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rafescoke · 3 years

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Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High ; Rafe Cameron

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Request: The second one I was hoping could be a Rafe x reader based on the song why’d you only call me when you’re high by arctic monkeys. Maybe something along the lines of rafe only calling and giving the reader attention when he wants to hook up. Finally, the reader gets tired of it their feelings known.

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x reader

Summary: Reader finds herself thinking about a certain boy more than what they had agreed on

Warnings: Hella angst, mentions of sex, masterbating, substance, cursing, toxic relationship

A/N: I’ve been updating a new fic every single day and the amount of love you guys are returning is beyond amazing. I love you so much, thank you for all of your kind words <3

p.s, again, my request box is always open. drop in any ideas and i’ll present to you my best :)

p.p.s, does anyone know why i can’t tag some users? im going crazy.

“I was thinking. . .” Rafe trailed, drawing invisible circles against her soft skin. She hummed in response, her eyes closed, feeling so relaxed under the silk bedsheet wrapping around her body.

“We should do this often.”

“Is twice a day isn’t enough for you?” she asked, hiding her smile. She felt him shift, placing his arms around her waist and pulling her close against him. She giggled lightly, feeling him behind her, but she was too tired to do anything.

“We should try doing it every minute,” he simply replied, smelling into her scent. She smelt like vanilla and caramel, just the way he likes it. “Is this the perfume I bought?”

“Yeah,” she mumbled, feeling so peaceful she could sleep if he hadn’t pulled her closer against his hardening member. She groaned, trying to scoot forward by an inch, but was stopped by his fingers gripping her hips.

“I’m sore.”

“I know,” he replied casually, still brushing against her bottom. Before he could do anything else she turned, now facing him. She looked at his handsome face, his blue eyes and his soft lips. Her thumb grazed over his top lip, and Rafe swore he could fuck her anytime soon if she kept doing that.

“Are you not tired?” she asked, now cupping his face. He stared into her eyes, feeling himself getting lost in them before giving her a smile.

“No.”

“You’re mental,” she sighed, but she failed to contain her laugh after. She giggled, still cupping his face, and she has never felt so calm and relax before. Just them two, on top of a bed in some cheap motel, sometimes hearing the couple staying on top of them screaming at each other.

“Are you?” he continued, tilting his head into her hands. She smiled when he closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth radiating from her. He loves it. He feels at peace.

(Y/N) sighed, loving yet also hating these kind of moments where she knew they would be acting like strangers after, in front of everyone else. She remembered the exact day after she had had sex with him for the first time, and how he acted so cold afterwards.

“Hey,” (Y/N) smiled, standing beside his form as he squinted his eyes against the bright sunlight to inspect his goal. He didn’t reply, swinging his golf club upwards and hit the golf ball. (Y/N) watched as it flew and landed near the goal, and expressed a smile.

“You’re good.”

“Huh?” he looked up to her, as if just noticed her existence. (Y/N) felt a pang of hurt across her heart, especially when he had just whispered so many love words into her ear the night before.

“I said you’re good.”

“Oh, thanks,” he muttered, already making his way back to where his friends were. Clearly not satisfied, she followed him suit, watching as his friends cheered for him. Rafe groaned even harder, and turned to look at her before they got too close to his friends.

“What are you fucking doing here?” he scolded, his eyes staring at a space beside her. (Y/N) raised a brow, being caught off guard, but she tried to play it cool.

“I’m a member of this country club too, Rafe,” she replied, scoffing. “You’re an asshole, do you know that? Are we not going to talk about last ni-”

“Shut up,” he grunted, looking backwards to check on his friends before pulling her a few distance away. “Look, I was on drugs last night. That was not me. Let it go, okay?”

(Y/N) has never experienced that kind of disrespect, and she swore she hated Rafe Cameron so bad that when she got home, she cried against her pillows until the night sky greeted her.

She thought about the many other guys who tried to be with her, but she had pushed them all away for a certain rich boy living 6 houses away from her. The fact that her parents are good friends with Ward and Rose Cameron doesn’t make it any easier, not when she is forced to see him every single Saturday night for ‘barbecue night’.

“What are you thinking?” he suddenly spoke, interrupting her thoughts. She sighed, suddenly scooting away from him. He watched as she turned away, but he didn’t put much thoughts into it.

“I can still smell the weed from you,” she suddenly said, and Rafe let out a laugh. He rubbed his eyes, hating the fact that they are going to repeat the same topic they have fought countless of times before, especially after sex and they had both came down from the high.

“Don’t start, (Y/N), fuck,” he sighed, covering his face with his large hands. He watched as she scooted further, wrapping the covers around her body. “Can you please just lay right next to me?”

“I want to sleep,” she replied, and bit her lips before she could express any tears. Rafe sighed, groaning, and sat up straight, resting on the edge of the bed before reaching for his jeans discarded on the corner of the room.

“I’m leaving,” he said, and (Y/N) heard the metal bar of his belt clanking against his jeans button. “Since you wanna act like a bitch again.”

“You’re an asshole,” she replied, still not looking at him. A tear rolled down her cheeks before she could stop herself, and she quickly wiped them away.

“Whatever,” he said, and she heard the door slammed shut. She cursed, unable to stop her tears now that she was alone. The banter between the husband and wife from the room above filled the silence as (Y/N) sobbed against the pillow and she thought about how it resembled her and Rafe’s relationship so much.

He would call her when he’s under the influence, whispering sweet-nothings through the phone, saying how much he’s missing her and longing for her forehead kisses. The fight they had before the phone call will immediately evaporate into thin air, and (Y/N) will make her way to wherever Rafe is. Sometimes they’ll do it in the car in a secluded alley or sometimes in the cheap motel at Chapel Hill.

But then it was the moments after their brief meeting that had her all moody and depress throughout the week; how he would ignore her, pretending not to see her and forcing himself to say ‘hi’ during their family barbecue.

(Y/N) never thought of herself as someone who’s prone to being in a sneaky relationship, but if that what it takes to be with Rafe Cameron, she was willing to be in one.

It had been a week since the incidence, and Rafe hadn’t call her to meet or anything of the sort. (Y/N) frowned when she thought of this, because the longest fight they had before only lasted for 2 days before he rang her up, asking to meet up.

(Y/N) shook her head, sipping on her martini before setting it on the side of the swimming pool. She dived into the water, trying to get the heat from the scorching sun off of her, and resurfaced seconds after, her wet hair falling down her shoulders.

“(Y/N), where’s dad?” Topper appeared, squatting in front of her as she took another sip on the martini. Her eyes fell to the figure behind her brother, and she almost choked on the liquid.

“Um, I don’t know,” (Y/N) replied, staring at Rafe Cameron as he took out his phone to check on his messages, ignoring her like always. She rolled her eyes at this, knowing that there were no new texts and he was just trying to act like she wasn’t there. She dived into the water again and swam to the other side, away from Rafe and his negative energy.

If Rafe knew she was going to be in the swimming pool, he would have made an excuse to Topper, perhaps saying how he has to take Wheezie to the clinic for an appointment. (Y/N) was almost never home every time he hang out with Topper, so he thought he was safe. But there she was; in the most tempting bikini, swimming and constantly sipping on a martini.

Rafe sat right next to Topper, watching her back from the corners of his eyes as she gazed at the view in front of her. She was laying on her arms, lazily humming to a rock song Rafe plays every time he’s driving.

He jolted when Topper touched his hand.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Topper laughed, “I said, do you wanna eat?”

“I’m okay,” he mumbled, closing his eyes and thinking about good she looked in that bikini. He made a mental note to guess the brand to purchase more of that sort for her.

“Okay, I’m going in to get myself some food. Are you sure you don’t want any food?” Topper asked, sitting on the edge of the seat. Rafe nodded, his eyes still closed, and heard him walking towards the sliding door into the kitchen.

“Why are you ignoring me?”

Rafe opened his eyes, and to his satisfaction, the girl with the (H/C) locks stared at him with her face rested against her arms. His breath hitched, seeing how beautiful she was with the chlorine water dripping from her face, down to her neck, continuing to her che-

“God, you’re a fucking asshole,” she suddenly said, and Rafe had to shook his head from the involuntary thought that appeared in his mind. He groaned, watching as she dived in the water again, and almost catching a glimpse of her bottom. He smiled.

“Are you still a bitch?” he asked when she resurfaced, crossing his arms. “Because if you are, I don’t feel like fucking you right here and right now.”

(Y/N) halted her movements as she tried her best not to look at the smirking boy, and instead staring into the swimming pool as if there was something interesting in it. Rafe laughed, knowing exactly the impact of his words towards her, and thought about wanting to have a little more fun with her.

“I’m asking, baby,” he said softly, and her eyes landed on his. “Are you still a bitch?”

“I brought cookies!” Topper suddenly yelled, appearing from the sliding door and walking towards them with a bright smile. Rafe cursed, laying his back against the seat again and pretending to close his eyes while (Y/N) dived underwater, trying to hide her red face. He was glad when Topper handed him a cookie, talking about wanting to surf tomorrow - so oblivious towards the sexual tension between him and his own twin.

“What do you think?” Topper asked, munching on the cookies all the while trying to see Rafe’s reaction. Rafe nodded, muttering his agreement, but under his sunglasses, he was watching (Y/N) and she too, was watching him.

“Can I have a cookie, Tops?” (Y/N) suddenly interrupted, and without looking at her, Topper gave her a thumbs up sign. (Y/N) smiled, pulling herself up from the pool and Rafe almost had a heart attack from the sight of her curves donning the bikini and the water dripping off of her.

She walked towards them, hair swept to her left shoulder, and Rafe’s gaze followed her fingers as she grabbed a cookie and immediately putting it in her mouth. He watched as she closed her eyes, enjoying the sweet taste, all the while sitting under the glowing sun that highlighted her features even more.

He could feel himself getting harder.

“Well,” (Y/N) suddenly said, and Rafe had realized he was too busy looking at her to realize that she was already conversing with Topper. “I’ll go. Is Rafe coming too?”

Both of the siblings’ attention fell towards him, and Rafe found himself clearing his throat before he spoke.

“I’m sorry, where are we?”

“Man, are you sure you’re okay?” Topper asked, removing his sunglasses to look at him clearly. “Do you need water?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Rafe quickly added, “Can I, um, go up to your room? I think I need a nap.”

“Yeah, okay,” Topper replied, not thinking much of it. They had been spending so much time under the sun during the summer, he wouldn’t be surprised if one of them got sick. “I’ll go upstairs in a second.”

He muttered a thanks, quickly making his way to the top of the house, where Topper stayed. He groaned, feeling himself getting harder, and hating the fact that she was most probably liking the way he was reacting.

He locked the door of the bathroom he has been using since the first day he became friends with Topper, watching himself in the mirror. He closed his eyes while he tried to picture her in his mind, his fingers trying their best to untie the knot of the band of his swimming shorts.

He held himself in the palm of his hands as he pictured her again, this time with her under him. He started sliding his palm over his hardened member, his other hand safely placed on the sink for balance. He thought of the way she’ll bounce on him when she rides him, and bit his lips before he could let out any sounds.

Fuck.

He hated how easy she’ll make him hard and how she has him wrapped around her finger. It was true how they would only do the unholy thing when he was under the influence or they were both under the influence, but he couldn’t deny the unsettling feeling in his stomach every time he saw her.

“Fuck,” he expressed, his grip on the sink tightening. His movements became faster as he tried to picture her mouth and around him, and felt his end coming. He left a string of curses as he finally released himself, watching the shot dripping off the sides of the sink. He grunted, having to do more work, and grabbed himself the white tissues before wiping his mess.

. . .

“Hey.”

“Hey, Rafe,” (Y/N) said, trying to maintain her normal tone. She bit her lips at the sound of his heavy breathing, missing his voice and also his handsome face. She longed to have his face in her hands again, staring at each other’s eyes and kissing each other’s lips right after.

“Can you come over?” he asked, his voice slurring. “No, I mean, can I pick you up?” The sound of laughter and booming music could be heard behind him, giving out his location. (Y/N) sighed, knowing the exact request behind the words, and looked at her wall to check on the time.

“It’s 12 a.m., my mom won’t allow me to go out.”

“Sneak out, then,” Rafe replied, and he said something to his friends before focusing back on her. “Please? I missed you.”

(Y/N) sighed, knowing exactly her problem.

This.

“Okay,” she replied, leaning over her mattress to close her laptop now that she had new plans for the night. “What time are you picking me up?”

“I can’t drive right now,” he said, suddenly realizing how sloshed he was. “Can you come and pick me up, please?”

She sighed again, but she had missed him so much. Him and his touches. His and his words.

Him.

“Okay, send me your location, okay? I’ll pick you up.”

(Y/N) thought about how she couldn’t do it anymore. Not when she has spent most of her life trying to make him love her. He had been friends with her brother since forever, but yet he never seemed to settle on her. She heard about the amount of girls he dated and how she tried to become like them, but after a while, she grew bored of it. She was tired of running after someone who doesn’t want to be caught.

Until the night at the party, where they had been smoking and doing coke and god knows what else. (Y/N) had watched him from the corners of her eyes, liking how attractive he looked under the party lights. He was in a black shirt, his hair messily parted, a cigarette loosely hanging from his lips.

“Thornton, do you know how perfect your smile is?” he asked, leaning towards her. (Y/N) giggled, her back against the wall as she stared into his eyes.

“You’re mistaking me for my brother, Rafe?” she asked, with that smile again. Rafe licked his lips, looking down to hers before leaning closer to whisper into her ear.

“I’ve got to confess, (Y/N),” he whispered, sending shivers down to her spine. “You’re the hottest sibling.”

When she woke up the next day, laying right next to Rafe Cameron, she had to pinch herself a few times to make sure that she was living in reality, but when she tried to approach him that evening on the golf course, it was like nothing happened that night.

It scarred her until he rang her up again, six days after.

“Rafe,” (Y/N) sighed, leaning over to open the passenger’s door from her seat, seeing how drunk he was. Rafe giggled, getting himself in before shutting the door and staring at her. He leaned towards her and placed a sloppy kiss against her cheeks, down to her neck and stopped directly before her chest.

“Just park in the back,” he ordered, placing his palm on the upper side of her thigh, too close to her heat. She bit her lips as she turned her steering wheel, entering the back alley of the club. Soon after he had texted her his location, she sneaked out through her brother’s porch and stole his car, driving straight towards Rafe.

She turned the ignition off and looked at him, watching as he unbuttoned his shirt slowly, groaning when he missed one button. He tried to reach for her, but she pushed his hand away, her face expressing into anger.

“Don’t pull this shit again, fuck,” Rafe sighed, throwing his head back against the seat and covering his face with his hands. (Y/N) caught a glimpse of a gold ring, and noticed how it looked so similar to hers hanging around her neck.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she said, filling the silence. Rafe let out a shrill laugh, still closing his eyes.

“Still a bitch, I guess.”

“This is the problem, Rafe!” she groaned, causing Rafe to look at her fully in the face when he noticed her increasing volume. “What are we?”

“What do you want to hear?” he simply said, staring at her with empty eyes. He licked his lips, “No, seriously. Tell me the answer, and I’ll say it.”

How cold could he be?

“Rafe, do you see how you’re treating me?” she asked, and she could feel her tears threatening to fall. “Do you realize the difference between sober Rafe and intoxicated Rafe?”

Of course he knew. He just chose to ignore it.

“I can’t do this right now,” Rafe said, putting his hands up in defeat. “Can we just fuck, get over whatever fight we’re having right now, and live our best lives the next day? Can we do that?”

He turned to look at her, and noticed her glassy eyes. He sighed, trying to cup her face, but she flinched at his touch.

“You make me feel like a whore,” she whispered, her lips trembling. “One second you love me, the next second you’re spitting on me.”

He just had the worst night of his life; having a fight with Ward about his business, bumping onto the pogues, catching Sarah and John B. . . and now this?

“You think too much,” he said, but his heartbeat was quickening. He stole a glance at her and watched as she stared at him with empty eyes. “I’m sober now. You know what, (Y/N)? You’re right. I can’t even look at you when I’m not under the influence.”

He turned to open the door, getting out while buttoning his shirt back, not wanting to look at her. He couldn’t stand it, he knew he’ll be too broken if he sees her cry over him. He didn’t know what to do; he panicked, never preparing for this exact moment where he knew she will ask about the state of their relationship.

He watched as she sped away from the alley, her engine roaring against the silence of that particular Friday night, where his day had been nothing but miserable. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to contain his feelings, but before he knew it, he had kicked on the empty beer can on the side of the road, watching its movement as it hit the opposite wall and fell into the trash can.

He laughed at the strange occurrence, his tears slowly rolling down his cheeks and made his way back to the club.

If there’s one thing he’s so sure about himself; Rafe Cameron hates himself more than anyone else in the world.

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herstarburststories · 3 years

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tolerate it

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader

Summary: your love for Dean used to be celebrated, but now he tolerates it.

A/N: here it is, hunters! First fic of the year, wow! I hope you guys like it! Based on Taylor's song tolerate it. Also requested by @ashleyygeza!

Warnings: so much angst, language, smut

There was this thing you always liked to do. It was mostly the learned behavior of a child that grew up in motel rooms. It was usual for the adult that called a bunker her home, too. You’d lay on your back, staring at the light on the ceiling and squint your eyes to the point the glimmering white light could be mistaken as the moon. You never thought you’d end up doing that to people as well.

It used to be something so sensual and sequin back then, but now the fact that he's so much older and wiser only makes you quiet. You see his bruised hands and worried glances; the stubble on his face growing as his sense of self starts to fade with borrowed time. Dean used to love you in screaming colors; now he just sits in silence reading with his head low, researching the next case under the dim light while you watch him. Sam can't seem to stand slow deaths either -- he just clears his throat and leaves the bunker with the empty excuse of a supply run.

Still, you remain here. You stand still like a good ornament in Dean's collection of lovers. It seems like it's a matter of time until he leaves you too. Yet, you’re sitting and watching him, and you can't help but wonder if you aren't just another wrinkle on his face. You’d been a memory of something worth dying for, once, but now you were starting to believe you were just another battle scar; marred skin that had spent so long settling that he didn’t even notice the scarification anymore.

Hours pass as quickly and emotionally draining as dry heaving. His huffs of annoyance and thirsty fingers of whiskey were difficult to ignore. The eldest Winchester doesn’t dare to approach you; to throw those dust-collecting books away and make love to you with dumbfounded grins and breathless groans like he had done so many times before. That was when you were a complete person and not just the husk of a lover destroyed. Once you held the strength of Jeanne d'Arc, now you sit and wait for a man to love you back. You’d be disgusted by your weakness if you had any pity left to spare.

If you look at someone too much you can confuse it with love. And if you already love someone and keep looking, you might waste all the rose-colored visions love could create. Maybe that's what happened to Dean. It’s a treacherous game, and it seems like he’s winning. Perhaps it’s your fault, your snide mind speculates against your will. You should try harder.

You don’t miss Dean’s hidden sigh of relief when the door makes a noise, announcing Sam’s return. How could you? You notice everything he does or doesn't do. At first, you fantasized that, even if it started getting messy before, he was pushing you away because of the whole fighting God problem, now you aren’t so sure. The clues were all over the place when Chuck was gone. Dean smiled at Sammy as if there was no tomorrow and said we’re finally free without sparing a glance at you. When they-- when he started building other worlds, where were you? That long-fraught, battle-ridden past of the Winchesters might be gone, but the more you try to turn the page, the more they stick to each other.

‘’Sammy,” his gruff voice says. It is the first word in hours that wasn’t half-hearted mumbles agreeing with your occasional comments or the tuneful hum of a classic rock song between reading and drinking. ‘’Did you bring any bacon?’’

‘’Yeah, but they need cooking--’’ Sam interrupts his brother, already familiar with this conversation. Dean’s half-open mouth and wiggling brows meant one thing. He was such a kid sometimes. ‘’And no. I’m not frying this cardiac embolism waiting to happen for you, dude.’’

You get up, aiming a smile at the long-haired hunter. ‘’Don’t worry, I can cook it. I was gonna make some pasta anyway.’’

Sam slightly nods before tilting his head towards you. ‘’You sure?’’

‘’Yeah. My butt’s already sore from the research. Those chairs aren’t that comfortable.’’ You scrunched up your nose with a good-humored grimace.

