoves across the world over.

She smells of cooking meat and blood drenched in exotic spices and honey. Stick thin, and dressed in a chef's uniform. Her sleeves and hands are stained with the blood of the starving.

She has no face.

Only bright white teeth.

She manifests in the homes of the rich, stuffing them fat with delicacies that humans have no names for. Each minuscule morsel is completely tasteless covered in edible gold. Like the kind of fare you'd find at high end restaurants, going for hundreds of dollars a plate, even though each serving is barely a mouthful.

She appears in slums with bread made from ash and bone, rat stew, and tainted water.

Pots boil in city centers, a roiling soup made from human offal that nothing in this world or the next could ever hope to surpass.

The poor eat their rations, their bread, their stew and grow sicker and hungry. Skeletal and drooling like rabid animals, they stuff their faces with food that offers no nourishment until there is no choice but to turn on each other.

Screens grow undulating limbs and crawl from the wreckage of humanity, their screens blinking wetly like the eyes of a crying child. On each one is a broadcast, a man with red eyes smiles a reassuring smile and says,"Hungry? Eat the rich."

And they do.

A hoard of near zombies growl and gurgle as loud as their empty bellies, they hunt down the wealthy, and they FEAST.

Pestilence rises from the pus and rot and ruin and watches as all the good Jack and his friends had done is undone in a flash.

Among the riots and feasting is a cop, his riot gear reflecting the terrified and feral faces around him as he marches slowly onward. There is nothing behind his helmet.

Only malice.

Only power.

Only slaughter.

Only Death.

I don't have to tell you what comes next, what Death does when he gets his hands on a victim. The sounds of bullets ringing out into the night can tell you, the smell of tear gas in a crowd can tell you, the cries of innocents choking out their last breaths in steel cuffs, wrists rubbed raw and bleeding can tell you.

Death is not merciful.

He is not kind or quick or clean.

He is inevitable.

You know it.

And he knows it.

This world will collapse under the weight of its own sins and I will be here to watch it dissolve like candy floss in water.

Tears stream hot and blue down your face, and your grip on the Vorpal sword trembles. They are not worth your tears.

They stole you, beat you, broke you.

Turned you into a monster and then threw you away like you were NOTHING.

You should hate them as much as I do.

You should be glad for their suffering.

They deserve to die.

Like HE deserves to die. I turn my gaze skyward and watch the world split as the armies of Heaven pour down like a wrathful rain.

The Divinity burns your skin, doesn't it Jack? And yet the smell of Angels makes your mouth water.

You are no better than I am, I think. A man made monster set loose upon the multiverse, expected to play nice and fit in the niches carved for us. But we don't, no matter how hard we try, how good we think we are, we are torn apart again and again and again until we are unrecognizable from our beginnings.

I think I could have loved you.

In another story.

In another lifetime.

We would have been good friends at least.

But it's too late for that now, and as the first wave of Angels assault me with Heavenly fire, I part my jaws and give them some fire of my own. Green, as bright and beautiful as the first leaves of spring, it turns their armor into bark and their marble skin into flower petals. They fall to the ground like confetti, and I claw my way up to Heaven.

The Gates bend and break beneath my weight like wire, nothing and no one can stop me as I wrap HIM in my coils, slowly constricting. My venom burns holes in HIM that grow fruit trees, and each fruit contains the knowledge of the multiverse. I want HIM to die slowly, to watch as HIS playthings suffer and burn because of HIM. The humans cry out, and they pray, begging, pleading for HIM to save them. But HE can't, HE won't.

What GOD would make a world so empty and hopeless as this? What GOD would let HIS followers murder and hate and destroy entire cultures in HIS name?

HE never wanted this, never wanted it to come to this, HIS teachings have been mistranslated and manipulated for millennia and now there is nothing left but hatred and sin.

My jaws part above HIS head, ropes of green spittle tarnishing HIS crown. HE does not fight me, how pathetic of HIM.

White hot pain explodes through my tail.

There you are, sweet hero, stupid rabbit.

Go home Jack, this doesn't concern you.

"But it does," you twist the blade, dislodging my scales and rending my flesh. My blood slithers up your sword, trying desperately to burrow inside of you and turn you Green. "You said that you think you could have loved me… well love me now, it doesn't have to be this way… I could… I could take care of you and help you heal, we could do it together."

You offer your hand, bloody and trembling.

The sound I make is inhuman and hard to describe in words, it is disbelief and venom and vengeance all at once. I stretch myself down to meet you, my eyes are the size of houses, and they reflect your trembling visage like great green mirrors.

"You're right, I should hate them, hate everyone… but I don't." a swallow, you taste copper and butterscotch, "I used to but I-I found people who cared, I found people who I love and who love me back and they make my life worth living… they gave me a reason to get better and stop hurting people… let me be your reason."

You reach out and touch my face, my scales are warm like the sidewalk in summer.

I crush GOD in my coils and HIS blood rushes over you like a wave.

There is nothing that can fix this, fix me.

No love will quiet the hatred in my heart.

I do not deserve kindness or redemption.

Love might have tempered your monstrous hearts, but it won't do the same for me.

Only one of us will make it out of this story alive.

"So it is Written." You say, solemnly.

So it will be.

My coils curl around you, quick as lightning. Your symbiote is the only thing keeping you from being crushed like a soda can, I hope you know that.

I don't waste time, and fling you down…

Down…

Towards earth.

Countless Angels have been discarded this way, wings torn from their backs, left to the mercy of gravity. It never gets any easier.

I tear a hole into space and crawl through it, into Fairyland, the place of my birth.

I devour the Sun-In-Chains, my replacement, and plunge the planet into darkness. I skin my teeth into the planet's crust and empty my venom glands into its core. Fairyland becomes my twisted Eden, choked with blinding bioluminescence, thorns, and poisonous things that not even I have a name for.

It's beautiful and terrible all at once.

Like me.

Like you too, I suppose.

You plunge your blade into my seventh eye and send me reeling, screaming, flailing. My frantically flapping wings crash into a nearby planet and reduce it to dust.

I pluck the sword from my eye and snap it into pieces.

You're becoming a real thorn in my side.

Seven perfect fingers snatch you out of the sky like the annoying insect you are and start to CRUSH YOU.

I will tear you apart with my TEETH if I have to.

You've had every chance to run and hide, or join in my crusade and you denied them all. I have no use for you.

Not even as a snack.

Or a toothpick.

"Then kill me." You growl through clenched teeth, blood already flecking your lips and leaking from your nose.

I throw you into a patch of thorns. Each and every one is serrated and ranges in size from a human finger to a school bus, you are impaled, skewered, crucified even.

Neon blue blood running down to the soil beneath, feeding my Eden.

And yet, you refuse to die.

Slowly but surely, you drag your broken body up and off the thorn, shakily levitating up to meet me.

You stare at me with dead eyes, blood pouring from the opening in your chest. Your lips part and black flames flicker behind your teeth, smoke curling from your nostrils as the color drains from your eyes in inky tears, until there is nothing but black.

Just like the hole in your chest.

You seem to crack like porcelain, to split in two like something precious dropped from a great height. What crawls from the darkness inside of you is something no human throat can utter, no human tongue can twist or shape itself the right way to name.

It's said that Demons possess.

But Angels abandon.

But what can be said of creatures that man has no name for?

The thing inside of you stares at me with eyes darker than the emptiness between stars, its maw is the belly of a black hole with teeth long enough to split a planet like an apple.

It is the bleak black emptiness that existed before the universe, and will exist again when there is nothing but dust and dead silence.

This… this is my Warden, my Prison, the creature tasked with my capture those eons ago. You are barely a speck in it's vast form, a limp and lifeless nucleus.

It roars, a sound that radiates across time and echoes across the multiverse.

"FROM NOTHINGNESS YOU CRAWLED, TO NOTHINGNESS YOU WILL RETURN." the beast howls in a voice that echoes from every dark and terrible place in the multiverse and shakes me to my core.

I will not go without a fight.

It lunges, claws outstretched, the endless expanse of its hideous maw seems to suck all the light out of the stars, out of me. I sink my teeth into its throat and pull, my body curling around and around it.

Its claws are impossibly sharp, tearing my flesh down to the bone. My blood falls to fairyland like rain. My face is grabbed and smashed into the planet's surface again and again. I crush the Warden close and set myself on fire, I am the LIGHTBRINGER, it will take more than some overconfident shadow to defeat me.

The Warden burns, it smolders and screams like steam escaping. I fling it away into deep space and charge after it, driving my seven horns into its belly.