‘’Okay, thanks.’’ You nod, throwing a last glance at Dean, who barely moved since you got in the conversation. You turn around, walking to the kitchen when Sam’s voice reverberated through. Deciding to overhear against all your sense of privacy, like a schoolgirl in the bathroom, you lean against the wall. You can’t believe the point you got to at those moments, but the answer to the question Sam asks may be the solution for your personal tophet. ‘’What’s up with you?’’

Dean doesn’t seem phased by his brother’s prodding. ‘’What do you mean?’’

Sam arches his eyebrows. ‘’No butt jokes?’’

At least you aren’t going crazy here. Even Sammy noticed something peculiar about Dean and you. There had to be an explanation or reason.; something broken that you could fix.

‘’I’m a grown-ass man, Sam.’’ He scoffs as you heard the chair being pushed. You nibble on your bottom lip, catching your breath as they continue.

‘’Yeah, sure,” the younger man snaps sarcastically. Dean rolls his eyes. ‘’Actually researching when I leave you two alone? Come on, Dean. Did you guys argue or something?’’

‘’We are just fine.’’ His boots scuffing against the wood floor makes a well-known melody, just like Sam’s loud sigh. You know him; he thinks this his brother’s way to avoid the subject and run away. You can’t say you don’t agree with that.

‘’Dean…’’

“I’m gonna take a shower. I spent two hours reading. I gotta get ready for my bacon.’’ It is a simple answer that made your heart spin like a girl in a brand new dress. You had the sudden realization that at least he spent those hours with you, right? Deadly in his quietude, but he was there. Women always are excellent at convincing themselves that crumbs are a whole meal. Therefore, convince yourself this is enough.

You hear the creaking under his strong, heavy steps as he leaves, and a couple more from Sam as well. Ultimately, you turn around, clapping your hands together as you glare at the food still waiting to be made. You give yourself a comforting smile as you speak: ‘’Time to get to work.’’

Then you go. You pace around the kitchen, preparing the lunch with everything you have. Make it perfect, make it delicious. Fuck, even make it deluxe with pre-made bacon and vegan pasta on a Tuesday afternoon. It’s so silly how you make such a lavish effort with the smallest things only to maybe catch a glimpse of his attention. As if Dean would see, truly look at you again. You gave him the best you had, and when you ran out of that, you gave him what was left too.

The pasta is smelling good. You two used to be each other's better halves, but since the coin had been tossed, you are now each other’s worst reflections. He’s your coldness; the gelid nature that was so useful as a weapon to hurt those who came before him. The ignorance, the lack of care for the ones who claimed to cherish you with their ripped out chests and open hands. You can see you in the way he moved, told white lies and walked away. All the most brutal aspects that your soul built through the years. You almost burn your hand, but at least it isn’t his bacon. And in you, you hold all Dean hated in himself lately. The clingy behavior, always urging to serve and make someone else happy. So needy for a gentle touch, one single proof that his lurking was wrong and he was worthy, that he could be loved someday if he just tried hard enough. Desperate in earge for aprovation, just like you grabbing the Men Of Letters’ sumptuous tapestry and the elegant candle holder, laying the table with the fancy shit.

‘’Wow.’’ Sam says once he arrives in the dining room. Dean refrains his reaction to arching his eyebrows in an unspoken question: what the fuck is happening there?

‘’Is the queen visiting us or somethin’?’’ You catch the pissed off glare that Sammy gives him, yet the older Winchester just shrugs. His little brother had the same eyes as him in many aspects, he had to agree that all those snobby objects were too much.

Unbothered, too used to his butch nature, you chortle. ‘’I just thought we deserved some nice things tonight.’’

Dean hums before adding: ‘’As long as there’s bacon.’’

Sam praises how good the sauce you made tastes. Of course, Dean just nods and agrees with a grumble, not even taking a second glance at you. He doesn’t notice that you are watching him, neither does he compliment your cooking. You never get the reaction you expect from him. Not a thank you, or a true smile, or even a drop of love in the saliva of his kiss, but you keep trying. Just like he tried to make daddy proud for so long. You both should know that's not how it works, but who can argue with a broken child mosaic in an adult damaged heart?

The green eyed man purposely sets the scene in a manner that his brother would be between the two of you. And yes, you manage to double cross this signal and sit down on another chair by his side. Although, when your elbows accidently meet during the homemade feast, Dean doesn’t look at you with the lopsided grin that you love so much. He doesn’t lean in to steal a kiss. Instead, he moves to the side discreetly. You were the roots of hope once, the one who could grow inside him and wrap around his organs for some relief of the hematoma and blood. The Winchester held the arm that pulled you closer and made sure you would stay. But he no longer touches you and the plants died of thirst and you are still here. In these moments, your trick mind asks: why are you still here? You can’t answer.

The lunch goes by filled with your and Sam’s chatter, Dean’s loud chewing and Miracle’s ocasional barks until there’s no food or reasoning to postpone staying together. All the three of you raise up, adamantly ignoring the strange atmosphere.

‘’We’re leaving in an hour.’’ It’s all Dean says before leaving the room. Sammy dares to squeeze your shoulder softly before following his older brother’s path. With a suspire, you collect all the plates and lead to the kitchen again, starting to put the 60 minutes to good use. Polish plates until they gleam and glisten, maybe Dean will sneak in and wrap his arms around you, press a kiss to your neck and tell you to go to bed, that he will take care of the dishes. He used to do that. This was then and this is now. It’s easy to get lost in the tangles of time.

Of course he doesn’t. Though the hunter shows up with a bag and shouts from the living room for you to hurry up, so you do. Sleeping in the backseat of Baby through the streets of the United States, you wake up with Sam gently shaking your shoulder. Dean is already inside the restaurant. You try not to think too much about it, he could’ve been needing to hit the bathroom or something. As you and the youngest Winchester enter the establishment, four trained eyes fall on your boyfriend and the waitress, who’s clearly leaning forward to make her cleavage more evident. You two pace towards the table just in time to hear the end of their conversation.

‘’Call me if you need anything.’’ The name tag says that the brunette is called Andressa. She's tall, tan and beautiful, smiling in a way that you never can never conquer. You miss having that confidence, how you’d walk in a room and be sure people would stop and stare. Remember when you used to be like that?

‘’Betcha.’’ He gives her a lopsided grin, the one that used to be directed to you. Andressa winks at him and leaves, swapping her hips in the most seductive way, which catches Dean's eyes like it's the whole Aurora Boreal and not just a woman's ass.

‘’Nice shirt, yeah?’’ You take his indiscretions all in good fun. Dean, though, takes a deep breath and wipes his face, as if he's the one with the right to be annoyed in this situation. It's so stupid how you keep making yourself smaller to fit in whatever expection is comfortable for him. At some point you'll disappear-- but hey, no body no crime. You attempted to explain yourself, ‘’I was just kidding.’’

He tightens his mouth into a thin line. ‘’I know.’’

‘’I saw one on Shein.’’

‘’Come on, Y/N.’’ The green eyed hunter scoffed. ‘’That’s like, Belladonna’s boobs sort of thing.’’

It’s so stupid how his opinons can change your whole weekend, as if your emotions were some sort of board game that Dean played by his own rules. You hang your head low, playing with the menu. You can ‘’Yeah, you’re right. It was dumb.’’

‘’That’s not what I---’’ He stopped himself with a deep inhale. Why did it seem easier for him to criticize than compliment you? You are using your best colors for his portrait of stares, yet all you gain are vacant side eyes. That man killed for you, and now every second by your side seemed to be murdering him. ‘’You’d look good on it.’’

You decide not to go on the next hunt, give both of you a break from the grey skies that always seem to suppress you and Dean. What if you two just need time apart? You live together, work together, and even have the same group of friends. Putting the whole monsters and multiple deaths aside, it was pretty much like a normal relationship. You must just need some time alone to miss each other. So you start going on less and less hunts. God, past you’d hate that scared little girl act, begging to be seen like a shiny toy.

Your cell phone buzzes, causing a smile besides the burning anticipation building up in your veins, crawling under your skin like a million little stars, or bugs. It depends on how you choose the perspective, no surprise you’d go for the romantic one. Well, it's a text from Dean. Plaid and crude: getting home in ten minutes. Why’d you be unpleasantly anxious about that? He’s your boyfriend and he’s coming home after a week! Your fingers dance around the keyboard before answering a sweet waiting for you, with a couple hearts in the byline.

You get his favorite burger and a whiskey older than you in the Deancave, which is settled up with a three hours marathon of Scooby-Doo. It was always so adorable when Dean and you made bets to see who’d guess the episode villain first. Even his hot dog pants and his robe are on the armchair. As for you, you are waiting by the door like you’re just a kid, in a vat to greet him with a battle’s hero welcome. One, two, three, minutes piling up as uncountable as the hidden tears that you cry each week in after the city’s asleep. Let’s be fair, you should’ve seen this coming from a mile away. What was the last time Dean accomplished something he promised to you? He doesn’t even reply to your text message asking if he was okay. Minutes trapped into hours, and you’re sitting with your back to the wall, right next to the door he should have burst out long ago. Time’s ticking, your mind is so tired and your body is sore; it’s exhausting to love someone like this, so you take a rest when sleep wins your hopeful, unclever thoughts.

Dean arrives one hour later, an oral scarlet letter on his tongue that tastes like beer and unregrettable priorities, an apologist expression accompanied of a very grumpy-ish Sam as the door is pushed open. The short haired hunter purses his plump lips at the sad sight; you sleeping on the floor next to the door, probably waiting for him. Maybe he should've answered your text earlier and not just rolled his eyes and ordered another drink. What a suburban mistake for a Winchester.

Dean doesn't turn around to face Sammy; his brother made his opinion on that matter very clear during their roadtrip. Instead, his aching body just leans in and picks you up bridal style — that would've made him smile in the gentlest way his blood-stained mouth and sharp teeth could, eye dipping with joy and a silent promise for the future, but now that only gets a stoic expression as he walks towards your shared room.

He dares to sigh. There you go, taking too much space and time. This might be a deceiving concept dappled with melancholic nostalgia, but to take space and time wasn’t a trouble before. Dean once worshiped the light-hearted emotion you could bring out his inner little monster - or his soul, whatever you wanna name it. The time wrapped around your finger as he was, and things were just good. Raw good. Yet, now he sees it; time’s always running, and so is him. It’s no surprise the heart he was holding fell and was left behind at some point of the race.

The hunter bumps on the door with his shoulder, leading inside the bedroom and placing you on the mattress. Your body can’t help but to cling to him as you mumble in your sleep; maybe it’s your fond memory, used to Dean’s body seeking some human contact only in the middle night.

Clicking his tongue, he pulls away. The movement is docile, just enough to wake you up. Dean can’t help but to groan at this.

‘’You came back.’’ You murmur, while Dean adjusts on the spot next to you in bed.

Arching his eyebrows with some comedic background, he answers: ‘’Of course I did. I live here.’’

Live. You wouldn’t call what he does living. More like a ghost hunting his old house when you are around. Or maybe you were the ghost and sure, most people would run away from it, but Dean always goes looking for the supernatural beings anyway. Unnerving that he’d make someone he loved out of one.

‘’Why didn’t you pick up the phone? I was worried.’’

He shrugs and kisses your hand. ‘’Was busy.’’

It’s a poor excuse, but those are all that have been holding you two together lately.

Here it is. Your inner anger for being treated wrong, the mad woman inside you scratching to come back. He has been treating you like a coat in Texas’ summer, like a stained flannel, like a forgotten feeling. You deserve more than this. You are so much more than this. Who he thinks he is?

But he has those green eyes that cried single man tears, and he’s so close you can feel his breath on your cheek. And you love that man so.

Instead, you smile and reach out for his hand. ‘’I missed you.’’

Dean doesn’t answer. He restricts any emotion to a grin, and suddenly you are under him. He pushes his lips against yours in a desperate act of recovery, to gain back what he somehow lost through the way. The green eyed man might not find his love in you, but there’s something else he can work with; luxury. Love was always harder to spell than lust anyway. To you, the way he howls against your lips is love. To him, it’s the confirmation of the absence of it. But he can’t let go.

Your hands and his, still together coaxing each other into giving in. It’s so easy that way. Dean rushes to rip your t-shirt, gaining a laugh out of your and a kiss to his jaw. He’s out of his pants before you can even pull away to assist him. The male catches your earlobe, kissing that sweet spot to make you whimper his name.

‘’Dean.’’

Your wince, his shirt is tossed away, just like your skirt. You aren’t wearing a bra, and quickly your cherry panties are pulled apart with a simple move of his finger.

‘’Gonna make you feel so good, babe.’’ His index finger is shoved inside your tight cunt. You throw your head to the back, spreading your legs open. You want to beg him to make you feel anything good, for him to be the reason of the holy and not hollow, just this once. ‘’You are so wet--’’ Another finger, they move inside of you in an attempt to find the right spot. ‘’So fucking tight for me. I’ve fucked you so many times and you’re still so tight.’’ Dean’s thumb caressed your clit as he licked his lips, relishing how you squirm and whine his name. What a good girl. ‘’Can’t wait to fuck you.’’

It doesn’t take much longer. The eldest Winchester quickly replaced his skilled fingers with his pulsating cock. His member begged to be inside you, squeezed by those warm and tight walls. Your pussy was always so good for him, taking him so nice. Dean moans at the sensation, his hand losing yours to hold the bedpost, his thrusting wildly against yours.

No more praising words, no more foreplay. He comes to get what he wants and you’re willing to give. He used to touch you like a priceless wine, now his hands are hustled and careless like you are just another bottle of cheap beer. Dean fucks himself into you and you can’t do anything but groan in pleasure. Sometimes the hurting can be delicious, too.

You crave more, though. Your hands, tiny compared to his, meet Dean’s back, nails digging into the bare skin in a reminder I’m here, you’re still mine. Your legs wrapped around his torso, which only caused his moves to go faster and more ferocious, destroying your needy cunt for any other. It feels so good to have him inside you, fucking you up to the point you are an inchorent ball of cum and sweat. He’s gonna get you there, it’s certain, Dean always does.

His thumb comes back to your vagina, digital press to your clit as he attacks your neck. You try to move your head and get those plump lips against yours, but he sounds like an animal, increasing his rhymin and sucking your tender skin.

Everything is so hurried and irrational and not intimate. He comes inside of you after your own release, marking you up with his orgasm. As soon as he’s dones, he crawls out of you and lays on his back. Sure, you come around and rest your weary head on his chest, but that’s what it is. Deep silence. Not the one where love or magic or whatever Aphrodite is made of fills the void and makes the lovers comfortable. No, this one is visceral, like a chuckle empty of joy. It’s like the tie of gold that tried you two were tangled and ripped. Your love should be celebrated, but he tolerates it. He tolerates everything you do. He tolerates your presence.

The wrath sneaks in smoothly and astute. You aren’t just one night stand or a sweetheart. How can Dean act like you are? You lift your head and watch him breathing with his eyes closed. It’s so brutal, emotionally violent how you are aware that he’s only doing that not to have pillow talk. Where’s that man who’d throw blankets over your barbed wire? Easily misplaced by the one who threw your boundaries away and out the trap there nowadays. You made him your temple, you mural, your sky, now you’re begging for footnotes in the story of his life.

In the rare cracks of lucidity, you picture what would happen if you did what your old, better self would do. Dean appears to assume you are fine, but what would he do if you break free and leave you two in ruins, took this dagger in you and removed it, gain the weight of you then lose it? He was so comfortable with you. Maybe he didn’t think you would ever do that, but there’s just so much a woman with your determination and cleaverity can take. Believe, I could do it. You did it before with others. Sometimes you need to leave to breathe. Perhaps it's time.

But then, he embraces you. Just like that, all your doubts and fears and bruises caused by his kisses are reduced to paranoia. You decide maybe you got it wrong somehow. Not even blinking at the thought that Dean enjoys cuddles. No, he’s pulling you closer and snucking his nose into your hair because he loves you. Convince yourself. You are majestic with lies, it gets surprisingly facile to tell them when you nuzzle into the Winchester’s neck like his smell is some sort of placebo.

You aren't tiptoeing around it, or even stepping on the doubts with tiny hoaxes. You are barefoot on his love-- but his love feels a lot like walking through a street of fire and thorns. But hey, isn't that the point of devotion? To put something, someone first? To go through any suffering and starve to get to the prize, to walk through the golden gates? If this was a church, the priest would tell you to get on your knees and pray harder. You can see where he’s going. You’ll do better. Be everything Dean needs. You can be worthy-- you are worthy. You were his everything once and you can be that again. Pick up the soul tapestry he shrewd so unintentionally and patch it up. Most of those things must be in your head anyway, and if they aren't… Well. He will love you that deeply again, right? Right? It’s an echo. Right.

Tomorrow you’ll try again. In the name of love, condepedency, or whatever it is. Sit and watch him.

Comment & reblog. Feedback is magic! Check my masterlist ♡ Tags in reblog!

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean x you #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester smut #supernatural #spn #supernatural imagines #spn reader insert #dean winchester x you #dean winchester imagines #sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #dean winchester headcanon

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stitch1830 · 3 years

Text

What If

Happy Kantoph Mondangst! :D

I have some ideas to add to this, but perhaps I'll save that for next week ;) Thank you for reading as always!

......

Time moved, whether slowly or quickly wasn’t up to Toph, but it moved. The sun rose and fell and the days began and ended until there were too many days since she last felt him, last heard him. Almost two years, to be exact.

And time left her numb.

She lived each day to survive, and she hated that she could barely function without him. To make matters worse, Lin suffered the most from Toph’s hollow presence. She needed and wanted attention that sometimes Toph couldn’t provide, and she just knew that she was letting her daughter down.

But how could she move on? How could she just… let him go?

She didn’t know. And she feared she never would.

Her friends continued to check in with her almost everyday, and it was nice to have company, but their burden felt heavy on Toph’s shoulders, too. They should be living their lives, not babysitting her.

But time wouldn’t shake them off her back. They were a constant in her life, whether she wanted it or not.

It was probably for the best, if she was being honest.

Still, they always dragged her into saying yes to dumb shit that had absolutely nothing to do with her. Hence, the mission.

She wasn’t sure why she agreed to the mission. Toph didn’t even know why they were all gathering for this task. But based on the debrief, it was a stupid mission. It was stupid to spend so much time in the Swamp for them, and Toph specifically, to look for spirity mumbo jumbo when she couldn’t see. But the group insisted that she tag along, and it wasn’t like she had anything better to do.

When all the children were settled in Gaoling with her parents, the group flew off just like old times. And throughout the journey, everyone warned her of the visions of the Swamp, of the people she may hear or visit with.

Well, there was really only one person, but they kept that part open-ended.

For that, she was grateful.

…….

It didn’t take long for Toph to end up on her own in the Swamp.

Seriously, though. What was a blind woman doing on a mission that required having the ability to see? Only the spirits knew, and Toph went off on her own out of spite and boredom, and because she was partnered with Zuko and Katara and well…

Sometimes it was hard to hang out with the both of them. It reminded her of what she could’ve been with…

Toph shook her head and kept walking.

She casually trekked through the muddy forest of the Swamp, focusing on the sounds and vibrations around her to keep her friends within her sights so she wasn’t completely lost in a mysterious murky forest. Probably wasn’t the smartest thing for her to be on her own, but she just had to get away.

As she walked and kicked small pebbles in her path, a soft breeze arrived that alleviated some of the humidity of the swampy air. The wind had a liveliness to it, dancing around her and playing with her hair and loose clothing as she kept her brisk pace. It felt familiar to her, the wind. Almost like how someone would come up to her and tug at her clothes to get her attention, or how someone would push her bangs out of her face. As if the wind knew her thoughts, it managed to push her hair enough to tuck it behind her ear.

Suddenly, she stopped.

The breeze was laughing. His laugh. Soft, faint, teasing her to come closer. And the air left Toph’s lungs, she stood frozen in place, trying to figure out what tricks her mind was playing with her.

But then it wasn’t playing tricks with her. She heard him.

“Hey Chief.”

Her heart burst with joy and broke all at the same time, and she didn’t know what she should’ve been feeling at that moment. So she stood there, mouth agape, tears freely flowing, and her lips daring to say his name for the first time in two years.