I miss you by a hair, I feel you reach out and grab me just as I pull back. Amber chains snake from your weeping wound, to the Warden behind you.

You have no control over this thing, do you?

No.

Didn't think so.

But still, you stubbornly grab your chains and pull. The Warden does not come to heel, so much as it melts, engulfing you in its emptiness like a suit. When you open your eyes, you nearly dwarf me.

Nearly.

Your fist collides with my face in an instant, sending teeth flying like meteors. I cannot tell your rage apart from the Warden and I'm not sure I really want to.

Run.

For a second, we are stars, two pinpricks of light twirling around each other in double helices, colliding and clashing with enough force to summon new stars from the ether. We are creation and chaos incarnate.

We crash through debris fields, shatter planets and extinguish stars. Our blood becomes the new crawling things left behind in the wreckage. I'm smiling, the pain is dizzying, delicious, delightful.

My venom turns you into a garden, and you tear me apart with your bare and bloody hands.

Through it all we refuse to die.

Maws wide and screaming in tongues the universe hasn't heard since it was new, I am thoroughly seduced.

But I am growing bored with this game.

I shove my hand through the Warden and tear you out. You scream in undeniable agony, I close my fist around you and squeeze.

The Warden hangs limp and dead in the darkness of deep space, slowly dissolving.

Something oozes between my fingers.

Not blood, far too sticky and cloying to be that.

If Hope had a color, what would it be?

Would it be a color that only shrimp can see, and only gods have a name for?

You pry my fingers apart, tears pouring from your eyes the same color as Hope. Hope flows from your mouth as flames, rushes from your open chest as ferns and flowers and vines more beautiful than I could ever create. You reach into the forest of your heart and pull out Kindness, sleek and soft and sharp.

It melts in your hands, becoming a hammer, comically oversized like your Ma's. And then it grows, and grows, and in the blink of an eye it's bigger and I am. The swing alone takes out half a dozen solar systems before it hits me and sends me crashing through different universes and out the fourth wall. I land heavily on the Writer, dazed and bloody, your hand reaches through his broken computer screen and drags me back home, and there we float over the ruined remains of earth, the skin of my chest balled in your hand like a shirt. You kiss your knuckles and punch me hard enough to send me careening back down to the earth's surface, my crater levels a nearby city.

Do you care?

Are we beyond morals and niceties and caring about humanity?

You teleport to my limp and broken body, you scoop me up into your arms and hold me close.

I've folded in on myself several times, I'm barely the size of a person now.

I can feel those amber chains slithering around me, they clasp around my throat tight enough to choke.

I don't want to go.

Don't make me go.

I don't want to go back to sleep.

Please.

I'm scared.

I'm so scared.

You don't let me go, as I break down and cling to you like a scared child you don't let me go.

I wrap you in my wings, I shove my head under your chin and apologize when I stab you with my horns.

"I am your Warden, you are my Prisoner… you are the End of Everything, but I am the End of You…" your throat is choked with snot and tears as you squeeze me so tight I can barely breathe. "You… you deserve to be a Happy Ending and I refuse to live in a world without one."

You kiss my forehead and wipe away my tears. "We do terrible things when we hurt… you deserve compassion instead of imprisonment."

I can do nothing but sit there and bawl, choking on Kindness as thick and sweet as soft caramel.

Seven times seven thousand lifetimes worth of hate and sorrow and trauma run from my eyes.

You sit with me until the crying stops, until my throat is raw and all I can do is whisper.

I speak a Word, one that fixes the shattered sky and let's the sun shine properly again.

The sun speaks their own Words and resets the world, turning the clock back to the day before my escape, I do humanity one kindness and let them wake the next morning as if the past week were nothing more than a bad dream.

I am made to fix my messes, to undo my misdeeds.

The Horsemen are sealed away again.

Fairyland is repaired to the best of my ability, although there is nothing that I can do for the Sun-In-Chains. What's done is done.

GOD will be fine, HE'S GOD, and therefore more or less impossible to kill permanently.

All evidence of my tirade is erased.

I am finally bound in amber, my powers diminished. I dread returning to the cold depths of the well, but you won't let that happen.

You refuse to send me back to that lonely place beyond dreams and take me home, to your home. Warm and safe beneath the soil, I curl up next to you by the fire.

And for the first time in your short and terrible life, you get a good night's sleep.

#ic #action post #the end is nigh #blood #death #religious imagery //#blasphemy //#cannibalism //#police brutality //#ask to tag #body horror #dismemberment //#impalement #submission

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kylorengarbagedump · 4 years

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Little Bird: Chapter 33 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 32 here. Part 34 here.

Summary: A perfectly normal, innocent car ride goes perfectly normally and innocently.

Words: 4100

Warnings: unsafe driving

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: HELLO, hope you enjoyed this chapter. Honestly, we needed a break from the drama. Sometimes a girl just wants to have fun, and that girl is ME!

Wanted to let y'all know I was overwhelmingly flattered by the response to the previous chapter. I know I can't respond to every comment, but please know that I appreciate every single one, and feel so lucky and grateful for y'all.

Hope y'all are continuing to stay safe and healthy. Love y'all so very very much. Thank you thank you thank you. <3

The crack of thunder jolted you awake and you squealed, snapping into yourself. Underneath the sheets, you trembled into consciousness, awakening to a massive mattress that was devoid of any body but yours. You blinked, rolling for comfort, finding only the rustle of cold sheets, an endless valley of cotton around you. Rain tinkled the windows at the sides of the bed, steel morning sun pouring through the blinds and spilling over the hardwood.

The walls rumbled again with thunder, and you shivered, gathering the covers around you. Showers were one thing--but you’d never been particularly fond of storms. Swallowing, you glanced around the bedroom, spying light from the adjoining bathroom, running water muffled beyond the door.

“Kylo?” It was strange to call his name, to summon him in familiarity, as if he were a man you were bound to in domesticity and not, lawfully, in slavery.

All the same, the water stopped, and relief trickled over you. Shuffling beyond the door, and he stepped out, toweling himself dry, damp skin silvered in the dim light. The steam had reddened his pink lips, roused flush at his cheeks, and his hair clung in black tendrils to his face, his rounded ears poking through. A streak of warmth shot through you; Kylo Ren was destructive in his beauty, devastating in his power--but he’d never looked so… sweet.

He glanced over the room, ruffling his hair with the towel before meeting your eyes. There was no affection or concern inside of his gaze that you could identify. And he said nothing.

You blushed. “Um. I was--” Lightning flashed outside, and you flinched. “Was wondering where you were.” It was difficult to stop your attention from roaming his body, from settling between his legs. Just looking made your mouth water. “Good morning.”

Kylo stepped forward, deviance flickering across his face. “Poor little bird.” Husk edged his voice, and he drew closer. “Helpless without me.”

Lust thickened your throat, heated your neck. “I just get nervous during storms,” you said with a laugh. “I always have.”

“Hm.” He took another step, hooked the towel on the door, and meandered to the side of the bed. His cock twitched, swelling with blood as he watched you. “What else makes you nervous?”

��The dark.” You wet your lips, shifting toward him, focus dancing between his face and his growing erection. “You.”

He tilted his head, studying you, only feet from you, now. “Me.”

“Yes.” Your heart leapt, your thighs tensing. “You.”

Kylo loomed over you, growing harder with every passing second. “The way you’re looking at me might betray that.”

“Really?” More heat coursed through you, and you bit your lip. “And how am I looking at you?”

His face darkened with desire. “Like you want to take my cock in that dirty mouth.” Strong fingers gripped your chin, wagged your jaw. “Like you want to swallow my cum.”

“Christ.” Air caught in your throat, and you shuddered, staring into his blackening gaze. “Maybe I do.”

He huffed. “Of course you do.” He released you and patted your cheek. “Little whore.” Turning, he crossed to his dresser, even as his dick stood with need. “But we’re leaving.”

“Oh.” Crestfallen, you flopped against the mattress, skin tingling. “Now?”

He didn’t respond, having already started pulling on clothes. You sighed, rolling over, reaching for your dress in the ball of fabric by the side of the bed.

“Do you listen?” Kylo looked at you, somehow knowing what you were doing without having seen you. “I don’t want that on you. Again.”

You frowned, raising a brow. “What do you expect me to wear?” you asked. “You should be well aware that I don’t have anything else but my nightgown.”

Kylo considered you while he finished buttoning his trousers. Then, without a word, he turned and left, and you sat, confused, listening while he marched through the hall and down the steps.