“Kanto.”

“It’s good to see you, Toph.”

She sobbed. His voice was as warm as she remembered, and she could still hear the smile in it. But it was lighter, more airy, as if it would disappear in a moment. It didn’t ground her like it used to. If anything, it dared her to fly away with him, wherever he was.

Toph loved it, but she also hated it.

He was a ghost or a spirit, that much she knew. And that meant that she couldn’t hold him or touch him or feel his heart or his breath and she ached to feel him. But she couldn’t. So she stood there openly crying in the middle of a swamp, extending her arms and wishing she could reach out and feel him.

The breeze danced around her and she heard him speak again.

“Hey, don’t cry, Chief! I hate to see you cry, you know that.”

“I—” she sniffled, wiping her eyes and nose with her damp sleeve. “I’m sorry. I just...fuck, Kanto. I miss you.”

“I know,” he whispered. “I miss you too, Angel.”

“I just want to hold you,” she gasped. “It’s unfair.”

He sighed, or she thought he did. Every word and ‘breath’ he took gave her strength, but Toph yearned for more.

She knew she was so close to feeling him. As if one step closer would reach him, or if her arm was long enough, she’d find his soft but strong hands, or if she leaned her head, she’d find his forehead there.

But she couldn’t do any of those things. He wasn’t there. Not really.

He changed the subject. “How’s our little Linny?”

“She’s uh, she’s good,” Toph whispered. “She—she really misses you. Calls for you every night still.”

“I’m sorry I can’t be there.”

“I know.”

For some reason, Toph kept her hands held up by her waist with her palms up. She felt the wind tickle her fingers and palms, and it almost felt like his hands were holding hers again.

Almost.

“Kanto I—” Toph bit her lip, resisting the urge to burst into tears once again. “I miss you so much. I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You’re doing amazing, Toph. And you have your friends to help you.”

“But I don’t want them!” she cried. “I want you!”

“I know, but I can’t be there. Not physically, at least,” he replied, his voice calm and sad. “I miss you too.”

“Kanto—”

“Tell Lin that I love her and miss her, will you? If you want, that is. I know it might be hard to talk about me since she won’t remember me—”

“Of course I’ll tell her,” she interrupted. “And she can’t forget you. She—she won’t. I’ll make sure of it.”

He went silent, and she hoped he was smiling. She couldn’t tell anymore.

Her fingers danced with the wind.

“There’s a reason I’m here, Toph,” he spoke again softly. “I think you know why you called me here.”

Toph frowned. “I didn’t call for you, though.”

“Not exactly,” he admitted, “but you haven’t been able to let me go—”

“Why should I?” she snapped. “Am I just supposed to move on like you didn’t exist? Like you didn’t make me fall in love with you, like you didn’t give me the happiest days I’ve ever lived, like you didn’t die and break my heart into a million pieces?”

“Letting go and forgetting are two different things, Chief,” he explained. “But you haven’t been able to talk about me or even sleep in our bed.”

“Because all I can smell is your cologne and when I wake up I still reach for you. How am I supposed to survive if I keep doing that??”

“Please, Toph,” he begged, and her anger withered away when she heard the pain in his voice.

This was as hard for him as it was for her.

“You were always so much stronger than me,” he cried. “I wouldn’t be able to do what you have to do.

“But this isn’t about you or me. You have to do it all for Lin.”

“Everyone always says that,” she replied bitterly.

“Will you do it for me, then? Will you hold our baby girl when she cries at night and rock her to sleep?” he asked. “Please? I just—I hate seeing you this way over me.”

“Yeah.” Her voice caught in her throat as she attempted to laugh. “I’m a sap and it’s all your fault.”

She heard him choke out a laugh too, and the wind rushed into her.

He was so close, just a little bit further, and perhaps she’d feel his forehead against hers.

“Promise me you’ll take care of yourself and Lin,” Kanto said, his voice as intoxicating as she remembered. Her resolve disappeared with every word he spoke.

Toph let out a tired sigh as her fingers continued to dance with the breeze. “I was never able to say no to you.”

“I know."

She actually smiled. A small, weary smile, but it was nice to hear him say that again, to remember all the different things that phrase meant to each other.

The smile faded as quickly as it came when Kanto spoke again. “Toph, we’re running out of time.”

Her stomach dropped and tied itself into a thousand knots. “No,” she replied through gritted teeth. “Please, not yet.”

“We don’t get to choose. Please, Toph, you have to say it.”

“Say what?”

“You know. You have to say good—”

Toph’s eyes grew wide and she shook her head vehemently. “No! I don’t want to!”

“I know, but I’d hate myself if you lived with this regret.”

“Everything about that day I regret!” she shouted. “I should’ve told you I love you more! Made you stay at home! Or I should’ve gone to work with you! Anything that would’ve changed the outcome.”

“It wouldn’t have changed, we can’t mess with fate, babe.

“Just… do this for me. Say it all to let me go on some level. Say it before you can’t. I don’t have much time.”

“Kanto please—”

“Toph,” he interrupted urgently. “If there’s anything you want to say, now’s your chance.”

Spirits, where would she begin? She lived the last two years of her life in agony over it all, the fact that she couldn’t save him, the fact that she didn’t show him how much she loved him, the fact that she was failing as a mother when he was the very best father, all of it broke her each and every day.

There were fleeting thoughts of regret for even falling in love with him. That this wouldn’t be an issue had she just kept it professional, and she hated she even thought that way. Because without them, there wouldn’t be Lin, and even though it pained Toph to recognize Kanto in Lin, she was Toph’s everything. The earth beneath her feet, her foundation, her whole world.

She hated that she wished she was dead instead, that Kanto and Lin would’ve been better without her, or perhaps, in a deep, dark, part of her heart, she wondered what she would’ve done if Lin wasn’t in the picture… Would she even be alive?

What if she had gotten to say goodbye to him on that day? Would all of this have been easier? Toph doubted it, but what was she to do but ponder all the scenarios that told her she was living her current life wrong. That if she was stronger or smarter or more empathetic, none of this would be happening.

She resented every single “what if” that crossed her mind, because none of it mattered.

All that mattered was now. The present.

There was a rustling of leaves behind her, and his presence in the wind flickered for a moment.

They really were running out of time. Again.

“Kanto, I—I love you,” she cried out.

“I know, I love you too,” he replied quietly. Too quietly.

“Please, I just want more—I don’t know how to do this without you!”

“You’ve got your friends, your family. You have Sokka—”

“But they’re not you! I want you! You need to see Lin walk and earthbend and she does this thing when she’s mad that’s just like you—”

The rustling was getting closer.

“Toph—”

“Kanto—”

Her concentration broke for a second, because she recognized the footsteps.

“Toph!”

He was faint, so faint.

“Kanto! I—” she hesitated when Zuko broke through the vines.

The wind began to move away from her, and she ran after it. And with every last ounce of strength and breath she had, she reached out for Kanto one last time and said,

“Goodbye.”

#kantoph #toph #toph beifong #kanto #atla #lok #writing #the long winding road to you #the chief and dep series #like a boomerang i always come back to you series #kantoph mondangst #sorry the beginning is dumb #it really be like that lmao

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vannahfanfics · 3 years

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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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theladyofdeath · 4 years

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Rags & Riches {1}

Summary: An A Court of Thorns and Roses Fanfiction. 19th century AU.Based on the prompt sent in by @cat5313All characters belong to SJM, I am just a fan with a plot.

Warning: Mature content strung throughout.

A/N: Shoutout to @throne-of-ashes-and-beauty for helping me with chapter 1! I hope you all enjoy. Let me know what you think & comment if you wanna be tagged. :)

Elain had always loved the rain.

It was necessary for the life cycle of her precious flowers. They had to brave the storm to embrace their beauty. She watched the thick droplets pour down, hitting the glass of the window with a soft pitter-patter.

“Miss Elain?”

Elain jumped, peering over her shoulder from where she sat near the windowpane in the library. Nesta was across the room, sitting by the fireplace with her nose in a book, as she usually was. She wasn’t sure where Feyre had gone. Their younger sister had claimed to go to bed just after supper, but they both knew she wasn’t in her bedchamber.

Elain rose as Alis approached.

“Your father wishes to see you in his study,” she said.

Elain nodded her head in thanks before Alis curtsied and scurried away.

She stood frozen, watching her leave.

Nesta, eyes still on the pages before her, asked, “Well? Are you going?”

Elain nodded, unable to move.

She knew what was coming and she surely wasn’t ready for it. Of course, it was time. It was her duty. She was of age and of a noble household.

Nesta said nothing more, but Elain knew her older sister’s eyes were now on her.

Elain nodded, once more, and hurried out of the library and down the hall to her father’s study. He was seated behind his large mahogany desk, writing a letter by the candlelight. Elain stepped inside and gave a gentle knock against the doorframe.

He looked up and blinked a few times before smiling. “Ah. Darling, come in, please.”

Elain did as she was told, sitting across from him in one of his guest chairs.

“It’s late,” was all she said. “I was planning on going to bed soon.”

Lord Archeron smiled. “Don’t worry, I won’t be long. I only wanted to say that there is a man that wishes to court you. He has written, saying that he saw you at the Hale’s ball last month and thought you were of the utmost beauty. He will join us here, on Friday, to introduce himself.”

Elain was not surprised. She cleared her throat before asking, “And may I ask his name?”

“Lucien Vanserra,” Lord Archeron replied. “The Vanserra’s are well known for their business. Perhaps you’ve heard of his father, Beron.”

Elain had. She had heard many things about Beron Vanserra, none of them pleasant.

He must have seen the change in her features, because he then said, “Do not worry, my dear. Lucien is a great man with a great reputation. He will be a good match for you.”

Elain nodded, nibbling on her lip - a habit in which her mother would have instantly chastised, if she were still alive.

“That’s all, dear,” Lord Archeron said, dipping his quill back into his ink. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, father,” Elain said, rising to her feet, although it was hardly more than a whisper. Once she turned, she soon halted, finding who stood just inside the doorway. She hadn’t even heard him come in. He must’ve heard every word.

Elain’s heart sank even further into the pit of her stomach.

“Ah, Azriel, come in,” Lord Archeron said from behind Elain.

“Sorry to interrupt, my Lord,” Azriel said, voice low as he approached his Lord’s desk. “A letter arrived for you.”

Azriel handed her father a sealed envelope with his white-gloved hand before bowing to him, then to Elain, and excusing himself.

Elain watched him walk away before she collected herself. “Goodnight, father,” she said, once more, before excusing herself.

Lord Archeron mumbled a goodnight after she had walked out of the door.

The house was quiet as Elain made her way down the hallway. She passed the library, where Nesta was still sitting by the fire with her novel, and toward the proper sitting room that remained lifeless.

Since her mother’s passing, their house seemed smaller. It was one thing when they had guests over, but when they didn’t, it was only the four of them. Her father spent most of his time in his study, Nesta spent most of hers in the library, and no one truly knew what Feyre spent her time doing.

Elain couldn’t scold her younger sister, though. She had a secret of her own.

He was standing in the corner of the room, close to a floor-length window covered in heavy gold-trimmed curtains. She approached him, quietly, and when she stood within a breaths-width, she reached up to place her palm gently against his smooth cheek.

He melted into her touch, eyes closing.

Neither of them said a word.

There was not much to say.

They knew their love affair couldn’t last, if it could even be called that. It had been mild flirtations, sneaking innocent kisses, and attempting to meet one another’s eyes from across the room for nearly a year.

But she was crazy about him, although no one would ever, could ever, know.

And now she was of the age in which she would have to be married.

To a rich man, of course. Anyone else would be considered shameful.

“I have to go,” he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to her brow. “Alis is expecting me downstairs.”

Elain nodded, attempting a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he replied. “Goodnight, Elain.”

“Goodnight, Azriel,” she said, in return.

He slipped away, out of her embrace and through the doorway before she could form another thought.

She didn’t watch him go.

Every time he left, it hurt too much.

For every time he walked away, it could be the last time.

~~~~~~

Nesta hated brushing her own hair.

Her mother brushed it for her when she was young, then her lady’s maid before they had to let the ladies’ maids go after their father’s gambling addiction had caused them to reevaluate their household budget.

But as her hair grew long, as she was able to braid into more beautiful and elegant twists and knots, it’s constant upkeep frustrated her to no limits.

After she finally was able to pull the brush through with no snags or tangles, she left it to hang loose around her shoulders and opened her balcony doors, letting the cool night air sweep in. The rain had recently subsided, but the scent lingered. She stepped out, breathing in the smell of their manor house, though her room, unfortunately, was above the stables.

It wasn’t overwhelming, thanks to the mild summer they were having, but it still was a smell she had taken years to become accustomed to. She looked out into the dark expanse of their land, trying to find a bit of movement she wasn’t sure if she should be expecting.

There was a lantern still lit in the stables and Nesta could see a form of a shadow moving against the wall, but she paid the stable boy no mind. He often worked late hours, and it wasn’t uncommon for his lantern to be lit well after Nesta fell asleep.

She heard the rustling of leaves and twigs and turned to the south side of the manor, seeing him emerge from a small garden Elain had planted by the fountains.

Her stomach both dropped and tightened in anticipation. Anticipation of the pleasure she would soon be feeling, but also of the pain. There was almost certainly always a little bit of pain. But after she endured the pain, she got to bask in the numbness, relish in the glorious in between of sleep and consciousness.

Tomas Mandray had been claiming for almost two years that at the next ball he attended, he’d make the proclamation for her hand. Nesta wasn’t sure if she was frustrated by the fact that he’d been dragging his feet or relieved. But as he climbed the lattice beneath her window, crushing Elain’s gorgeous roses she’d painstakingly tended to, she had to wonder if his delay was a curse or if it were secretly a blessing.

Nesta wasn’t even sure if she wanted to be married, she had never met anyone who made her excited at the thought. The idea of spending the rest of your life with the same man, a man who thought you were nothing more than a pretty face or an arm ornament…

No, Nesta wasn’t sure about marriage, but it was expected of her.

Although, everyone knew Elain would be the one to marry first. She was charming and beautiful, kind and welcoming...and had always wanted to be a wife.

Nesta loved her sisters, but they were all so different she had no idea how they had been born to the same set of parents.

Tomas crept along the shadows of the garden until he reached the side of the house. He kept along it until he reached the spot he was able to climb. She watched as he climbed, watched to make sure no one was around to witness. The stable boy didn’t seem to notice, thankfully.

He hopped down onto her balcony with a thud before examining Nesta in her nightdress. She didn’t back down from his hungry gaze.

~~~~~~

Cassian was exhausted.

He had been working as a stable boy for a week, but it felt like much longer. He liked it, though. He liked being outside, working with the horses. They were beautiful creatures. He admired them.

“Goodnight, Marigold,” he said, locking up the mare’s gate. “I’ll see you tomorrow, beautiful.”

The horse huffed in reply, making Cassian chuckle. “Yeah, I love you, too.”

He grabbed his lantern from where it hung and walked out of the stable for the night. The night was foggy, the air brisk. Cassian loved this weather. He loved it even more at night.

As he was about to head back around to the servant’s entrance, Cassian halted. He could see directly into Lady Nesta’s bedchamber, and she wasn’t alone.

A man, probably around Cassian’s age, had his hands wandering up her thighs, and his mouth pressed roughly against hers. Cassian wasn’t familiar with living the noble life, but he was pretty sure she was doing it wrong.

He didn’t realize he was staring until a set of gray-blue eyes met his own.