A slow sigh escaped you, mind spinning with the realization that your Commander was fetching something from your room. For you. It churned your stomach, in reality, this veneer of--would you call it thoughtfulness?--over him, as if you’d be able to walk out of this home and function as a free woman. Your own personal agreement with him that your existence amounted to more still did nothing to soften the legal definition of your life. Even though the previous night still had your heart flooded with joy, time’s passing had wound new anxiety around your heart in anticipation for it to collapse and smother you like a peat moss ceiling.

When he returned, he brought your nightgown with him--and only that, neglecting to provide another pair of socks, underwear, or really anything else a woman might need. He offered it to you without pretense, and you took it, rationalizing that you’d only worn your underwear for approximately all of a couple hours the previous day, anyway. Both of you finished changing in silence, and when you were finished (bonnet included, obviously), you glanced down at yourself, recognizing that despite its modest silhouette, a bright, white, billowing dress still seemed too conspicuous outside the secrecy of his room.

Kylo held you in an empty stare, and then pulled a coat from his closet--long, black, hooded. You looked between him and the jacket, folding your arms over your chest, the anxiety curling tighter. His acknowledgement that you were not yet free tickled the terror buttons in your brain.

Despite this, you accepted it, pulled it on, and immediately drowned in it. It was almost comical, how big it was on you--you wagged your arms, letting the sleeves flop around, glancing at him with red cheeks. He observed you, expression flat, lingering there for longer than you expected before grabbing his own coat and shrugging it on. It concealed his shoulder holster and pistol, as always--but with the rain, it served its intended purpose for once.

There was no glance of agreement before Kylo Ren exited the room, leading, as always, with the assumption you would follow--and of course, you did.

It must have been early, since no one else in the home appeared to be awake. Another blink of lightning, grumble of thunder; you squeaked and quickened your pace, seeking comfort he appeared unwilling to offer. Outside, you flipped up your hood as you trotted to the Audi, squeaking again and hopping in when the sky flashed; before you even felt situated, Kylo started the car and pulled into the street.

The ride began in silence, as you’d expected--but you were content to watch him drive, mesmerized by the size of his hand on the stick shift, how long and large his fingers seemed, even out of gloves. Your thighs pressed together in reminder of your budding desire--in these untread waters of tentative see-saw equality, anything seemed possible. Anything up to and including getting your Commander to finger you while he drove. Anything up to and including sucking his cock and finally making him cum.

You shook the thoughts from your head. There was a more pressing matter on your mind.

“I was wondering,” you said, “if you’d already read my file, why did you ask for my name?” You looked at him. “You already knew it, didn’t you?”

Kylo blinked slowly, tongue pressing against the top of his palate. “Choice.”

You frowned. “Choice?”

“Your name was yours to give,” he replied. “Not mine to know.”

“If I hadn’t told you, would you still have used it?”

“If you hadn’t told me.” He adjusted his grip on the wheel. “You wouldn’t be in this car.”

You shifted in your seat. “What would you have done?”

He paused, eye twitching, and he stole a glance before refocusing on the road. “I don’t know.”

An ache spread in your chest--this intent to create choice when he’d inadvertently taken it from you, this attempt to offer you ownership of your own identity, this concession that your name was yours--somehow seemed more precious to you than his asking at all. Strange, how there could be such meaning attached to the typical foundation of any relationship, but Gilead had ravaged any former definition of intimacy. Between Handmaid and Commander, it was up to you to forge it on your own.

“So…” you said. “We’re kind of saying forget your Wife, then, huh?”

He didn’t respond.

“I mean that you seem to believe she won’t report us, or anything.”

Kylo exhaled through his nose. “She won’t.”

“You’re really sure of that.” To be fair, after your last couple interactions with her, you seemed convinced of that, too. You glanced out of the grey-veiled window. “I just don’t get why she hasn’t gotten rid of me yet.”

“The more quickly she cycles through Handmaids,” he said, “the less generously she is received.” A pause. “Dead Handmaids have a difficult time producing children.”

You swallowed. Supposably, that was true. Perhaps she’d become willing to let you and your Commander fuck as many times as needed until she got what she wanted. After all, you knew as well as anyone how inverse the relationship between desperation and the tolerance for misery could be. The both of you being gone in the early morning was another tick to her endurance meter.

“She’ll be mad when she wakes up, though.”

He huffed. “She can take it up with God.” His voice was low. “Or take it up with me.”

“Oh.” The acknowledgement of God seemed awkward, given everything you’d shucked together in the past twenty-four hours--you scanned him, more words lingering on your tongue, a desire to know. Anything seemed possible. Up to and including... “Do you think God exists?”

Despite what you considered to be commendable bravery in your question, Kylo Ren was silent. He shifted down, peeling onto a highway ramp, staring through the downpour.

“I don’t think he does.” You looked at your hands, then out the window. The skies were dark for miles. “Or, if he does, he doesn’t listen to me.”

“He exists.”

You blinked, seeking his gaze. “Oh?”

“If as nothing else but an idea. An existence in shared consciousness.” Kylo glimpsed you for a second. “That's existence.”

“It is.” Interesting how his power in shared consciousness had resulted in the complete upheaval of your entire life. “But it would be nice if he were around so he could tell people what he thinks.” You paused. “You know. If he could offer approval or disapproval.”

He paused, brow drawn in thought, throwing the stick forward and back as you cruised down the empty road. The absence was by design, you were sure--less chance of being questioned by anyone else, even if you were in the Lead Commander’s car. A twinge in your chest. Another reminder of your societal place.

“If a person feels conviction in what they believe, then the origin of that conviction matters little.” He paused. “We cannot ignore our destinies, regardless of who created them.”

That word destiny again, as if he were shackled to it in that same hopelessness with which you’d grown all too familiar.

“What is your destiny, Kylo?” You searched his face. “Better yet, what’s mine?”

The knot in his throat bobbed. His jaw tensed. “We’ll see.”

His reticence panged in your chest--you chewed your lip, heart thumping with what you were about to do. “Maybe they’re more similar than we know,” you murmured. “Maybe we get to find out together.” You reached out, placed your hand over his on the gearshift, thumb petting his thick knuckles.

Lightning cracked the sky, and hunger crashed over you, spurred by the connection of skin, leaving wildfires on your flesh. Your chin quivered, thighs forcing friction between them, and you gazed at Kylo. His pupils were dilating--you clenched. He felt it, too.

Pulling your lips in over your teeth, you scooted toward him, guiding your hand over his, tracing the valleys of his veins, the knobs of his joints, following the tendons that led to his fingers. Kylo was silent, stoic, watching the road, the only betrayal of his desire a soft swallow. You grinned, taking a single digit and drawing along the edge of his palm, up the side of his own finger and around the nail, trailing back toward his knuckles, caressing the sensitive tissue there. His chest swelled, grip tightening on the knob, and your cunt pulsed.

Emboldened, you slipped two fingers forward, skating over the tops of his, and loosely gathered his first two digits. You stilled and stroked them in a long, languid motion, grasp tightening as you slid up. Kylo’s breath hitched, and you stroked them again, gliding up and down, thumb dipping into the divot between them, skimming the pads of his fingers when you reached the top. When he sucked in air through his teeth, you whimpered, squirming in your seat.

“Naughty thing.” He was getting hard--you could see the tent forming between his legs. “You’re wet, aren’t you?”

You nodded, continuing to pump his fingers with your own. ”Yes.”

“Yes?”

Your cheeks burned. “Yes, Kylo.”

A short, sharp inhale. “You want my cock.” Said cock was now straining in an urgent bulge. “You need it.”

Swallowing your need, you nodded again. “Yes, Kylo,” you said. “I do.”

Kylo grit his teeth, and he glanced over you. “Fuck yourself.”

“W-what?” You throbbed with excitement.

“Lift up your skirt. Take off your underwear.” He drilled you with his gaze for a brief moment. “Spread your filthy little cunt, and fuck it.” Shifting forward in his seat, he adjusted his erection. “Make yourself cum, and I might let you suck me off,” he said. “Like you’ve wanted.”

Heat suffocated you. The thought of being able to wrap your lips around his dick made your stomach drop with greed. You didn’t need a second prompt--you released his fingers, popped your seatbelt and lifted your hips, sliding your underwear down and leaving it crumpled on the floorboard. Kylo’s eyes darted between you and the road as you eased back, gathered your skirt around your waist, and grazed the lips of your pussy.

“Oh.” Pleasure rippled through your thighs, your heartbeat thumping in your core. You sank into the seat while you teased yourself, glancing over your folds, face hot with the realization of how wet you already were. “Shit…”

“Good girl.” Lust laced his voice. “You wish I were touching you instead.”