Cassian hurried away, hoping she didn’t catch him, but knowing full well that she did.

~~~~~~

Feyre felt invincible with a handful of cards. Especially as she sat at a table full of men.

Women shouldn’t gamble. They claimed it was because it was “unladylike”, but Feyre knew it was because women were smarter than men. If women began to gamble, men would be out of the sport.

Which is why she always wore trousers and a loose tunic when she visited the gambling den, why she always wore a cap, with her hair tied back.

She mostly observed, not speaking, not playing her hand. Every once in a while, she’d make a play, only betting when she knew she’d win. Only upping the pot by a little at a time, so she could stay under the radar.

She’d just won a hand, taking the pot of over $600, and began scraping it into her pouch. She nodded to the rest of the men at her table and slunk back into the darkness, ready to disappear into the night. She slipped out the side door, as she always did, and paused, weighing the heft of her bag on her hip.

She had done well.

She suddenly wished she had someone to brag to.

As she took a step toward the street, the door swung open behind her and a tall brute came stumbling out.

His green eyes grazed over her, a wicked smile contorting his lips.

“You are no man,” he said in way of greeting, his voice deep and slurred and coated with rum.

Feyre turned her back to him, taking another step toward the street. She didn’t want to run, didn’t want to seem panicked, but there was one thing she knew - drunk men who followed ladies into allies were not to be trusted.

“Nor are you,” she said, her chin lifted high. “If you’ll excuse me.”

As soon as she began to move, his hand grasped hers, pulling her back.

Feyre was strong, intelligent. But, she was no match for a man twice her size and built with pure muscle.

He held her close to him, his head bent down, lips close to her neck. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin.

“Let me go,” she demanded, hoping her voice sounded as intimidating as she wanted it to.

“But I haven’t had my fun yet,” he whispered, pushing her up against the brick wall of the gambling den. She could hear the ruckus from inside, could hear the laughter of those winning and the regret of those who have lost.

Feyre tried to move, tried to lift her knee to his balls, but couldn’t move a muscle as his giant body pinned hers into stillness.

“You’re quite lovely,” he slurred, lips soft on her neck. “Even in men’s clothing.”

Feyre squeezed her eyes closed. She prayed to whoever was listening that he’d drop dead before his hands could explore any further.

“I promise this will all be worth your while,” he said, his tongue grazing her neck.

“Is this how you get all your women?”

Feyre’s eyes shot open as her attacker released his grip. Those green eyes were infuriated as they shot toward the end of the alley.

The newcomer wore a fine suit. His dark hair was swept back, his lavender eyes bright in the shadows of the lanterns.

“I have to admit, Tamlin,” he began, his hands shoved into his pockets as he meandered closer to the pair. “Your standards in women seemed to have lowered.”

He was close enough now that when Feyre spat, it landed directly on his expensive shoes.

He blinked, lifting his brows, humored. “He’s the one that tries to take a bite of you and I’m the one you spit on?”

“Get out, Rhysand,” her attacker, Tamlin, hissed. “This do-doesn’t concern you.”

“I’m sure your father will be pleased to find you’ve spent your night out drinking and whoring around,” Rhysand grinned, “again. Now, if you’ll move, I’ll be escorting this lovely woman, with an interesting fashion sense, home.”

As he reached his hand toward her, Feyre took a step back toward the door. “I can take care of myself. Thanks.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Tamlin scowled, then looked to Rhysand. “You, however-”

Rhysand’s fist made contact with Tamlin’s jaw, instantly knocking him down, unconscious.

“I hate that guy,” he muttered, bright eyes reconnecting with Feyre’s own. “Now, where were we?”

“I was going home,” Feyre said, brushing past him.

“You know, it’s not safe for a woman out here, alone, at night,” Rhysand crooned, following her, hands back into his pockets.

“Ah,” Feyre sighed, “you’ve cracked the code of why I’m dressed as a man.”

Rhysand snorted. “More like a boy.”

Feyre spun around as she reached the street. “Don’t you have better things to do?”

Rhysand took a moment to think about it. “No… No, not really.”

With a roll of her eyes, Feyre continued on, back toward the way of her home.

“I believe a ‘thank you’ is in order,” Rhysand said, jogging until he was in front of her, walking backward so that he could watch her reaction.

“Thank you? For what?”

“For saving you from that prick,” he said, grinning. “Oh, sorry, your clothing made me forget I was talking to a woman. How dare I use such language?”

“You talk too much,” Feyre scowled.

His grin widened. “Come on. Let me take you home. Live nearby?”

Feyre had to admit the thought was tempting. She was exhausted. “No.”

“All the more reason for me to take you home,” he said, suddenly coming to a halt next to a horse. He patted the brown mare’s side. “Come on.”

“You wear a suit that fine to ride a horse into town?” Feyre asked, lifting a brow.

“I’m not so self-entitled that I would ask my driver to stay awake for half the night to take me into town when I’m perfectly capable of riding my horse,” he said, hauling himself up onto the saddle. “Now, are you going to walk or join me?”

Feyre hesitated, which only seemed to please him.

“That’s what I thought.” He held out his hand. “Come on. I promise I won’t bite.”

The walk back to the manor was long and all Feyre longed for was to quickly be back home in her bed before the servants woke up for their early morning chores.

She sighed, taking his hand. He helped her onto the horse, and when the mare slowly began to walk, he grinned as her arms went flying around his waist.

“I don’t know where I’m taking you,” he said.

“Archeron Manor,” she replied.

“Whoaaa,” he said, bringing his horse to a halt. “You’re a Lady? One of Lord Isaac’s daughters?”

“Feyre,” was all she said.

He kicked the horse in her sides, moving once more.

He cursed under his breath. “What the hell are you doing out here? Gambling? Are you insane?”

Feyre lifted a brow. “I can’t give you all my secrets, can I? We’ve only just met and I don’t trust you for a second.”

A soft laugh shook his sturdy frame. “Fair enough. Don’t worry. I’ll ask again on Friday.”

“Friday?”

“Isn’t your family hosting a ball on Friday? I was invited.” Feyre’s mind went blank at his words, as she tried to quickly run through the guest list she’d glanced at weeks ago, when the invitations were going out. All the names she’d recognized were insignificant men she’d known for years and the ones she didn’t were mostly older lords from surrounding lands.

This man, who exuded grace and danger in such a simple gesture as slipping his hand into his pocket, there was no way he was some lowly lord from her territory.

He confirmed exactly that as he glanced at her over his shoulder, lavender eyes locking with hers, and said, “I’m Lord of Velaris, but you, Feyre, darling, can call me Rhysand.”

_________________________________________________

@throne-of-ashes-and-beauty @mariamuses @a-happybird @amusicalbookworm @manoncrochanblackbeak @alifletcher2012 @candid-confetti @fandoms-everywhere-united @mis-lil-red @littlehoneyybee @abillionlittlepieces @impossiblescissorspeachpaper @awesomelena555 @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @tswaney17 @jemma-nessian-and-elriel @rhysandsrightknee @gendryaforthemasses @dayanna-hatter @thebluemartini @welcometothespeaknowworldtour @julemmaes @christiashadows @sleeping-and-books @itsme-malin @agnez312 @cat5313 @amren-courtofdreams @chemica @empress-ofbloodshed @islamonna @illyrianbeauty

#acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #nessian #feysand #elriel #nesta #cassian #feyre #rhysand #elain #azriel #sjm #fanfic #fanfiction #chapter 1 #tara writes #tacmc r&r

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thetriggeredhappy · 4 years

Note

Hi!! I love your work sm dude! QwQ Your Running Blind series is legitmately incredible! (It had me crying hadhs) I always get super excited whenever you talk about it or update it, Taking Shots is so creative and funny and sweet just AAGH I love it so much- It is probably my favourite fanfic in this entire fandom. If you are at all taking requests, I would like to ask if you could do an EngieSpy fic with Spy knowing exactly how to get Engie all flustered cus I think that would be cute -w- Ty!

ahgfdsj don’t mind that this took forever,,,, here’s some cheesy cheesy romance ft. a cheesy romantic

(no warnings)

Dell Conagher was a 45 year old man. He had more degrees than fingers (including the false ones) and a considerable amount of respect and acclaim in the wide majority of academic communities. And besides that, he made himself a formidable opponent in combat, taking no prisoners and becoming a tactical nightmare to deal with, able to push and direct in a way that others couldn’t do so effectively single-handedly.

So you’d think that there wasn’t much that would leave him flustered, but figures—there were people who could fluster bigshots like him just as much as there were people to fluster your average Joe. Maybe he should consider it a humbling experience, but he was plenty humble already.

What he hated was that it was so predictable of him, the things that made him blush. Nothing unusual—some of the other members of the team had initially assumed from his accent and general demeanor that surely he would balk and blush at more risqué jokes and shenanigans, but he could swear and chuckle just as much as the rest of them. And while he occasionally got fired up over things, he didn’t tend to get hot when he got angry so much as stern and then very much cold.

No, what got him to stammer and make a damn fool of himself was just the thing that not many people had the guts to do to him over the course of his life—goopy, sappy, extremely romantic displays.

Just his luck that he’d fall for a Frenchman.

Part of what got him so flustered—and therefore more frustrated with himself—was the fact that he was smart enough to figure out that it probably took an awful lot of work to do the things Spy did for him. He didn’t know of a good florist in a hundred mile radius of their base, and Spy had ranted about it enough that he’d also gathered there were no particularly good wineries around either. And you probably had to take a class to get as good as Spy at decoration and whatnot, surely, and cooking too. Setting a whole table and room and making a romantic dinner with wine older than his grandad with a whole bouquet as a centerpiece, well, it must’ve taken Spy all day, or, or maybe even weeks of planning and plotting and scheming—

And he tried to dissuade Spy from going to all that trouble, every time he pulled off some stunt like that. Shook his head and called him a sentimental old fool. But it never made Spy’s grin budge, maybe because Spy could tell the comment reflected right back onto the Engineer too. And he didn’t let up.

Instead he walked straight up to the Engineer and took his right hand, bending at the waist and lifting his hand to lay a brief but meaningful kiss on his knuckles, and already Dell was flushing, even before Spy got to the verbal part of his greeting. “Hello, mon cher Monsieur Conagher,” he said, smirking a little.

“I can’t feel that, you know,” he reminded, keeping his voice level and glancing between his gloved hand and Spy’s face.

“Oh? I’d disagree,” Spy purred, and guided him a half step forward before kissing each knuckle in turn one more time in succession. “I’d say you must be feeling something, at least.”

“What makes you say that?” he asked, brows furrowing just a touch.

“Why else would you be so red?” Spy teased, the slightest further uptick at the corner of his mouth, and the Engineer huffed, pulling back his hand and looking away.

“Hush, you,” he muttered, flustered, moreso as that just made Spy laugh.

“Mon cher, don’t tell me this makes you embarrassed,” Spy said, looking well amused by the idea.

“Well, you’re the one making a damn fool of the both of us, right where anyone on the team could see,” Dell pointed out.

Spy raised an eyebrow. “Is this your way of asking me to stop?” he asked.

“Well—yes! It is!” he said, even though a significant portion of him immediately protested.

“Understood,” Spy said, and the word was tailed by a little grin that told him he’d just gotten himself waist-deep in some new kind of trouble.

He waited for the kicker, when Spy did immediately stop with the showy displays of affection and admiration. The punchline ended up showing up relatively quickly in the form of a bouquet in a vase there on a workbench right in the middle of his workshop, unannounced and unprompted, without even a note. But he knew who it was from, even if he had no idea when Spy snuck past his security—or how long Spy had known how to sneak past his security.

And after that first gift, he found others cropping up in similar fashions for a while—most often flowers, and occasionally wine, chocolate, other luxury goods he’d never buy for himself but couldn’t help but be delighted by when he received them as a gift, especially from his lover. They appeared occasionally in his workshop, or sometimes beside the coffee maker (presumably because he tended to be the first one there, the first one awake in the morning). And the one thing he could count himself being lucky about was the fact that Spy didn’t seem to be there to catch how it made him blush, every single time.

He tried to bring it up, when he and Spy were together, and Spy perfectly feigned ignorance and misunderstanding, as well as confusion and amusement. He stopped bringing it up, knowing it wouldn’t get him anywhere.

And then one day, for reasons he didn’t understand, the gifts shifted. He still got roses and flowers, usually just in time to replace the previous bouquet in the vase that had made a home in his workshop (although moved somewhere they would be less of a fire hazard). But less often did he get the wine and chocolates and similar classic romantic fare. Instead he found, occasionally, that he would glance up from his work in the workshop at the clock on the wall, and he would realize he’d worked straight through dinner again, and he’d curse his iron-clad focus for a moment before his eyes fell to the counter below the clock to land on a plate containing a full and well-rounded meal, covered in plastic so as to protect it from sawdust or similar mess.

He found that, suddenly and for reasons he couldn’t immediately explain, he tended to have leftovers waiting, labeled with his name, in the fridge despite him not having put them there. He found the shirt he’d discarded as a lost cause after a bad tear washed and stitched cleanly and sitting on top of his pile of clean laundry. He found a spare set of new laces just when he started to wonder if the ones in his boots needed replacing, and his supply of water bottles he kept near his station to stave off dehydration mysteriously never getting any emptier.

And for some reason that flustered him all the more, because flowers and wine and kisses on the back of the hand were nice, were a lovely display to think of and accomplish. But to be thinking of him so often, to notice such tiny details and to keep on top of them and to fix them—without even saying anything, at that! To notice those things meant that Spy was thinking of him so much more than he expected, than he’d ever feel right expecting, was more than he could ever ask from any partner and it just...

He found himself bringing it up one day, chest filled to the bursting and needing somewhere for it to go. He and Spy were sitting together in the smoking room, and Spy had some album playing—worn enough by then that Dell could just barely understand it well enough to parse out that it wasn’t English. Whatever it was, it was low and soothing and non-distracting and filled the room just as much as the warmth of the fire and the lingering smell of exotic spices from some point in the past.

Stronger was the smell of Spy’s cologne, though, there sat next to him, warm against his shoulder. He couldn’t tell much about what it was that Spy was reading, just that it looked to be a play of some kind based on the spacing of phrases, and that it was in Russian. He was sure his own reading was probably significantly less interesting, just being the order form for the next month’s shipment of parts that he needed to parse through.

Easy to get distracted from, was a way he could refer to it. Easy to stop thinking about it and to instead think about the man leaning against him.

“Spy?” he asked softly.

“Hm?” Spy hummed, looking up from his book.

“Why do you keep doing things for me?”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Spy smirked.

“I’m being serious,” Dell said, voice still quiet.

Spy’s expression didn’t so much fall as it did relax. “Are you?” he asked. “Isn’t it obvious?”

When Dell just frowned, Spy deigned to elaborate.

“I do these things because I care about you, mon cher,” he said simply. “To make you happy, because I want you to be happy, because I care about you and you deserve to be happy. If I’m not doing a good job, correct me so I can do better.”

“It’s not that,” he said quickly, and hesitated. “I just, I don’t understand—“

“—What, why I care? Why you deserve to be happy?” he asked outright, and maybe that was it. Maybe that really was all. And maybe it showed on his face. “Laborer, have you considered that your reluctance to accept my gifts and acts of appreciation are because you’re uncomfortable with the idea of someone holding you to such high value in such a real and tangible way?”

“I—I don’t—that’s—“ he stammered, face going red.

“That perhaps others caring about and valuing you has been either a distant dream or something you imagined to be a reality because you needed the morale to get through the day, and now your mind and emotions are significantly freed up and you don’t quite know what to do with yourself, which is something both new and intimidating for you, someone who always tries to be so in control of your own life?”

“Why the sudden psychoanalysis?” he managed, feeling more than a little bit tense.

“Because I have a feeling you intended for this conversation to be your asking me to not do things for you because you feel you don’t deserve them, and quite frankly I’m stubborn enough that you will never change my mind,” Spy said, and leaned in to kiss him, an ice pack on a sucker punch, startling and disorienting and...

And nice.

When Spy pulled back, he seemed to see the disorientation, and he smiled. “It’s alright that you don’t know what to do yet. It’s alright if you never know. I simply enjoy doing these things for you, as often as I can without treading on your toes or making you feel smothered.”

“You never do,” Dell assured with the part of his brain that was still functioning.

Spy kissed him on the cheek gently. “You are very sweet, Dell Conagher,” he said simply.

“Me? You’re the one who—“

“Shush,” Spy laughed, and gave him another peck. “Just accept that making you happy is what makes me happy, oui? Is that such a strange thing to ask?”

“It feels like it,” Dell admitted.

“Well, perhaps the millionth time I say it, it won’t,” Spy teased.

“You’ll say that a million times?” he asked, incredulous.

“I’ll say it as many times as you’ll tolerate. I’ll say it on the hour every day until you get entirely tired of me or die, whichever comes first—or perhaps at the exact same moment. I’ll learn every language on the planet and say it in each and every one until you can repeat it back to me fluently. Because, mon cher, I mean it, and when I mean something, there isn’t a soul on the planet who can stop me from making it absolutely clear that I mean it, not even the person I love most in the world and his ridiculous, skewed lack of ego. Do you understand?”

The Engineer kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him, and yeah, he understood. He really did. And maybe Spy was right—maybe he would believe it someday. Maybe someone that stubborn was the only type of person who could convince him.

Time would tell.

#tf2 #team fortress 2 #engiespy #napoleon complex #shut up me #my fanfiction #everybody talks #this be some Gay Shit #also thank you!!

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songfell-ut · 4 years

Text

Chapter 12 does stuff

Still not to the Underground because Frisk is that lady at the office who gets everything done for everyone and then if she ever gets sick of takes a vacation everyone is like “OMFG WHERE IS SHE” amirite @lostmypotatoes

Chapter can be found here.

She had never been so tall before! She could see the top of everyone’s heads! “Look at me!” she crowed as the others came in the door.

“Hello, dear,” King Asgore said sheepishly as Toriel froze on the threshold, arms full of groceries. “Er…do you need any help?”

Frisk was standing on the King’s shoulders, clinging to his horns. “Asgoooooore,” his wife intoned, starting low and sliding up to a very warning note.

“Yes, dearest?” He beamed at her. “Do you like my new hat?”

Asriel laughed, taking the sacks from his mother’s arms to set them on the table. “I remember doing that when we were little,” he remarked.

“And I remember how your father turned his head too fast and nearly took your eye out,” retorted the Queen.

Frisk gripped the horns a little tighter, hoping Toriel wasn’t going to make her get down. “Oh, it’s fine, pumpkin,” Asgore said. Nevertheless, he tapped the human’s shoe. “Perhaps you could sit down, child. It may be—”

The moment Frisk moved her foot, it slipped. Down she went—

—into the King’s arms as he caught her, swung her around in a wide arc, and hitched her up to sit on his shoulder. “Ta-daaa!” he boomed over the child’s shrieking laughter. “You see, Tori? No problem whatsoever!”

Toriel’s face was such a picture that Asriel gave a quiet “Pfffft” and had to hurry out of the room under her glare. “Of course not,” she said tartly. “You do realize we have to give him back in one piece, don’t you, sweetie pie?” Ignoring their complaints, the Queen reached up to set Frisk on the floor. “Now, Gorey, you put these things away, and I will put Kris to bed. Say good night, my child.”

“G’night, Your Majesty,” the human said forlornly.

“Good night, little one.” Asgore’s eyes crinkled as he smiled at her. “Sleep well.”

Frisk trotted to the bedroom ahead of Toriel, bouncing a little. Even if it was bedtime, this was the best thing that had ever happened: not only did she get to spend the night here, the other humans wanted the monsters to keep thinking she was a boy, so they’d asked Toriel not to give her a bath. It was just pie, playtime, and a bed all to herself! Why couldn’t Asgore and Toriel be her real parents? Why couldn’t—

The bedroom door opened, and the dream suddenly changed. This was the right room, but it was cold and smelled dusty, as if it’d been abandoned for a long time. Asgore was standing in the middle of it, huge and silent, shoulders bowed; the King seemed older, angrier, his features drawn tight with grief. He looked up at her as if she was a stranger. His eyes shifted downward, and narrowed.

The priestess raised her hands as he gripped his trident. “Your Majesty, wait,” she tried to say, but he was slashing at her and—

Frisk woke up in her own bedroom. Muzzy with sleep, she had no idea why her blanket was so huge, or heavy, or why it smelled like leather. No matter: it felt so safe that the fear ebbed away as she lay buried in its folds, and so comfortable that she turned over and nearly went back to sleep.

The door was ajar. Smells crept in, and voices, but mostly smells. Her stomach growled, and Frisk reluctantly had to struggle her way out of the—coat? It was Sans’ new overcoat, wrapped around her several times, more like a tarp than a blanket. Her head was almost a foot away from the nearest opening, and she didn’t even know where the foot of it was. She slithered up through the neck, played with the fur around the collar for a moment, then adjusted her robe and climbed out of bed.

The voices turned out to be Sans, who was drying his face with a napkin, and Dr. Gaster, who was seated at the table in his own form, almost as eerie by daylight as he had been in her barrier’s glow. “Good morning, Your Eminence,” he said serenely.

“Good morning, Doctor,” she responded in kind. “If you’ll excuse me a moment…”

“Of course.” The monster sipped his coffee as she went to her dressing room and mostly shut the door.

Sans was tapping his phalanges on the tabletop. “So, it looks like we’re—” He broke off, looking from the undisguised skeleton to the dressing room. “Wait. What the crap?”

“The lady and I became more intimately acquainted in your absence,” said Gaster.

“Doctor,” Frisk called warningly.

Gaster chuckled. “Forgive me, my lady. I couldn’t resist. What I mean,” he said to Sans, who was fully bristling, “is that she caught me trying to steal her box the first night you were away. She trapped me until I explained myself, and I learned that when an angry High Priestess puts you inside a barrier, none of your magic is effective, especially not a human disguise.”