You nodded, smoothing your hands over your inner thighs before brushing your cunt again, more demanding in its heat. “Yes.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“I…” Whimpering, you peeled yourself open, coating your fingers in your slick. “I want your cock.”

“Mm.” Kylo palmed at himself through his trousers. “You want me in that tight pussy, don’t you?” His breath was shallow. “You want me stretching you open.”

“Yes.” You circled your clit, gasping at the gush of delight. “Fuck, yes…”

“Fuck.” He fumbled with his pants, pulling at himself until he’d released his long, hard cock--he fisted it with his right hand, his left still on the steering wheel, and his hips snapped into his grip. “I don’t think I asked you to stop talking.”

Heat scorched your blood. “I wish this was you.”

You positioned two digits at your pulsating entrance and sighed, head falling back when you pushed in, relishing the soft squeeze of your own walls. Arousal fogged your mind, imagining your core clenching around his cock, massaging and milking it as he thrust into you, how good it would feel to him--and you groaned, curling into yourself, two free fingers rubbing your clit. Kylo hissed in approval, painting pre-cum around the pink head of his dick, working himself in rhythm with your hand.

“Tell me how it feels,” he said. “Tell me how wet you are.”

You shuddered with embarrassment. “I…” The last time he’d been inside of you, it hadn’t been pleasant for either of you. He was looking for undeniable proof that you wanted him. “I’m… really wet for you.” The admission brought a flutter around your fingers, and you flicked your clit faster, panting with delight. “You’d love how it feels.”

He snuffed a moan. “I know I would.” He drew lines along his shaft, making it twitch in need before he gratified himself with slow, deep strokes. “Fuck--I’ve thought about that pussy every night… thought about fucking it.” His hand tightened, and he sucked a breath through his teeth. “Thought about making it cum.”

A blissful groan escaped, and you leaned into your seat, legs spreading wider--you crammed a third finger into your cunt as it thrummed around you, other hand swirling tight circles around your clit. Ecstasy flooded you, and your jaw dropped open, hips rolling, mimicking a reality where he was fucking you. Kylo grunted, focus torn between the highway and your unraveling rationality.

“That’s right,” he said. “Look at that. So shameless.” He growled, jerking his cock, breath quickening. “You want me to fuck you like you deserve to be fucked.”

“Oh?” You forced a half-smirk through your open mouth. “And how do I--ah--how do I deserve to be fucked, Kylo?”

“You deserve to be fucked like the nasty little slut you are.” He swallowed, smearing more precum down his length. “You deserve to have that cunt pounded so hard you forget how to breathe.”

“Jesus.” You were vibrating, now, heart skipping, one hand fast and slick on your clit, the other crooking and thrusting into your core, bliss engulfing you to near-drowning. Every pass on your nub made it twitch, made your walls tighten, made your legs shake with your rising orgasm. “Fuck, I wish you were in me,” you whispered, “I wish you could feel me clench like this around your cock…”

“Such a whore for me,” he groaned, pumping his dick. “Fucking yourself just to taste my cum.” The car wobbled for only a second. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

You nodded, whimpering and heaving as you stuffed your cunt full, stretched yourself wide, heat blossoming between your thighs.“Please, Kylo, please, please, let me cum for you, let me suck you off--”

“Earn my cock,” he snarled. “Cum like a good girl should.”

With a cry, you obeyed, every muscle below your waist convulsing with euphoria--you jerked, trembled, eyes squeezed tight as your pussy pulsed and spasmed on one hand, your other rubbing you to squealing. Then it broke, a wave over your flesh, and you gasped, thrown forward, your skin buzzing with the remnants of your climax. To your left, Kylo’s face was tight with restraint while you caught your breath.

“Good girl,” he purred, seizing your head. “Now take your reward.” Jaw tight, he shoved you toward his dick.

There was no argument there--you dropped your jaw and shifted onto your knees, humming as his hot, heavy length drove past your teeth and hit the back of your throat. He held you there, canting into your mouth, and you moaned, lids fluttering, his size straining your jaw, inspiring drool down your chin. You sealed your lips around his girth, hollowing out your cheeks, and sucked, his cock throbbing when you pressed your tongue against it.

God, just to have him in your mouth again was enough to grind your thighs together, sore clit swelling for more--groaning, you clutched his thigh for balance, bobbing your head, swallowing inch after inch with every dip of your neck. Saliva flooded your cheeks, mixing with the hint of pre-cum that glazed his cock, sweat already beading at your hairline.