“You did what?!” Sans’ fist came within millimeters of the tabletop, but the dressing-room door opened, and he stopped exactly in time. He gave the table a little pat instead, dropping his hand into his lap as Frisk came to sit next to him. “Ya broke in here while I was gone?” he demanded.

“He did indeed.” Frisk glared at the doctor for a moment, then turned her attention to breakfast. “What has Sans told you, Dr. Gaster?”

“I explained our deal to him, and he has related a remarkable story about your trip to the Underground as a child.” Gaster drained his coffee and set it on a tray. “Please forgive me, but I must know: do you recall anything about the day of the accident?”

Sans sat up straighter. It obviously hadn’t occurred to him to ask her that yet; she didn’t blame him, after all the emotional turmoil of the previous night, and she couldn’t blame him for waiting so intently for her answer.

But she was finding it a little difficult to focus. It was finally sinking in that she had told Sans everything, that he knew she was Kris and had agreed to take her to the Underground. She’d really get to see everyone again, and she could talk to Asgore as an old friend; maybe the jolly King she’d known as a little girl was still in there somewhere, ready to be brought back…

Frisk finished chewing and swallowed as both skeletons waited for her response. She had to remind herself that Gaster had only agreed to help her mislead everyone – including Sans – in exchange for information, and that it was a very valid question. “I don’t know what happened, no,” she said slowly, to their disappointment. “I remember getting permission to go to Chara’s performance with Sans and Papyrus, and I know I was supposed to do something, but that was it. The next thing I knew, I was in a stagecoach, and Rosa was telling me I’d be going to school.”

Sans’ brows rose a little, and Gaster said, “A pity, but understandable. Many people who survived the event have little to no memory of it, given the amount and violence of the magic involved. Sans tells me you were brought along in the first place as a sort of test?”

Frisk made a face. “I was told that monsters were unpredictable and we needed to know how they’d behave under different circumstances, including whether they’d treat a child as well as a human would. They made me pretend to be a boy ‘for safety.’”

“Yeah, like humans treated you that fuckin’ well,” Sans muttered, ignoring Gaster’s not-very-hard smack on the head.

The High Priestess took as dignified a bite of sausage as she could. “I always had a feeling that my missing memories were linked to the Underground,” she said around it, “and now I know it for a fact. I have a more solid connection with monsters than any other human alive. If I were to go with Sans to reestablish diplomatic relations, Asgore might just hear me out. When I was there as Kris…” She swallowed around a lump in her throat. “He and Asriel played with me for hours.” Thinking of Asriel hurt too much. Frisk said, just to be saying something else, “I know he’s changed, and so have I, but...”

“Nah, ya haven’t,” Sans mumbled, making her go bright red.

Gaster glanced back and forth between them, but merely said, “Persuading King Stephin to allow it may be difficult. The last time he and King Asgore spoke, it was not on the most amiable terms.”

“So I hear.” Frisk pressed her lips together. “We need to convince him, and everyone else, that it’s necessary. Based on Sans’ knowledge of solar arrays and your own work, Doctor, how soon could you make a prototype to demonstrate to the public?”

“It depends how large and how strong a model you’d require,” admitted the doctor. “Is speed more important, or impressiveness?”

“I’d like something before we leave, please, even if it’s only large enough to power a witchlight. Now that Sans has been here for two weeks without incident, people are starting to get curious, and let’s be honest: if we can get people used to you, Sans, they can get used to any monster.” Frisk poured herself more milk. “We need to pair that with the idea that we don’t have to steal magic anymore, and it will help immensely if everyone is talking about solar power while we’re gone.”

The boss monster shrugged agreement. The priestess toyed with a fork, steeling herself. “Another thing. This sounds exploitative, but I’ve had copies made of the reports on each monster confiscated the other night. I sent them to as many different administrative offices as I could think of. Each report had my confidential seal on it, so I’m sure people have read them. I want to see if anyone is talking about it.”

The men were quiet. Sans was clearly displeased, but he was listening. “Believe me, I hate to use their suffering as a political prop. I really do,” she said, half stern and half apologetic. “But as things stand, monsters being enslaved is a fact of life to the average human. We can’t let it be an abstract concept anymore. Most people don’t know the kind of conditions monsters are kept in, and the time is right to make them care about it.”

Gaster inclined his head, and they both looked at Sans. He took such a long, deep breath that Frisk wondered how there was any air left in the room afterward. “Ya really think so?” He glanced at the royal sorcerer. “You know humans pretty well. There’s no other way ta do this?”

“Nothing as effective, long-lasting, or nonviolent, no.” Gaster leaned his head on his hand, and the extras with the pen and notepad materialized, scribbling away. Frisk wished he wouldn’t do that. “Humans do not like change, or being inconvenienced, and they cannot stand to be told they are wrong,” explained the doctor, “especially when presented with clear evidence that they have been wrong for a very long time. Letting them pretend that this is a new issue they can feel strongly about without having to do much of anything themselves…I’m afraid it is the ideal path to social change.”

“Wow. Humans suck,” Sans observed. He glanced at Frisk, who couldn’t hide her apprehension. “Don’t gimme that look, kiddo. If you ‘n the doc say it’s the best way to get monsters free, I’m not gonna fight ya.”

“Thank you,” she said simply, and his answering grumble was much quieter than usual.

“The second fortune,” Gaster mused, and they both looked askance at him. He gave her a rare smile. “You’ve chosen to set monsters free. You will have to work very hard, my dear lady, but your life will be quite interesting. May I ask how you are feeling?”

Frisk thought of Asriel again, of being taken from the Underground. She rubbed her forehead as Sans glared at the other skeleton. “It hurts very much, Doctor,” she said quietly. “I’m not going to lie. But…” She gave him a watery smile. “Once I get through this, I’ll have the other things, too, the joy and love.” Something occurred to her, and she smiled wider this time. “And my ‘innumerable’ family. I hope the monsters will fit that description.”

“Damn straight,” commented Sans, which made her flush again.

Gaster nodded, and she was almost certain that he waited for her to take a sip of milk before he asked, “Have you selected a father for your child?”

The priestess choked mid-swallow and had to push away from the table to double over, coughing, while Sans checked her for immediate danger and then snarled at Gaster, “What the hell kinda thing is that ta ask a lady, y’old perv?!”

“What indeed.” The royal sorcerer folded all of his hands, looking back and forth between the red-faced sorceress and the redder-faced skeleton. “Forgive my impertinence. I’m sure it will happen quite naturally. For now, Your Eminence, you need only concern yourself with your apprenticeship, and with furthering the cause of monster freedom.”

Frisk climbed to her feet, waving away Sans’ offer of assistance. “One moment,” she croaked. She would have loved to know what exactly he was saying to Gaster as the bathroom door closed behind her, but it was all she could do to breathe normally. What did the doctor think he was doing, besides embarrassing her and Sans most of the way to death?

“Whaddya think yer doin’?!” Sans leaned forward, but had to sit back as Gaster’s extra hands reappeared, wagging their fingers in sync. “What happened to not interferin’? It’s none’a yer damn business what she does!”

“I am acting purely to further Her Eminence’s goal of peace between the human and monster races,” Gaster lied with his stupid lying face. At least, that was what it looked like to Sans. “However strict a schedule she may be on to fulfill her maternal destiny, it would not behoove her to be encumbered too soon. You have thirteen days left of your tenure here, during which she will want to accomplish as much as possible, and after which you will hopefully be able to escort her to the Underground for a successful diplomatic mission.”

“I know that.” Sans rubbed the back of his skull. The workroom floor hadn’t been that comfortable, but it hadn’t exactly been a comfortable night, so whatever. “That doesn’t give you any right to bug her about somethin’ so personal,” he snapped.

Gaster sighed, laced his all fingers together, and pushed them outward to crack every joint at once, making the boss monster twitch. “Enough beating around the bush, Sans. Frisk is not the sort of woman who forms intimate attachments quickly or easily, and out of the very many men who would be glad to have her, she has not found one who suits her. Even without the timeline imposed by her fortune, based on what I have seen and heard, you are by far the likeliest—”

Wham.

Sans did not dent the table this time. He nearly broke it in half.

Gaster blinked at the crater in the wood surface as its dust settled. “I thought you would be at least somewhat ambivalent by this point,” the doctor remarked, and raised his voice as the bathroom door creaked: “Please give us another moment, my lady.”

The door closed. Sans flexed his hand, ignoring the splinters and bits of shattered china lodged in his metacarpals. “I was up all night thinkin’ about it,” he growled. “Doesn’t really matter how I feel, does it? Facts are facts. ’m three or four times bigger’n her, I’m a boss monster, an’ even if I never touched her, I’d ruin ‘er whole life. What would the other humans say? Ya think they’d ever listen to her again if they thought she was screwin’ around with a magic skeleton?” Snort. “Even if we could do it, ’m still basically poison. Ya know exactly what I mean.” He peeled a long curl of wood from the table’s surface. “This is all assumin’ she’d be okay with me in the first place. I mean…look at me.”

Gaster peered at Sans’ SOUL, and his expression said it all. “The darkness intertwined with your magic could potentially be damaging,” he conceded. “As we discussed, you need to decide whether it’s worth holding on to the anger dragging you down, for your sake and hers.”

“Who says I’m holdin’ on to anythin’? ‘s more like bein’ stuck in a tar pit. She’s helped me get my head out, ‘n that’s about it.” Sans jerked his thumb at the table. “Be honest. Would you wanna have a kid with someone who does stuff like this?”

The older skeleton was silent. Sans waited, half hoping he would say something witty or insightful that would solve everything, but Gaster just shook his head. “That’s what I thought. Time fer you to go,” said the boss monster.

The royal sorcerer grimaced. “Sans, please. Are you even going to try?”

The table itself started shaking, a film of red creeping over the books and dishes. Dr. Gaster stood and tugged on the chain to become human, then strode out of the room and slammed the doors behind him without another word.

Sans glared at the table. It was pretty damn broken, all right. Good job, asshole, he congratulated himself. How was Frisk going to get anything done now?

…Welp. He’d repaired the table before, hadn’t he? Why not try it again? Might as well prove to himself that he could do better for her sake, or prove to the doctor that he couldn’t—either way, he had to give it a shot.

The boss monster took a deep breath, imagined the broken wood and china all coming back together as they’d been, and flicked his left hand. His magic slowly lifted the table, pushing from beneath till its overall surface was mostly sort of level again, then straightened out the legs and settled it back to the floor.

So far, so good. Next, he smoothed the jagged, splintered ends jutting out of the crater into a nearly unbroken surface, separating the smaller pieces of wood from the broken china. With a supreme effort, he directed the wood to fill in the remaining gaps, and imagined the china re-forming into plates and cups.

To his elation, there was a flurry of movement, leaving the wooden surface scarred but whole and the dishes looking like dishes again…which, as he released the spell, tumbled apart into broken heaps, the wood poofing back out where it’d started.

He scowled and gestured again, but the same thing happened again, and again: the stuff mashed together well enough, but wouldn’t stay that way. God damn it, why wasn’t it working? Was he trying to do too much at once? No, that wasn’t the problem; he had more than enough power, and he was focusing properly. He was using the exact same magic as before, and he sure as hell intended it to work, so…did he need to get madder at himself for ruining her workspace? Or…

Sans thought it over, then got off his stool and went to rap on the bathroom door. “C’mon out, kitten,” he said. “I need a favor.”

Frisk emerged as he backed up and sat down facing the broken table. She looked at the wreckage, then at him. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“I will be in a sec. C’mere.” He extended an arm.

She was a little doubtful, but came to him readily and let him tuck her against his ribcage. “Um,” she said into his wrinkled shirt.

He stroked her hair with one phalange, focusing on her warmth, and her smell – which now included a hint of leather from his coat – and how big a pain in the ass it’d be if she had to replace the table. She was busy enough, she didn’t need this crap! Besides, what would his past self say if he knew he’d screwed things up for Kris?

Frisk turned to see what he was doing, absently twining her fingers around one of

his, and Sans suddenly knew exactly what to do. There was a boom and a crackling like wood being broken, but in reverse: her mouth hung open as the cloud of red magic dispersed, leaving the table in nearly the same shape as before, perhaps a little bent in the middle. The breakfast dishes were intact, though they looked as if someone had glued them back together in a hurry. “Ha! There we go,” Sans said triumphantly. “Good as…used. Not bad, eh?”

The priestess leaned back against his clavicle. “I suppose it’s the next best thing to not breaking it in the first place,” she murmured.

Ouch. And speaking of which… He grimaced. “Hey. Frisk?”

“Hm?” She was still holding the lowest phalange of his right forefinger, examining the relatively-smaller bones of his hand.

As always, Sans scanned her face for signs of distaste or nervousness. He never could find any, or understand why not. “Uh. I’m…’m sorry I didn’t believe you. Ya shouldn’a had to show me all that.” The boss monster played with one of her wavier locks of hair. He liked it better when she didn’t put any stuff on to straighten it. “’m sorry you spent all that time scared ta talk about it.” He exhaled, ruffling her hair. “’m sorry you were right t’be scared.”

Frisk let go of his hand. She didn’t say anything, just laid her head on his clavicle, face turned from his.

Sans sighed, and dropped his arm. “Yeah. So,” he mumbled.

She shrugged, so slight a motion that he could barely feel it. He was about to reach for her again when she stepped away. “It’s all right.” Frisk went to the repaired table and stacked up the partly-broken dishes. “I don’t know if I would believe me, either,” she said over her shoulder.

He couldn’t think of anything else to say. The silence felt…complicated. “So,” he said. “What’re we doin’ today? Ya want people ta not be scared of me. Should we go rescue kittens outta trees, maybe bring some orphans candy or somethin’?”

Frisk paused, as if shaking herself, and suddenly smiled, in a way that made him nervous. “Now that you mention it—”

It was thus his own fault that, within ten minutes, Sans found himself accompanying her back into the castle town. On their recent excursions, Sans had been using his disguise, and Frisk dressed as plainly as possible, keeping her hood up; this time, not only was she in her High Priestess gown – though she’d omitted the headdress in favor of her red-lined cloak – Sans stayed beside her as his own giant self. As far as he was concerned, the only problem was that she insisted on walking the whole way in order to be visible and gauge people’s reactions. Oh, well. At least they matched again.

Their destination today was the group home where Frisk had stayed as a very small girl. It was a long walk to the poorer part of town, but the visit itself was brief enough; they were admitted in the middle of the children’s morning break, so they had a head start to the long dining-room table before someone spotted the bakery boxes they’d picked up on their way over. Sans ended up having to lift Frisk the rest of the way before she was lost under a surging tide of greedy little hands.

Of course, the magic demonstration turned out to be the ideal icebreaker. To his disgruntlement, Sans was conscripted to make toys fly around – though he drew the line at the actual children begging to be flung across the room – while Frisk distributed the pastries they’d brought and the boss monster contemplated his life choices. He’d enjoyed playing with Kris back in the day, but he never signed up to perform for a bunch of literally snot-nosed brats!

But he had to admit that it was working: after a few minutes, only the most timid children were still hanging back, and by the time the priestess was done telling them about the different kinds of monsters she knew, almost all of the kids had crept up for a closer look. He contented himself with the fact that Frisk seemed pretty happy, though he wasn’t a big fan of how many kids were coughing on her.

In fact, some of them got a little too comfortable with him, and Frisk had to cut the visit short when they started crawling into his huge slippers and lifting his shirt to poke between his ribs. The priestess and boss monster waded out amid cries of disappointment, closing the door with some difficulty.

“Damn, that was intense,” said Sans on their walk back to the castle. “So, ya lived there till you were…?”

“Eight. Then Rosa found a job for me in the castle kitchens scrubbing pots. I’ve had better experiences.”

He thought again of Kris’ scars and protruding ribs. “Permission to go up there ‘n bust some heads?”

“Denied,” she said. “I started collecting affidavits about the old cook the moment I came back here as High Priestess, and she’s been in jail for over two years now. She won’t get out for a good while.”

Sans still would’ve liked to find the bitch and see how she liked someone bigger hurting her, but it probably wasn’t something Frisk would want to hear. Instead, he asked, “D’you always call yer mom by ‘er first name?”

Frisk returned a passerby’s smile and nod, and said, “I often have because I wasn’t very attached to her, and it turns out I was right. Rosa isn’t my mother.”

The boss monster nearly stopped in the middle of the busy street. “Say what?”

“I found out around the time I went to the Underground, so I forgot it along with everything else. It’s a long story, but the short version is that I was put in Rosa’s care when I was a baby, and she pawned me off wherever she could until my father stepped in.” Frisk smoothed her hair behind her ears as the wind whistled around them. “Rosa did check in on me periodically to be sure I was alive, which is more than I could say for anyone else before I met you all.”

Sans had to jam his hands in his pockets to keep from hugging her right there. “So…”

“My real mother is dead. I’ll tell you more later.” To his surprise, Frisk fell in step beside him and reached up, and he obligingly leaned down for her to take his elbow. He thought of Kris again as she smiled up at him. “Let’s go back now. We have a lot of work to do.”

Sans did not forget about that conversation, but he never quite managed to bring it up again: they were so busy preparing for the trip Underground that, before he knew it, only ten days remained of his visit.

For one thing, three of the mixtures he had formulated were not working much better than the control she’d set up, but one was doing well, and another was so promising that Frisk ordered more of its components and some additional seedlings. He had finalized his list of food items to bring back with them and eventually persuaded the priestess to stop buying more gifts, after the final two novels in a series Alphys had been reading and a set of children’s puzzles for Papyrus.

They didn’t really discuss what had happened the other night, but they were comfortable around each other again. At her request, they had resumed their “slumber parties,” trading jokes later into the night than they probably should have and falling asleep on opposite sides of the huge bed. Sans found he could now keep himself in check by thinking of Kris: though most of his feelings were as strong as ever, or stronger, it felt a little creepy to lust after her, which was…better, he guessed.

It also helped, in a weird way, that she tended to be upset after whatever dreams she’d been having of the Underground. Two of the past three mornings, he’d woken up with her curled up in her blanket against his side, and his SOUL had damn near melted.

Her sudden proximity could have been a problem, but on close self-examination, Sans found he’d rather punch himself in the spectral junk than take advantage of her emotional vulnerability. That was a huge relief; it meant he could turn and drape his arm over her or pet her hair in fairly good conscience. A little part of him knew that this probably wouldn’t last forever, and he’d be back in trouble once Frisk finished working through everything, but, eh. That was a later problem. Right now, things were almost perfect, and he wasn’t going to ruin it.

…Was it his imagination being mushy, or did his SOUL feel a little lighter? He never could remember to have Gaster check for him when the doctor was there.

That morning, on his tenth-to-last day in the castle, Sans didn’t wear his device when he accompanied her to matins. He’d stopped using it entirely on their trips into town or walks around the castle. Frisk used the cold as an excuse to wear her cloak outside instead of the circlet or veil; as she’d predicted, people were now curious enough to stop to speak with her and gawk at the ten-foot skeleton. Though they got their fair share of fearful whispers and angry looks, no one had the courage to say anything with Sans right there, which was good enough for Frisk.

The boss monster understood what she was doing, and tried to behave himself on these social forays, but he hated every second of it. Frisk had a knack for keeping an eye on him and walking away when he started getting agitated by too many stares or stupid questions, but he hated that she had to worry about him hating it. More than ever, he wished she’d found a smaller, cuter monster to show off.

It was also strange that, in spite of her increased accessibility, there had been no signs of anyone else plotting anything, much less attacking her. Frisk checked in regularly with the palace guards, who still hadn’t found whoever generated that huge burst of magic at the All Souls service; anyone clever enough to have planned the operation had obviously been capable of covering their tracks, a prospect that didn’t sit well with either of them.

There was, however, a single incident that nearly made it all worthwhile: one day, an elderly woman came up to tug on Sans’ trousers as they stood outside a bookstore. When he glanced down, the lady demanded up at him, “What time is it?”

Sans looked at Frisk, and at the equally nonplussed bystanders. Luckily, far over the humans’ heads, he could see a clock in the distance. “Uh…couple minutes after noon.”

The old lady frowned and nodded, as though a great truth had been revealed unto her. “I see. Yes, thank you.” She hobbled back the way she’d came, and they heard her say to no one in particular, “What a nice skeleton.”

For some reason, the way she said it was so funny that he instinctively caught Frisk’s eye and found she was trying to suppress a grin. When she motioned for him to follow her, they made it as far as a little side street before she started giggling, flapping her hand for him to take them back. It was time for lunch, but more importantly, it was time to sit down in the stairwell outside her rooms and howl with laughter for no reason that either could have explained to anyone else, except perhaps that each of them had been tense and ready to laugh at almost anything, and was glad that the other was laughing too.

As usual, every time he started to recover, she snrrked and got him going again. When the priestess had almost caught her breath, Sans retaliated with “What a nice skeleton” in his best old-lady voice and nearly killed her.

Unfortunately, it was the only bright spot in several days of not much fun. At least they were productive, especially her tactic of “accidentally” leaking the confiscation reports; on their afternoon walks, several of the people stopping them to chat specifically wanted to know if the terrible things they had heard were true, and what would happen to the monsters in question.

Frisk hid her elation that people did care enough to ask her about it, and developed a rote response that it was true, and terrible, and she would push for harsher punishments of mistreated monsters. That was when she also mentioned that the illustrious Dr. Serif was working on an alternative source of magic, and when it was perfected, monsters could be freed entirely.

That statement always got a reaction, and she was almost relieved when one person finally came right out and said, “How on earth are we supposed to get that much magic without them?” It gave her the chance to explain how the Underground used the sun’s light to generate power, and when the man smirked at such a ridiculous lie, the High Priestess had to step on Sans’ foot to keep him in check; Frisk was irritated enough herself to tell the man and the rest of their impromptu audience that Dr. Serif had been working with her emissary to prepare a public demonstration next week.

“That sounds neat. You should probably tell the doc about it,” Sans grumbled as the little crowd dispersed to spread the news.

Frisk did indeed have some explaining to do. The upper classes of the court and Church were not supposed to care about idle gossip, but by the afternoon of the following day, after their studies were done, she found she was not only obligated to lend Sans to Dr. Serif and the other sorcerers to go over their plans, but “invited” to chat with the King before dinner.

By that point, Frisk was not in the mood to dress things up. “I’m going to free the monsters we took from their owners,” she told King Stephin behind a soundproof barrier. “I will hire guards if I have to, and send Sans along regardless, but as soon as they’ve recovered enough to travel, they are going back to the Underground to stay. His Holiness can double the deposits, or jail me, for all I care. Those monsters have suffered enough.”

“My dear, that is not going to work,” the King said, just as bluntly. “Every owner in this kingdom will fear that you are plotting to take their property from them, and like it or not, monsters are still classified as such.”

“I am ‘plotting’ exactly that, Your Majesty. I’ll do it safely, peacefully, and legally, but I will do it.” When the old man looked ready to argue, she added, “I’ve learned a great deal recently about a boy named Kris who became attached to several monsters on the last visit to the Underground. A very great deal, and it’s had quite an impact on me. Do you understand, Majesty?”

The King of the human realm regarded her for almost ten full seconds. Frisk would sooner have carved her eyes out than look away first, and he eventually sighed a long, long sigh. “You wish to return, then?”

“I am going to the Underground with Sans in nine days, Your Majesty,” she informed him, “and I would much rather have your permission than not. If all goes well, I intend to stay for five to ten days before I return here.”

He gave her a sharp appraisal that she didn’t understand till he said, “Will that be enough time to prepare your apprentice to serve the Underground single-handed?”

Frisk had long since made up her mind how to “prepare” her apprentice, but she had no intention to discuss it with the King yet. “I believe so,” she replied.

He closed his eyes. “Have you heard recently from Lord Owen and his lady sister?” he asked, much too casually.

“Yes, sire,” she said calmly. “They will both be here for a visit in roughly three weeks.”

“Wonderful.” He opened his eyes and smiled at her. “I am glad you’ve made up your mind regarding these matters. May I ask—”

The High Priestess had been resisting the urge to cough for over an hour, and so it wasn’t really dishonest to interrupt him that way. The problem was that once she started, she couldn’t stop, and had to accept his injunction to go back to her rooms.

“I knew it” was the first thing out of Sans’ mouth when he got back. She was in bed, in her nightgown and robe, huddled under the covers with the fireplace lit. “Told ya those little pukes were gonna get ya sick.”

Frisk gave him the stink-eye, coughing for emphasis. His expression softened at the sound. “Okay, okay. Can I getcha anythin’?”

“Sleep,” she croaked.

Sans couldn’t do that, but he could and did tell the guards that Her Eminence needed to be left alone because she’d caught some kind of crud. When he went back into the bedroom, she was already dozing. Good—maybe she’d be having better dreams soon.

One week left.

Frisk had slept through the previous day – guarded from interruption by her massive apprentice – and part of this one, waking up to eat dinner in bed. Afterward, she was busy catching up on mail, including a reply from the Owens’ land broker.

As High Priestess, her wealth was such that the broker was happy to offer her only ten percent down, with interest much higher than Frisk intended to pay. The priestess had to write three replies for that one: an answer referring the broker to the real estate agent who would negotiate the rest of the transaction on her behalf, a letter informing her agent that he was about to get a very large commission, and a note to Lord Owen updating him on the whole business and greeting his family. She might be planning to reject him in the most overt way possible and embarrass him in front of the entire kingdom, but that was no reason to be impolite, was it?

Sans was stretched out on the other side of the bed, eyes closed. It was easier to let him stay there than trying to make him work and having him stick his head in the door every ten minutes to fret about whether she was still alive. “Tell me again why ya won’t get a secretary,” he said as she massaged her hand.

“I told you, I don’t trust anyone with all this.” Frisk patted the mattress between them, which was his cue to wriggle a finger and waft her cup of tea over from the side table. She took a sip, murmured her thanks, and let him put it back without opening his eyes. “I wish I could do that,” she remarked, putting the three envelopes aside. “There we are. I’m feeling much better, Sans. Will you please let me get up now?”

Several minutes of negotiation later, with the massive skeleton hovering as though she was seventy years old, Frisk was out in the workroom to check the seedlings’ progress. “This is amazing,” she said, looking over the three tiny plants growing from his latest mixture. “If you keep this up, we could think about converting some of your existing cropland to pasture and eventually getting some sheep. You could probably also use some chickens, couldn’t you?”

“Yeah, we ate all ours a few years back. Tori would love to have some more,” Sans remarked. “Meat, eggs, and somethin’ ta fuss over.”

Frisk smiled a little. She’d avoided asking too many questions about her old friends, as it was clear the news was largely not good. She glanced around, and Sans proffered her tea, unasked. “You know…” This took some courage, but it was such an obvious thing, and they hadn’t discussed it: “We don’t have to leave in exactly seven more days.” She checked her calendar. “It’ll be four more days till they demonstrate your prototype. I’d like to be there for that, and I haven’t had a chance to talk with His Majesty again, and I’d like to have a letter from him or something official to give to Asgore so he doesn’t have to take my word for—”

Sans chuckled. That rumbling sound had always raised the hairs on the back of her neck, but lately, it did it in a good way. “Stop babblin’, kitten. D’ya want me ta stay longer?”

Her hands trembled as she set the cup down. “If…” The priestess swallowed. “If we leave a couple of days sooner, I could stay in the Underground longer, assuming everyone would be all right with it.”

The skeleton scowled at her. “Why the crap wouldn’t they be? Are ya scared they’ll be like, ‘Yeah, we loved you as a kid, now go to hell?’”

Frisk’s fidgety silence said it all. Sans drew a deep breath, but saw her flinch, and released it slowly. “Okay,” he said, as calmly as he could. “I know ya haven’t had a lotta luck with people, but this’s different. I’m not sayin’ there won’t be any problems with anyone, ‘specially the ones who didn’t know ya that well. Some of us might be dicks about it an’ not believe ya right at first. But…” He also fidgeted, various colors sweeping over his skull. “Ya look different, ‘n that’s it. We all liked ya ‘cause you’re…you. Hasn’t changed.” Fidget. Scowl. “If anyone tells ya to get lost, I’ll—” He caught her expression and said with fake cheer, “—give them a biiiig hug and tell ‘em ta be nice.”

“Excellent. Thank you.” Frisk took his hand, or at least a couple of his fingers. “Really, thank you,” she said, softer. “I hope you’re right.”

His fingers closed around hers. The bones were always warmer than she expected, no matter how many times she touched them. “Let’s try this,” he said quietly. “Take off the barrier when we go t’sleep and lemme see if I can reach Papyrus. It might work better to have him spread the word first that Kris is comin’ back with Sans in a few days, as opposed t’just showin’ up as a total surprise.”

The priestess couldn’t help smiling self-consciously. “I’d like to surprise everyone,” she confessed, and he chuckled again. “But I know it might not be the best option. Honestly, it depends how everyone there is feeling about humans after Snowdrake returned safely.”

“Yeah…traumatized an’ thinkin’ someone workin’ for ya was strong enough ta steal my magic,” said the skeleton. He squeezed her hand very gently and let go. “But he might also have spread the word that yer the one who set ‘im loose. We’ve gotta talk to Pap ‘n find out.”

Frisk thought about it, and the prospect of removing the barrier did not appeal to her whatsoever. The demon-child hadn’t showed up again for either of them, even when she’d left the barrier down and Sans had spent two nights outside it; she knew better than to assume it had gone away entirely, so where was it?

…But it did make sense to try to contact Papyrus, and she didn’t have any better ideas. “All right,” she said, and coughed into the bend of her elbow. “I’m going to take it down now and get back to sleep. Will you be in soon?”

“Sure.” Sans gave her a little salute. “Night, kitten. Get better so I don’t hafta listen to er hackin’ anymore.”

That nickname should’ve annoyed her, but Frisk liked it better each time. The inner glow lasted until she was in bed and had to remove the barrier, which she found she did not want to do. Maybe it would be all right; maybe the child was busy wreaking havoc somewhere else tonight and wouldn’t check her room? It…could be all right. There was only one way to find out, she told herself, not believing a word of it.

It was the same dream as before, but more intense: her husband crept into bed and tricked her into turning over so that he could roll her onto her back and slip his hands under her nightshirt. When she tried to mumble in self-defense, his mouth was suddenly against her lips; he tangled his fingers through hers, his slight weight pressing her into the mattress as he pulled the nightshirt up over her ribs.

A tiny pause, waiting to see if she’d stop him. She sighed, then relaxed as his head dipped to lick her neck, fingers winding in her hair to pull her chin up and nip at her throat. His other hand trailed down her side to her hip; he made an approving noise as he encountered bare skin.

Her underwear was missing solely because she’d forgotten to put a second load in the dryer that afternoon, but she wasn’t going to tell him that, especially now that his mouth had moved up to her cheek, then back to her lips. Her arms circled his shoulders as he began to kiss her in earnest, their teeth clicking gently, though he always led with his tongue to avoid biting her.

She’d long since stopped thinking about how weird it was to make out with a skeleton, and she never got tired of his bones’ smooth texture against her skin, or of feeling him shudder as she ran her hands over his skull. He pulled his head away, panting, and sat up to move his shorts aside—she’d told him several times to just leave them off in bed, but he was still curiously shy about letting her see him without clothes, especially when he had what they called his “extras” out.

Usually, by this point, he would have attended to her for a few minutes – or more! – to be sure she was ready, but this time, he clearly couldn’t wait. Well, that was fine. She was more than happy to let him hook his forearms under her knees and lean forward; he wasn’t that much shorter than she was, but it was the best way to—

Something was wrong, something much worse than sexual frustration or an intruder in her office.

She was still dreaming, but in a too-real way that she instantly recognized. Frisk was back in the castle, standing beside the huge bed, with her own Sans sitting squarely in the middle of the mattress; his head was in his hands, his whole body hunched up and shaking. Frisk tried to ask him what was wrong, but the words died as she spotted the thing standing over him—it was the child, the demon from the other world.

The child didn’t have its knife out, but it didn’t need to. It was smiling in vile satisfaction as Sans’ shoulders shook. Her stomach clenched as she saw red droplets trickling over the bones of his hands and wrists. “What did you do to him?” Frisk snarled. The air surged as she raised a hand, golden sparks flying. “Get out of here before I put a barrier around this whole damned kingdom! You know I could!”

The child stopped smiling and looked at her. For the first time, it spoke: “Ask him what he could do to you.”

Its voice felt like a nail being dragged down her eardrum. Sans must have heard it, too, because he curled in on himself harder, and Frisk’s heart broke into a few more pieces. That little—why wouldn’t it leave him alone?!

Frisk gathered all of her willpower and gave a sharp, high whistle, snapping the barrier back into place and jerking herself and Sans awake. She sat bolt upright and glanced around in the dimness, throat itching and adrenaline pumping, only to see that it was early morning and the child was gone.

The priestess coughed. With a sigh of relief, she climbed over the foot of the bed to tap the witchlight on, then turned to say, “Are you all right, S—”

Dear Lord. Frisk had assumed the blood was part of Sans’ nightmare, but to her horror, he was sitting up again and staring down at his hands, which were absolutely coated in dark, slick red. Fresh crimson drops were still sliding down his face, splashing onto his metacarpals and dripping through the gaps to soak into the mattress. “Sans!” she cried. The priestess gathered up her robe and leapt onto the bed, kneeling beside him. “What in God’s name happened? Where are you hurt?”

To her bewilderment, the enormous skeleton shook his head and waved her off. “Go ‘way,” he moaned.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she snapped. “Whatever happened, whatever it told you, it wasn’t real!” The young woman tried to peer into his face, but he turned away. “Sans, look at me!”

He shook his head harder and tried to shuffle away from her, his arm coming up to scrub his sockets with his sleeve and smear more red across his brow. It finally hit her that he wasn’t injured, he was crying—

It was all Frisk could do not to break down, too. Why had she ever agreed to take down the barrier? But much more importantly, why wouldn’t the child leave him alone? Why did Sans have to be so miserable? She could remember standing by his house in Snowdin as a child, holding his hand and smiling up at him, sensing how unhappy he was behind his lackadaisical exterior and how hard he was working to hide it. He hadn’t deserved to feel that way back then, and he didn’t need a demon to help him torment himself now!

Where had that misery even come from? Was it from witnessing the child’s genocide in his own world? From what Gaster had said, that sense of powerlessness and futility was still echoing somewhere in the back of his mind, waiting to resurface in his nightmares. And what about becoming a boss monster, knowing he no longer fit in with the other monsters – literally – and would live forever as a complete anomaly? Or his efforts to keep his brother happy by absorbing the Underground’s distilled misery, working it out the only way he knew how, till he believed that darkness and violence were naturals part of himself—when was it all going to stop?

Sans jumped as the priestess stood up and grabbed the back of his head, tipping him forward till his forehead was resting on her sternum. “Stop,” he muttered into the thick folds of her robe, trying to pull away.

Frisk’s arms shifted. They could barely fit around his skull, but she had a strong enough hold that he’d have to hurt her to get free. Sans shook his head, carrying her back and forth. “Would ya fuckin’ stop already?” he demanded, more desperate than angry.

“Why,” she said, more of a statement than a question.

No answer. Frisk drew breath to hum at him, but he shook his head again so violently that she almost fell over. “Don’t pull that crap on me now! Quit wastin’ yer damn magic and go away!”

What in the world? “All right, and no,” she retorted.

He growled, but for all his vehemence, he hadn’t so much as raised his arms. His next attempt to dislodge her was so half-hearted that Frisk barely moved. She didn’t need to make any sounds beside the steady, thrumming rhythm of her heartbeat; as she held on, his breathing started to slow down, and he was soon resting so heavily against her that she had to brace herself to hold him up. “We’re both fine,” the priestess said over his head. “All right?”

Sans nodded faintly. One arm looped around her, and most of his palm rested on her back. She felt more red soaking into her robe as she let him nuzzle the downy material over her heart, or SOUL, as he’d call it. It was more than a bit embarrassing to have his face right there, but he’d been through so much that this seemed like the very least she could do.

Besides, said a wry, far-off corner of her mind, if I’m going to conceive in the next month or two at the latest, this will be the least of my worries.

Dirt. Now it was impossible not to think of her twice-interrupted dream with a Sans much closer to her size, and impossible to ignore the question of whether her larger, angrier skeleton had enough magic – and creativity – to love a human without hurting her, physically speaking. Being determined to find out didn’t make her any less apprehensive about it.

Then there was the question she was afraid to even look at too closely: if a boss monster was able to give her his magic the way a regular skeleton apparently could, did she have enough magic – and determination – to give him a child and some semblance of a happy or normal life?

“’m fine now,” Sans eventually mumbled. “Leggo.”

Frisk made a disbelieving noise. “’m fine,” the skeleton said stubbornly.

“Mm-hmm.” Frisk let go and reached behind her to take his stained hand. “Come here.”

Sans obediently got up and followed her into the bathroom, wiping his eyes again as he sat down where she pointed. She washed her hands, then moved aside for him to wash his; as always, it took forever because his hands were too big for the sink, forcing him to work in sections. Once he’d gotten the majority of the red off, Frisk grabbed a black washcloth and some soap to help work the last bits out of the gaps in his metacarpals. Strange: they’d spent enough time together to be used to platonic physical contact, but it felt so intimate for him to let her touch him between the bones of his hands that she didn’t know what to do with herself.

When those were done, Frisk rinsed the washcloth out, patted her face to cool it, and had him sit down again. He held still as she started cleaning off the blood – or tears, or whatever it was, exactly – but he wouldn’t look her in the eye. A little more red oozed from the corner of one socket as she worked, and without thinking, Frisk placed her palm high on his cheekbone to wipe it off with her thumb. “What happened?” she asked softly.

Sans looked at the floor, then at her, reaching up. For a second, she thought he was going to push her hand away; instead, he curled his forefinger around her wrist and turned her palm over, looking at it as though he’d never seen a human this close before. “I couldn’t find Pap,” he mumbled. “Had a dream where…” His entire skull turned a spectrum of colors again, and he released her, closing his eyes as she eased the cloth around the edges of his sockets. “…stuff happened, then I thought I was awake, and…” He shivered, hunching his shoulders again. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“That’s fine,” she assured him, turning to wring out the washcloth and dab more soap on it, wondering what exactly he’d seen. Her heart was starting to feel quivery again. “Look up, please,” she said, trying to feel maternal.

The skeleton remained docile through several more scrubbings and a final once-over. He had recovered enough by now to towel himself dry, but as he handed it back, he absently wiped his face one more time on his sleeve. “Sans,” she scolded him, pointing in the mirror to yet another red streak on his jaw, this one transferred from his shirt. Frisk picked up the washcloth with a sigh. “We’re going to have to send that to the laundry.” She swiped the last bit off. “I won’t blame you for getting upset after whatever that thing did to you, but…”

“I wasn’t—” There was a slightly stupid pause as he tried to formulate a denial of having been upset. She just looked at him, and he switched tactics, protesting, “Hey, you got messy, too. ’s yer own fault. Next time, don’ grab me like that.”

Frisk wouldn’t dignify that with a response, though he was correct that her robe had dark splotches on the front and back. As Sans poked at his sleeves to check if they really had to be washed, the priestess leaned toward the mirror and opened her robe, seeing where his tears had soaked through and left rusty spots on her cleavage. “Dirt. You’re right, I need a bath.” The young woman sighed and rubbed her eyes, unaware that Sans had looked up, or that his entire world had instantly become fixated on the front of her robe. “Maybe after breakfast.”

Sans didn’t answer, but the silence felt different this time. Frisk stopped as she heard how heavily he was breathing. Funny, she remembered that sound from…from her dream. She swallowed hard, and without thinking, she turned to face him.

Sans moved very deliberately, kneeling in front of the priestess with his arms outstretched on either side of the sink and his face looming above hers. His mouth hung slightly open, eyes burning, breath hitting her like steam. When she tried to speak, he leaned closer. “Don’t move,” he rasped in her ear.

“Okay,” said Frisk, sounding much calmer than she felt. Despite his injunction, she glanced down and realized she’d forgotten to cover herself.

Damn, damn, damn! She’d never heard him like this before! What was wrong with—

Frisk stopped and gave herself a mental smack in the face, because she knew exactly what was wrong with him. “Sans, please,” she said, hoping he couldn’t hear her heart pounding.

A soft growl. “Seriously, Frisk. ‘m tryin’ not ta lose it here. Just…just gimme a minute.”

The young woman nodded. Should she try to calm him down, or put him to sleep? Whistling usually worked fast. She swallowed again, and licked her lips.

Wrong move: Sans leaned down and nudged her hard with his cheek. “Hey.” His voice gave her chills, mostly not good ones. “Ya do that again, and…” He inhaled so hard that she felt a rush of cold against her scalp. She tried not to wince or make a sound as he exhaled. “I already said no more noises. ‘Kay? They’re not gonna work on me right now,” he warned.

Think. Think, think. He was playing with her hair, one phalange trailing down her neck to her collarbone and her partly open robe. And a small part of her, an urge that steadily grew as his breath washed over her and his fingers brushed her cheek, actually wondered what would happen if she didn’t stop him. Hadn’t she wanted this for a long time, no matter how much she enjoyed his friendship?

No. Not like this, pinned against the bathroom sink, with him so worked up that one slip of his hand or teeth could do irreparable damage. “Sans,” Frisk said, loud enough to divert his attention. “I have two things to say. Can you listen to me for fifteen seconds?”

“…Good question.”

At least his hand had stopped moving. Before it could start again, Frisk said, “The first thing is that you have to stop. I am not ready for this, Sans, and neither are you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He was shaking again, the bones of his wrist rattling against the sink. She didn’t know whether to let him speak or keep him distracted, and quickly chose the latter: “The second thing is…why did the monster eat the tightrope walker?”