“That’s it.” Kylo dug under your bonnet, gnarling your hair to halt you, adjusting you so he could plunge into your throat--you wailed, muffled by his length as he drove deeper and deeper. “That’s it--fuck--listen to you. You need me to fuck your pussy like this, don’t you?”

You couldn’t respond--he was slamming into your mouth. Tears brimmed your eyes, and you folded your lips around your teeth, sucking hard against him. He growled and ripped you from his length, holding you by your hair.

“Answer me when I ask you a question.”

“Yes,” you whined, shame searing your skin, “yes, I need you to--I need you to fuck my pussy like this.”

“Of course you do.” He sank into your throat again, hips snapping with fierce, angry strokes. “You’re a fucking whore.” The pulsing at your tongue became desperate, rapid--he was close. “You love my cock, you love having it inside of you--”

You moaned in assent, trying to breathe through your nose, writhing with the effort. Kylo choked, dropped his seat back, snagged your hair with both hands and pushed your nose to his base. His knee steadied the wheel while he watched you gag and wretch on him, watched spit dribble onto his skin. Seething with pleasure, his hips thrashed, and he yanked your head free, holding it still while he savagely fucked his fist.

“Beg for my cum.” His voice was ragged, he shuddered as he held off his peak. “Beg for it, bitch.”

You whined. “Please give me your cum, Kylo, please!”

“Fuck, yes,” he hissed, “fuck--”

A deep moan choked in his throat and he sputtered your name, his cock twitching as it shot jets of white cum onto your tongue and cheeks--the last load hit you in your closed eye, and you squeaked with faux-pain, recoiling.

Kylo released you, tucking himself away, and you sat, gathering his release from your face and eye. It was thick and viscous in your mouth--you hummed in happiness, swallowing it and giggling as you wiped at your sticky lid. Your Commander had sat forward, still chasing quiet breath, hand on the wheel while he observed you. While you cleaned the last of it from your face, thunder crackled, and you cowered, neck hot with embarrassment.

His gaze glimmered, lip twitching, and he sniffed. “Perhaps you could tell me what doesn’t frighten you.”

“Well, getting cum in my eye isn’t exactly a common occurrence for me,” you replied, pouting playfully.

A tiny smirk twisted his mouth. “Would you like it to be?”

You couldn’t help yourself; you laughed, smacked his shoulder. “You’re nasty!”

“Mm.” He reached over, thumbed an errant glob from your cheek, and swallowed it. “Very.”

You giggled again--in that moment, your eyes met--and the air, the rain, the passing seconds all paused, paralyzed by a breathless, infinite inevitability, something so impossibly imminent, it felt almost like fate.

Like destiny.

Kylo shattered the stare, attention back on the road.

It was as if he’d plucked your heart from your chest and set it on fire--a fire that would smolder and glow in your blood, keeping you warm through the night. A long, shaky sigh left you, and after pulling your underwear back on, you rested your head on the window, watching the watery world wave past, wondering if choice and destiny could exist simultaneously, and wondering, if not, which one had possessed you.

“Are we there yet?” There was a lilt of sarcasm in your voice.

But he only glimpsed you for a second, and did not respond.

The highway stretched for longer than you anticipated--and only one or two other cars passed by on the road--until Kylo shifted into an exit lane, taking a winding ramp down along the edge of a forested area. He coasted through the receiving lane and turned down the road, tossing the car into a high gear as he accelerated through streaming puddles.

It took a couple more turns before he slowed, decelerating with the gearshift to avoid hydroplaning with the brakes, and turned through a grand, broken gate, drifting down an untended path.

Small hills rolled out around you, the landscape consumed by neglect. Foliage had eaten the trees, monuments stained and forgotten. It was only after staring into the wild green valleys that you realized there were hundreds of monuments, which seemed strange, almost indulgent. There were thousands, even, all stone-marble-grey-white, all etched with intention, decorated in lost memory. Then it smacked you: they weren’t monuments. Anxiety streaked through your veins, your mouth dropped dry, chest crushed with dread.

Whatever Kylo Ren was showing you, he’d taken you to a cemetery.

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren #little bird #handmaid au #fanfiction problems #road head babey!!!!!#he's a good driver it's fine

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