The trembling stopped. “Hm?” Sans paused, and she prayed that it’d be enough to shift his mental gears. “I…I dunno. Why?”

“Because,” Frisk said, “he wanted to have a balanced meal.”

Pause. “Heh,” Sans mumbled. “I thought it was ‘cause he wanted ta learn the ropes.”

He wasn’t moving. It hadn’t worked. Think think— “Come on,” she said, trying to sound old. “Be a nice skeleton.”

“…That.” Sans made a slight sound, and she almost wept with relief as his shoulders twitched. “That…” He started snickering, and put a hand to his forehead, allowing her to scramble away, yanking her robe shut. “Oh, man!” The skeleton leaned against the wall. “Why the hell—”

Frisk managed a smile. He glanced at her in the mirror, sobering. “Goddammit. …Sorry. I mean, dirt.” Sans got up and moved back against the wall. “Want me ta go away forever?” he asked, not very jokingly.

She shook her head. “No, but I think we’re long overdue for a talk about this.”

He flinched as though she’d poked him in the eye socket. Frisk waited for him to say something, anything, only to be interrupted by a knock on the outside doors.

Goddammit, indeed. The priestess allowed him to go welcome the distraction while she retrieved the washcloth to scrub the nearly-dry gunk off her breasts, thence to her dressing room to change into the most boring dress she owned and think things over.

On sober reflection, she mostly couldn’t believe that she’d been so determined to stay so stupid. Gaster had said to her face, under a truth spell, that Sans was “deeply in love” with her, direct quote. And what did she do? She’d actually checked a magic textbook to see if he could’ve possibly meant something else! How idiotic was she? Lust and love were not the same thing, but she knew Sans, and he wouldn’t be feeling one without the other. If both were in play now thanks to heightened emotions from those dreams, and then seeing her robe open…

Damnation. Now all she could think about was how she’d shown her scars the other night and let him touch her, and—oh, God, what about the time she lured him into the bathroom? The sleepovers? Dragging him along to tea and making him watch Luke flirt with her? The full-body hugs? If he’d actually felt this way the whole time, or even just part of it, what had she been doing to him?

Even worse was the realization that she hadn’t really believed it, and yet was operating on the half-conscious assumption that he was hers if she wanted him—stupid and presumptuous, not a good combination.

Well, no more. It was time to stop pretending her hopes for him were just going to work themselves out at some point, and to stop wasting her energy on endless what-ifs about physical or magical possibilities. None of it meant anything until she actually talked to him.

…At least she understood another aspect of her fortune now. She doubted if Sans knew that it was a crime for a human to have physical relations of any kind with a monster—Gaster might not even know. It very rarely came up, as monsters were primarily viewed as utilities, but miscegenation was a serious offense. It had been easy to avoid thinking about it or dismiss it as something she could get around via political influence, but going forward, she had to be realistic.

So. Realistically speaking, her good reputation – and Sans being a skeleton – had protected her from any real suspicion, but if he did somehow become her child’s father, she had no intention of trying to hide their relationship. Not only would she be unable to legally marry him, she’d have to call in some very sizable favors to avoid prison time or worse. Who knew? Maybe that was how she could get out of being High Priestess…

She was still deep in thought when she left the safety of her dressing room, not looking at Sans, who was devouring his breakfast as fast as he could. She decided to let him finish while she went through her morning mail, a task so boring that it was guaranteed to calm her down.

The skeleton gulped down the rest of his food in record time, but couldn’t help peeking at her as he got up, trying to gauge her mood. Nope, she didn’t look mad, so—

He stopped, looked again, and frowned. Her expression was utterly blank, her hands gripping the paper so hard that the edges were digging into her skin. “Hey, hey,” Sans chided her, taking the note and setting it down on the table. “What’s wrong?”

He could barely hear her response: “We’re leaving.”

Blink. “Wha?”

Frisk didn’t move, except to stab a finger at the note. Sans picked it back up and felt his brows rise as he read aloud, “‘Greetings. His Grace the blah blah Duke Archibald blah blah Duke Archiblah requests the assistance of the exalted Thea in arbitrating the matter of eight monsters to be placed with new owners in—’ What the fuck does he mean, ‘new owners’?! I thought you—”

“I did!” Frisk’s face was white. “I can’t believe it. He’s doing this on purpose! He…”

Sans stared at the Duke’s crest on the little square of paper. “Yer dad?” he muttered.

“He knows, and I know that I did everything exactly right, and he still—” The High Priestess didn’t brush a tear away so much as slap it off her face. Sans watched helplessly as she closed her eyes and got her breathing under control. “Start packing, Sans. We’re leaving tomorrow morning,” she said, very cold and precise. “We’re going to bring those monsters back to the Underground ourselves, and I will stay for ten days as their first official human visitor in thirteen years, and if my father doesn’t like it, I will cordially invite him to go fuck himself. He’s certainly had enough practice.”

The boss monster’s jaw hung open. “I—”

“We’ll pack up everything today and commandeer two wagons tomorrow morning. I’ll take the monsters and say they’re going to my house in Riverside. We can stop there overnight.” She took the note back and began crumpling it into a tiny ball. “We are not going to tell anyone anything before we leave, including Dr. Gaster. If anyone else tries to tell me what I can’t do…” The High Priestess unfolded the ball and ripped it into halves, quarters, and tiny shreds before scattering the pieces.

Thus began one of the most hectic, stressful, yet anticlimatic days he’d ever had. Plans were discussed, or dictated to him; many many items were put into boxes or bags; and the little mental counter he’d had going of his days remaining in the castle was tossed out the mental window. He should’ve been glad that he was going to get her to the Underground so much sooner than expected, or at least somewhat grateful that the note had completely overshadowed the morning’s events, but frankly, he didn’t have the time.

…Until now, right after dinner, when they finished wrapping the last of the empty glass vials in some of the furs for Mettaton and stuffed it into the last empty satchel. Frisk glanced at him and bit her lip, and before she even spoke, Sans hopped up and retreated to the bedroom.

Sure as Fate, Frisk got up, too, and she followed him in before he could shut the door. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, staring at the rust-brown spots on the white sheets. “I hope they can get those out,” he mumbled.

“Sit down,” she said.

Sans turned to stare at her. “What—”

“Sit down, Sans.”

Something in her tone sent prickles up his spine and down his limbs. He shifted his weight, avoiding her gaze. “I think I’ll sleep out there. We’ve got a hell of a lot of—”

“Sit down on the floor right now.”

Her voice was low and perfectly gentle, but it made him fold his legs and settle his coccyx on the floor, and all he wanted was to leave the room. “Frisk,” he pleaded.

“Keep your hands where they are.” The boss monster shut his eyes as she came close enough for him to feel her body heat and smell the wine she’d had after dinner. It hadn’t been that much, had it?

Now her arms were around his shoulders, hanging most of her weight and all of her softness against him like a necklace. Sans went rigid, his breath coming quick and harsh. Not again!

Frisk rested her head on his jawbone. “What did you dream about, Sans?”

Whatever she was doing, he couldn’t move, and he couldn’t lie to her. “I…was the way I used ta be, my old size. I was gettin’ in bed with you, and ya let me…” What the hell was she doing to him? “…ya let me do everythin’ I wanted. Then I woke up, ‘n you were dead. I bit yer neck clean through, you were all twisted up, blood everywhere—”

“It was a lie, Sans. You didn’t kill me.”

“‘Course it was a lie! It was a fuckin’ dream!” He laughed shakily. “Pun intended, I guess. Point is—”

“The second part was a lie. The first part really happened, just not here or now.”

Sans snorted. “I don’ even know what that means. It was just a dream, Frisk. Hate ta break it to you, but they’ve got lotsa stuff in ‘em that doesn’t actually happen.”

“Really. Like this?” She ran her hands over her skull, and Sans’ whole body shuddered. Her voice dropped. “Should I demonstrate anything else we did?”

He was panting again, jaws hanging slightly open. If she wanted to talk about this— “D’you know what’d happen if I fucked you for real?” he snarled, and it was her turn to flinch. “Even if I squashed myself down to my human size, an’ I made sure everything else fit,” he said scathingly, “’m not a human, an’ I’d still be pumpin’ ya full of magic. And guess what? I’ve been stewin’ in all this hate and the shit I absorbed from the Underground over…what, ten, twelve years?” He snorted. “Ya still won’t let me infuse anything ‘cause my magic sucks. Givin’ it to you would be the same thing, but a million times worse.” His hands flexed inside his pockets. It was almost a relief to be getting all of this out…almost. “Yer magic’s pretty damn strong, ‘specially for a human, an’ you could maybe handle a little of mine, but I’m a boss monster, remember? I dunno exactly how high my power’s scaled up compared to a regular monster, but it’s way the hell too much. I’d kill ya one way or another.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” the priestess said. “I’m going to have a child by next All Souls Day and bring it to the festival, remember? I can’t do that if I’m dead.” Something very soft brushed the side of his head. “I understand what you’re saying, and I know you’re worried about me. But it’s not impossible. Gaster said you’ve been sloughing off whatever’s built up around your SOUL. You can do it, Sans.” The soft touch was her hand; she was petting him like…not like a dog, more like a mother with an upset child.

…Right. That was how she’d pacified him the very first time they met, when he was going to obliterate her and steal her SOUL. She’d petted his blaster until he just stopped being angry. Fucking hell, what if he’d really done it?

Just like before, he couldn’t dwell on it, couldn’t stay mad. He hadn’t blasted her. She was fine. Sans breathed in, and out. He felt her shifting along his ribs, and his mind jumped back to what he’d seen in the mirror when she forgot to close the robe. She could’ve obliterated him with a barrier at that range, but she never did what any sane woman would do. Telling him that joke about the tightrope walker, saying they weren’t ready yet—

Click, click, click. Sans could actually feel things settling into place, realization crashing through the wall of anger and self-pity. “We’re not ready yet? Meaning…”

If that seemed to come out of nowhere, Frisk didn’t show it. “No, we’re not. At the very least, I want to be back safe in the Underground and have things straightened out with Asgore before I think about that,” she said. “And you need to practice…sizing.” Squirm. “But mostly, stop hating yourself so much. Please.”

A long pause, and one bewildered, honest question: “Why?”

Frisk sighed in patient exasperation. “Think about it,” she said into what would’ve been a human ear. “Meanwhile, you’re right. We need to get some sleep.”

“Seriously?!” Sans struggled to get his hands out of his pockets as she stepped away. “Ya can’t say all that an’ expect me to just—”

Frisk was back in front of him, and before he could blink, her hand went to the side of his face, resting on his cheekbone. “I know that was a lot to take in, but the point is that I want to help you, Sans,” she said. “Right now, that means sleep. Can I sing something for you?”

The last of Sans’ resistance crumbled as he placed his massive hand on hers, trapping it against his cheek. She’d won. If she wanted him to think he was great and not a giant, psychotic, poisonous piece of shit, he’d do it. If she wanted to wait till they were Underground and then let him have her, he wasn’t going to argue anymore. If she wanted him to tear his own head off and eat it…

Frisk indicated the bed with a motion of her head. As he stretched out and closed his eyes, still disbelieving, she cleared her throat. Out came that glorious sound he remembered, the same song: “May all your dreams be sweet tonight, safe upon your bed of moonlight. And know not of sadness, pain, or care…”

He didn’t care anymore about dreams, or his crappy magic, or what a pain tomorrow was going to be. I’m goin’ home, he thought. Goin’ home with her. For now, that was good enough.

#songfell #guess i'll put the announcement/request separately

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unfolded73 · 4 years

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Husbands: Two Years In (5/5) - schitt’s creek ff

Here it is, the final chapter! There's nothing I can say that can get across how touched I've been by the comments on this fic. The number of people who have shared things about their own struggles with mental health -- I'm not worthy of it. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

While I'm including this fic as part of the "Labels" series, the preceding fics are not required reading. Previous fics in this series: Boyfriends; “I Love You”, Partners, Fiancés

Warning: This fic deals with depression as one of its major topics.

Rated Explicit, this chapter 4718 words. (ao3)

Thanks to @high-seas-swan for cheerleading and B13_MaybeThisTime for many valuable comments (and also cheerleading).

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

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

Chapter 5: Winter

“So how was your week?” Jessica asked.

Patrick always felt like he should plan before therapy what he was going to talk about, but he never remembered to do that.

“It was a little crazy. The holidays at the store always are, although it’s very lucrative. The money we make in December will carry us through at least half of the upcoming year,” he said, pinching the webbing on one hand between his thumb and forefinger of the other.

“And did you feel more equipped to handle that? The busy store, and all your responsibilities around that? Especially with Christmas a few days away?”

Patrick shrugged, feeling obstinate. “I don’t know.”

Jessica let a silence settle, waiting for him to talk. Patrick hated this part; it made him feel like he was failing at therapy when he didn’t know how to fill that silence. What the right answer was. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the sofa cushions, calling her bluff.

Finally, she relented and spoke, and Patrick felt like he’d won a round of whatever game they were playing. “You’ve never said much in here about your sexual orientation other than to talk about your husband and to say that things with your family are good. Was it always that way?”

Patrick tried not to roll his eyes. He knew this would be coming eventually. He’d been avoiding the subject of Rachel or his coming out process because he knew it would be something Jessica would fixate on. “I’m not depressed because of being gay, or… or anything to do with that. I love being gay.”

She smiled genuinely. “I’m glad. But humor me.”

“My parents always accepted me,” he said quickly, but that felt like a lie even though it was technically true.

“How old were you when you came out?” Jessica asked.

Patrick let out a frustrated sigh, seeing no way to avoid the truth now. “I was… I was in denial about being gay for a long time.” Might as well get it all out, he thought. “When I was twenty-nine I broke off an engagement to my high school sweetheart — who was a woman — and moved away from my hometown. Pretty soon after that, I realized I was gay.”

“That must’ve been hard,” Jessica said.

“Yeah, but once I got through it and… and got together with David, I’d never been happier.”

He couldn’t help but see the smile she gave him in response to that as patronizing. “New love can flood the body with so many good chemicals that it swamps out all of the bad ones.”

Patrick narrowed his eyes. “Are you saying I wasn’t happy?”

“No, I’m saying that the way you’ve framed things in some of our past sessions — that you were depressed before you moved here, and then you weren’t, and now for some reason you’re depressed again… that may not be the right way to frame it. Do you think perhaps it puts a lot of pressure on David as the source of your happiness?”

“I don’t put pressure on David,” Patrick protested.

“Is it possible that you put pressure on yourself, then? When it comes to your relationship with David and its importance in your life?” Jessica asked.

Patrick huffed and didn’t answer. Now she was contradicting herself from one sentence to the next.

“When did you come out to your family?” she asked.

“That isn’t why I’m depressed either,” he said.

Jessica sighed like he was finally challenging her constant state of serene acceptance. “Untangling the web of depression isn’t straightforward. It might be helpful to pull on different threads and see what they’re connected to. Okay?”

Patrick supposed that made sense. “Okay.” Then after another pause, he admitted, “It took me a while to come out to my parents.”

“Why is that?”

He stared at Jessica’s bookshelf for several seconds, his eyes running over the titles without reading them. “I worried that my parents wouldn’t be okay with it. They didn’t talk about gay people when I was a kid, really. Or when they did, they made it sound like a sad thing that we needed to tolerate because it wasn’t a choice. You know, that brand of ‘tolerance’ that is just that and nothing more.”

She shot him a sympathetic look. “It’s understandable why you were hesitant to come out to them.”

“But they were great about it. It wasn’t long after coming out to them that I asked David to marry me, and they were great. They love him, and all my worries were unfounded,” he said, trying to figure out why tears were threatening to spill over.

Jessica took a few seconds to rearrange herself, setting her ever-present portfolio aside and leaning forward on with her elbows on her knees. “I understand that, looked at a certain way, you’ve had a purely positive experience with coming into your sexuality. You had David, who from what you’ve said before is a very loving person. And based on what you’ve told me, you live in an accepting community. And then your parents stepped up and were there for you when you asked them to be. That’s all wonderful, and not to be discounted. But it doesn’t change the fact that for all of your formative years, when maybe on some subconscious level you did know that you were gay, or at least different in some fundamental way, you didn’t feel like your parents or the community you were living in would accept you. That kind of experience leaves a mark, even though everything turned out fine.”

She smirked, leaning backwards again. “Or not. Perhaps your serotonin is low due to simple physiology and I’m completely off the mark.”

Patrick felt strangely reassured by this honesty, this admission that she knew that she didn’t know everything. “So I need medication, then?”

“Maybe,” she said. “Medication might help. Or cognitive behavior therapy could help you. Or both together.”

His reassurance quickly dissolved, leaving Patrick wanting to scream at his therapist, fix me, goddammit! Instead he said, “That all sounds very nebulous.”

She grinned. “From what I know about you so far, I bet that’s driving you crazy, and I’m sorry about that. Can you bear with me for a little while, though? Work through the process?”

He sighed. “I’ll try.”

~*~

Patrick drove past the empty storefront on Elmdale’s main street as he was leaving his therapy appointment. He’d noticed every week that the ‘for lease’ sign was still in the window. After the second time he saw it, he’d texted Ray to ask if that was the space he’d mentioned to David. David hadn’t said anything about the second Rose Apothecary location in a while, but it didn’t take a genius to guess that he was still thinking about it, and probably wondering when Patrick would be ready to seriously entertain the idea again.

On impulse, he pulled into one of the parking spaces that lined the street and got out of the car, walking over to the empty storefront. The windows were covered in paper, but he could see enough through the gaps to make out that it had a scuffed up hardwood floor. It would need to be refinished, he thought, but it looked like it was in pretty good shape.

The smell of coffee attracted Patrick’s attention, and he looked over to see that there was a coffee shop next door. Grind House, the sign that hung under the awning said. Curious, Patrick went over and opened the door.

The barista looked up and waved. It being around two in the afternoon on a weekday, the place was mostly empty other than two people at a table in the corner who were huddled over laptop computers. The shop was decorated tastefully for Christmas, and he thought David would approve of the warmth and coziness of the space.

“Hey, what can I get you?” the barista — Taylor, her name tag read — asked him with a smile. Tattoos snaked out from under the sleeves of her t-shirt, black ink against dark brown skin.

“A small earl grey tea?” he asked.

“Sure thing. Is that it? We’ve got a few pastries left.”

His eyes strayed over to the pastry case. “Yeah, could I get a couple of those butter tarts to go? My husband is a real connoisseur.”

Taylor grinned at him. “Smart man.”

“Hey, what do you know about the empty space next door? Do you know if there’s been any interest in it?”

“Oh man, I’m still bummed about that. It used to be a comic book shop. I was afraid to go in there for the longest time — comic stores aren’t necessarily the most welcoming places to black queer women, you know? But the old guy that ran it was super nice. I remember he made a point of telling me when Ta-Nahisi Coates started writing Captain America.”

“What happened to the store?”

She shrugged. “Amazon drove him out of business, I guess. That’ll be $9.25,” she said ringing up his tea and butter tarts. As Patrick put his debit card in the reader, she added, “Why do you ask?”

“Oh.” He scratched his cheek. “My husband and I run a store in Schitt’s Creek. Rose Apothecary?”

“Holy shit, really? A friend gave me some of your lotion for my birthday. It’s great.”

Patrick swelled with pride. “Thanks. Anyway, we’re considering opening a second location in Elmdale.”

Taylor smirked, handing him his tea and a box with the tarts. “Sorry, I can’t allow you to have a store right next door to my coffee shop. I’ll spend all my profits there.”

Laughing, Patrick accepted his purchases. “Oh, well. Guess we’ll have to look for another place, then. Although David would return the favor, I’m sure.”

“What’s your name?” Taylor asked.

“It’s Patrick Brewer,” he said, setting the tea down again to shake her hand.

“Nice to meet you, Patrick. I’m Taylor. And I hope you guys get the space.”

“I… do too,” he said, surprised to find that he meant it.

The store was bustling when he got back to Schitt’s Creek, and David and Bethany were both busy with customers. Patrick put the box of butter tarts in the back room and went to work restocking Christmas decorations. Given how many decorations they sold every holiday season, Patrick had to assume that by now every Christmas tree in Elm County was fully outfitted in David Rose’s aesthetic.

As soon as David finished with the customers he was helping, Patrick went over and put a hand on his shoulder. “I got you something for your afternoon break,” he said. “There’s a white box on the table in the back.”

David’s eyes lit up, and he hurried into the back before he could be waylaid by another harried holiday shopper.

They didn’t have a chance to exchange any more conversation until Bethany finally flipped the sign on the door to Closed and locked up. Patrick felt dead on his feet, but he had to admit that the thought of all the money in the cash register made him feel pretty good. Bethany went to work cleaning the windows while David leaned against the center table.

“Oh my god, Patrick, where did you get those butter tarts? Those are the best ones I’ve had in years.”

Patrick walked over and put his arms around his husband, pulling him into a hug. “A little coffee shop in downtown Elmdale that happens to be next to an empty store that I believe Ray mentioned to you a couple of months ago.”

David pulled out of the hug, his eyes darting back and forth as he studied Patrick’s expression. “It’s still vacant?”

Nodding, Patrick leaned up and kissed David’s cheek. “We should call Ray after Christmas and go take a look at it.”

“Are you sure?”

Patrick shrugged. “No, I’m scared as hell. Among other things, I’m afraid I’m going to miss having days like this with you, working together in our store. But I want to go look.”

David kissed his lips gently. “Okay.”

~*~

Stevie stood shivering on their back porch, bundled up in her hat and puffy parka. “It’s way too cold for this,” she said.

Patrick exhaled pot smoke in a crystalline cloud of breath and handled the joint back to her. “Our families are getting here tomorrow and I don’t want the house to smell like weed.” He giggled. “It doesn’t match David’s holiday aesthetic.”

His phone chimed, and he took it out to look at it, expecting a complaint from David. Instead the text was from his cousin. There were no words, just a picture of Justin pressed cheek to cheek with another boy.

Patrick: Who’s this?

Justin 🌈: his name is Jonah

Patrick: Very cute. And closer to your age, I hope?

Justin 🌈: 🙄 you sound like my mom he’s 18

Patrick: Good. Merry Christmas, Justin.

Justin 🌈: thanks you too

Then a text arrived from David, just as Patrick expected. She’s got even more luggage than last year.

Patrick laughed. Maybe it’s a lot of presents for you, he texted back.

David: You give my sister entirely too much credit.

Patrick: See you soon.

“Why are you suddenly so fucking popular?” Stevie groused, her teeth chattering, handing him the joint back as he put away his phone.

“Sounds like Alexis’s flight got in on time,” he said. “And my cousin Justin has a new… boyfriend, I guess?” He took another hit.

“I can’t stand this anymore; I’m going inside,” Stevie said, taking the half-smoked joint from him and carefully extinguishing it, then putting it in a crumpled sandwich bag that she produced from her coat pocket. Patrick followed her back into the house. “Is this the cousin that you rescued a while ago?”

“How many gay cousins do you think I have?” he asked, pulling his coat off.

“I mean, statistically? Given how many cousins you have? More than one.” She flopped down on the sofa and stretched out on her back. “So are you liking your therapist any better?”

Patrick dropped into the overstuffed chair across from her. “I don’t know. As I predicted, she’s starting to fixate on my sexual orientation and…” He gestured airily in a very David way. “All that.”

Stevie turned her head and regarded him balefully. “The fact that you were in denial about being gay until you were thirty? And didn’t come out to your parents until you were ready to ask David to marry you? Is that what ‘all that’ is?”

“Fuck off,” Patrick grumbled.

“I’m just saying, there’s probably some stuff to unpack there.”

“Stevie, I’m completely comfortable with being gay,” he said.

“Didn’t say you weren’t. It’s not about you being gay, but maybe it’s about how you get so wrapped up in your obligations to other people that you lose track of yourself. Or that you’re so obsessed with not disappointing the people you care about that you have a hard time being truthful about who you are or what you need.”

Patrick blinked. “Wow. Maybe you should be my therapist.”

Stevie laughed. “The problem is, I need to be high to have these deep insights.”

They settled into comfortable silence for a few minutes. Finally Patrick admitted, “I don’t like the way it makes me feel cracked open.”

“What does?” Stevie asked, her mind clearly having wandered.

“Therapy.”

“Oh. Yeah, I don’t think I could deal with that either,” Stevie said.

“It’s like… you know how if you pick up a big rock in moist soil, there’ll be all these bugs underneath it?”

“Ew,” Stevie said in a perfect imitation of David, and the two of them burst into gales of laughter for a while. When Stevie finally got control of herself, she said, “Sorry, what about the bugs?”

He wiped away tears from his cheeks. “It was a metaphor for my brain. I’ve got a lifetime of practice not moving those rocks. I don’t know if I want to know what’s underneath them.”

“Yeah, I get that.” She stretched her toes out, brushing them against the arm of the sofa. “You know you’ll be okay though, right?”

Patrick felt a swell of love for Stevie and he would have hugged her, but it would probably be weird. Also he was comfortable in his chair. Maybe he’d hug her later.

When David arrived from retrieving Alexis at the airport, Patrick put his coat back on to help with the luggage. David opened a bottle of wine and turned the lamps in the living room off, leaving only the light from the Christmas tree to illuminate the four of them as they settled in to talk.

They told Alexis about the new location in Elmdale that they were considering leasing, and she made some marketing suggestions that were good enough that David went and retrieved his journal from the bedroom so that he could make some notes.

“One thing I’ve seen businesses do to get market penetration is sponsor relevant conferences,” Alexis said. “Like, professional association meetings. Then they get their business name and logo printed on everything for the conference — tote bags, lanyards, USB sticks, all that stuff.” Her free hand that wasn’t holding her wine glass flopped around to indicate all of the stuff.

“We don’t really have general store conferences,” Patrick said, bemused.

Alexis rolled her eyes. “But it works for other events too. Summer festivals, parades, whatever.”

“Elm Valley has a pumpkin festival every year,” Stevie said.

Patrick was starting to have a germ of an idea related to what Alexis had said. He sipped his wine and filed it away to mull over later, when he was sober.

Tomorrow, Johnny and Moira and his own parents would arrive and things would take a turn for the chaotic, but for right now, Patrick could enjoy the warmth of David’s hand on his shoulder as his husband bantered happily with his sister and his best friend. Leaning into the crook of David’s arm, Patrick smiled and tried to soak up all of the love in the room, an inoculation against the darkness that might lurk around the next bend in the road.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” David murmured against his spine later in their bed. Their kisses had been drowsy and a little bit drunk as they decided that sex was happening tonight in spite of their houseguests. Alexis was in the guest bedroom and Stevie had zonked out on the living room sofa, David tucking an afghan around her shoulders before he and Patrick went to bed themselves.

“It’s not Christmas yet,” Patrick said with a chuckle, writhing, pressed against the sheets as David worked him up and up.

“I know it’s not technically Christmas, but tonight was so nice,” David murmured into Patrick’s shoulder, words alternating with kisses. “It filled me with holiday spirit.”

Patrick tried not to laugh, he really did, but it was a losing battle. He made an attempt to smother his giggles into his pillow.

“If you say something about me filling you with the holiday spirit, it’s over between us.” The things he was doing to Patrick with his fingers belied that statement.

Laughing again, Patrick pushed his hips back against David’s hand, and then his laughter turned into a moan, and then neither of them said anything coherent for a long time.

~*~

The first town council meeting of the new year came on a grey January afternoon, the threat of snow on the horizon. Everyone was subdued and low energy, even Roland, and Patrick felt drowsy, struggling a little bit to pay attention and type at the same time that they discussed several budgetary issues. A lot of the topics were the same every meeting, with tiny, incremental changes almost too small to detect. Or worse, they were recurring issues that indicated no progress had been made at all.

When they got to the bottom of the agenda, Ronnie asked if there was any new business, and Patrick almost didn’t say anything. The idea that had occurred to him during the holidays had seemed strong on a happier day. Today, he wasn’t sure he had the energy to argue for it. But then he thought about the things Ronnie had said to him about queer activism, and he thought about Taylor and her coffee shop, and he opened his mouth.

“Have we ever considered having something in Schitt’s Creek for Pride?” he asked.

Ronnie raised her eyebrows. “What, like a parade?”

“No offense, but it might be kind of a sad little parade,” Roland said.

“No, not a parade. Like, a street festival. Tents with food and other vendors and LGBT educational booths. Opportunities for people to find out about meetings in the area. Maybe a stage with speeches and musical performances. And we don’t have to limit it to only Schitt’s Creek. I looked into it a little, and even Elmdale doesn’t have anything like it. We could draw vendors and patrons from all over Elm County.”

Ronnie crossed her arms. “Sounds like a way to line your own pockets. I assume Rose Apothecary would be one of the vendors?”

Patrick met her gaze. “I’m sure the rest of council could be counted on to keep us on a level playing field with everyone else. Come on, Ronnie. Can you honestly say it wouldn’t be a good thing for the community? And a good way to bring money into the town?”

She tilted her head in acquiescence. “Put together a formal proposal and we can vote on it at the next meeting.”

“I’m going to vote ‘yes,’” Bob stage-whispered to Patrick.

“Thanks, Bob.”

After the meeting had adjourned, Patrick went over to Ronnie. “I thought later this month I’d go to that Thornbridge LGBTQIA+ meeting you told me about. See what they’re doing and make some connections. Ask if they’d be interested in helping out with our Pride festival.”

Ronnie stared at him for a second. “Your festival idea hasn’t been approved yet,” she said.

“Assuming it’s approved,” he said, unable to keep himself from grinning. “Would you like to go with me?”

“You want me to spend hours in a car with you, driving to Thornbridge. Really.”

“Come on, Ronnie. Someday you and I are going to have to bury the hatchet for good.” He put on his most guileless expression, the one that caused David to accuse him of weaponizing his eyes. “Why not in service to the queer community, of which we are both pillars?”

She almost, for a split second, looked like she was going to crack a smile. Instead she sighed. “Fine. Let me know when it is. I’ll see if I’m available.”

~*~

They celebrated signing the lease for the new store with pizza at David’s favorite spot in Elmdale. There were paper hearts colored by children in the front window, and it reminded Patrick that he only had a few days to find a suitably tacky gift for David for Valentine’s Day. It wasn’t worth it if he couldn’t get David to threaten to divorce him on this, David’s most hated of holidays.

While they waited for their pizza, Patrick reached across the red and white checkered tablecloth and took David’s hand. “Thank you,” he said.

David had been fiddling with his phone, but at the sound of Patrick’s voice, he set it face-down on the table and gave Patrick his full attention. “What for?”

“For being there for me so many times this past year. For… for putting up with me at my worst.”

A crooked smile threatened to erupt on David’s face. “Patrick, you know your worst is still pretty good, right?”

“I hope you’re not still grading me on a Sebastien Raine curve, David.”

David rolled his eyes at that. “No, I’m just saying that maybe you don’t have the most objective perspective on what being married to you is like.” His eyes softened. “I’m as happy being your husband today as I was the first day. Okay?”

Patrick swallowed around a surprising lump in his throat. “Okay.”

“You’re nervous about the new store,” David surmised.

“I am, but it’s the right decision,” Patrick said with confidence.

“I’m nervous too,” David said. “Don’t mistake my outward confidence for anything other than a thin veneer over all of my anxieties.”

That statement automatically put Patrick into reassurance mode. “The marketing ideas from Alexis are going to be helpful. The customer base in Elmdale is huge and has more disposable income compared to what we’re used to at home. I’ve run some numbers, and I think the revenue from this location may outstrip our Schitt’s Creek location in a matter of months.”

David grimaced. “Well, that somehow makes me feel irrationally protective of our first store. It doesn’t deserve to be the under-achiever.”

Squeezing David’s hand, Patrick said, “Never. I fell in love with you there, and there’s nowhere in the world more important to me than that store.”

“We can make new memories at the new store,” David said softly.

Patrick knew, realistically, that he and David probably wouldn’t be spending that much time together at the new store after they got it open. They’d have to split time between the two locations, and there would be even more work to do out on the road, expanding their vendor base to support the increased demand.

David seemed to read his thoughts. “And when we spend our days apart, it will make being at home together in the evenings that much more precious.”

“Yeah,” Patrick managed to say, his voice raw. He averted his eyes from David’s piercing gaze, staring out the window between the gaps in the paper hearts. “Can you… can you talk to me more about that?”

David smiled and rubbed his hands together. “Well, imagine a day when I’m at the store here in Elmdale, and you’re at the store back at home.”

“Are you at the one in Elmdale because of Taylor’s pastries?”

“Shhh,” David said, reaching out with a finger like he was going to put it over Patrick’s lips. “I leave the store a little early, letting one of our trusted employees close up, and I bring home some wine and cheese from the store. Maybe some of Heather’s new triple cream.” He closed his eyes like he was having an erotic fantasy about Heather Warner’s cheese.

“Wine and cheese that you pay for,” Patrick said.

“Naturally. Oh, and fresh berries. It’s summer, and there are berries in season. So I set everything up on the kitchen table, just in time for you to arrive home from the other store. And we drink wine and eat cheese and we tell each other all about our days. The sun is setting, and the light is all golden,” David said.

“I like this story,” Patrick replied. “Then what happens?”

“Eventually we move to the sofa. Maybe watch some TV or listen to some music. We put our feet up and finish our wine and you remember something funny that you saw on the internet and you tell me about it. And then when we get tired, we go to bed.”

“What happens then?” Patrick asked as their server set their pizza in front of them and David grabbed a slice.

David’s mouth twisted into a crooked smile and he waggled his eyebrows. “The rest of the story is very interesting, but you’ll have to wait to get home to hear that part.”

“Hmm, okay.” Patrick reached for his own slice of pizza.

“Hey,” David said, drawing Patrick back to looking at him. “I love you. I can’t wait to see what the next year brings for us.”

Patrick smiled. He felt bolstered, lifted up by David’s support and for once, he allowed himself to feel good about it. “Me either, David.”

#david x patrick #schitt's creek ff #schitt's creek fic #david x patrick fic #david x patrick ff #my fic

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hissairi · 4 years

Text

Luck of hedgehog

I really love the fact that riddle loves hedgehogs so much, personally I own them too.

It was originally echa in Spanish, so I apologize for any spelling mistakes there may be.

To say that you had to take care of Grimm during classes was a little short, because your little friends were just one of the group you had to take care of, and when you referred to the group you meant ace and deuce, your friends of whom you were sure they most likely Shared a brain cell, and at the time you were told you would team up with them for the alchemy class you don't know whether to worry or rejoice.

And as surprising as it was, all three behaved well... Well for the three of them it was really good, now all that was left was to hand over their new potion to professor crewel and as if the world hated you one of your colleagues pushed the cauldron where the potion was, and for your wonderful luck it spilled on you.

- fnaaa!! (t/n) okay? - I ask a Grimm a little surprised to see you with the potion spilled on top of you

And before you could say anything and your friends came over to see how you felt and if nothing really bad had happened, you disappeared... Or rather said you shrank

- she's disappeared!! - I screamed ace while I saw only a lot of clothes scattered on the floor -

"I don't think so," answered deuce, pointing to a small lump that was moving under the lab gown you had just been wearing.

-deuce is right - said Grimm as he took his clothes off, when he saw a hedgehog of color (c/c) who by a sudden change of light was rumbling

-it looks a little like (t/n)- said deuce as he took it with care in his hands

- it's the same color as (t/n) hair - she said while looking closer

"That's all that fuss puppies," professor divus came up to hear so many whispers.

-because our partner (t/n) apparently turned into a hedgehog - explained deuce as he showed it to the professor

-but it is supposed that if they prepared the potion well that must not have happened, because in spite of being a similar potion to the transformation one, this was a neutral one, they have not added anything extra or if - I ask while I looked at the students, while the little colored hedgehog (c/c) looked at her classmates a little furious.

-i swear that this time we didn't do something like that - answered an ace quickly and very sure of himself

-then if you don't mind I'll check your cauldron - he said as he took a long wooden spoon and this way stir the cauldron in search of something that wasn't right, while the trio and a hedgehog watched their teacher attentively

"And what is this?" - I ask while with the spoon he showed them some hedgehog spikes that were inside the cauldron

"No, perhaps --" - deuce spoke as he remembered the morning, because before the class began it was ace's and his turn to feed the hedgehogs, they had forgotten two important things that day, first to check if it was time for them to change barbs (this can happen and only once to young hedgehogs)) and second to shake their uniforms

"What is that?" - I ask Grimm who was watching closely

"How did those barbs get there?" - I ask a somewhat surprised ace - I suppose now he will be a little harmless ericito- he makes fun of you while with his finger he caresses you under your chin, annoyed by his jokes you decided to try to bite him something you got successfully.

And before ace could claim the reason you bitten him master divus spoke up - they're lucky, it's only temporary, they'll have to take care of it until the effect of the potion is over.-

-eaten bread is not the first time we take care of a hedgehog - said ace as she took you in her hands

The day was really not as bad as you expected at first, it's not that being a hedgehog displeased you, the problem was your friends but in fact they were good, and Grimm kept fighting with ace, but deuce separated them or at least tried to, the only bad thing is that they didn't understand you.

All was well, until they arrived at heartslabyul's residence, the poor trio or quartet of unfortunates did not expect to meet the leader of their bedroom while they were on the way to the bedroom part.

"You who do with that hedgehog," when you heard those words from riddle, you learned in panic, "you know hedgehogs don't come out of the garden."

The three turned to where riddle was, that was bad, and ace's best idea was to hide you in his uniform.

-that leader is talking, we don't have any hedgehog - he said while he was looking for a way to accommodate himself without

- you are sure - riddle came up to inspect ace and as if your new body betrayed you when you felt danger you stood up, stung ace and had to come out of your hiding place

- l-leader we can explain it - I try to speak deuce but riddle took you in his arms, while you asked for help, although it is needless to explain that no one understood what you said

- well, now go back to your room, or I'll cut off your head - your look begged your friends for mercy as riddle took you in his arms and drove off to heartslabyul gardens.

-we're sorry (t/n)- whisper deuce as I looked from a distance

It did not take long to get to the gardens, where riddle positioned you on the floor, the other hedgehogs to see how the bedroom leader arrived decided to approach to smell him or him and his new companion... At least temporarily

-hi guys - I salute a more relaxed riddle with a smile, and sparkling eyes, a beautiful landscape if you were asked, after all it was no surprise you liked it, because after becoming overblot you became closer to it (also your friends were in his bedroom, it was something that had to happen).

She placed you on the floor of the place, and the hedgehogs, realizing their presence, began to approach you, your fear made you stick to riddle.

"What's the matter?" - he said as he bent down at your height and stroked your head - maybe they are hungry, I will breathe for their food - and so your only saviour left you with the hedgehogs who soon came near you.

After a while you realized it was not as bad as you thought, after all, these were such nice creatures, you soon became friends with them, not long after this event when riddle arrived with a bag of food that started serving in different dishes and began to accommodate near him, the hedgehogs gathered around these and began to eat, you sniffed the food... And you didn't like it smelled of fish and tasted salty ((there's food for hedgehog but you can give them cat food so based on my experience of eating cat food I guess they taste the same... I hope I don't want to try any more animal food...)) I will decide not to eat, an action that doesn't go unnoticed by the redhead.

-apparently, someone isa little fussy with the food today, wait here - he said with such a beautiful smile, that swears that you felt your cheeks burning, I guess he could not notice it. He soon arrived with some strawberries in his hands.

He sat beside the other hedgehogs and carefully held you in his hands, watching you attentively, took a strawberry and put it near you so that you could eat it, placed it willingly, to which riddle smiled with satisfaction.

-you know now that I look good, your color reminds me of (t/n) hair - he said as he ran the fingers of his other hand through your little head -you may not know her, but she's a very nice and beautiful girl - said a reddish riddle like the strawberry you were eating, I say you were why when he said or rather whispered those words

Your eyes sparkled and looked at him with curiosity, so they may like you, that's what improved your day, if you weren't just a hedgehog you would have confessed right there, riddle took you between his two hands and looked at you closer.

-if only it were easy to say those words, just like I say them to you - he leaned a little towards you and was about to leave a little kiss on your head but by reflex you moved a little and ended up giving him a kiss, it was not as you expected, but at least you could say that you had kissed the person you loved and as if an ancient tale where the kiss of true love breaks the spell of the princess that is trapped in it, you became human again.

You and riddle stared at each other for a moment, you were sitting on your legs staring at each other, it wasn't long before you both pusierab red, you might even go unnoticed among the red roses in heartslabyul gardens.

-hello.. Riddle- you greeted timidly, as the hedgehogs stopped eating to see the curious scene unfolding in front of them

- did you hear what I said before? - I ask a riddle still blushed looking to the other side

- a-that's it... I like you!! - well that sounded louder than you expected, just pray that no other student passing by the place has heard it, with red cheeks you took riddle's cheeks in your hands and looked at him decisively - riddle rosehearts, I like you, I love you with all my heart, and I hope you can reciprocate my feelings -

Riddle's eyes lit up, he put his hands on your cheeks and kissed you ina sweet and gentle way.

In the end becoming a hedgehog wasn't as bad as you expected it to be.

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland #riddle rosehearts #riddle x reader #twisted wonderland riddle

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ruensroad · 4 years

Note

Can I request 15 with NieYao? Thanks so much! :)

Prompt from this list here!

Prompt 15 | “You sleep with the stuffed animal I got you?” “Of course” | NieYao

In many ways, it was a downright miracle Meng Yao had even been allowed through the door. It was no secret how badly he had hurt Mingjue those years ago, chasing vengeance and turning his back on love. What they could have had still haunted him, as much as he wished it didn’t, so the fact Mingjue was letting him now?

Meng Yao wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve a second chance. If that was what this even was. Mingjue could be getting him alone to kill him, for all he knew, a viable option and a deserved one.

Not that he thought that was what Mingjue was angling towards, but better to be safe than sorry… well, more sorry. Whatever Mingjue was planning, it had him on edge and feeling far too vulnerable. The smart thing would be to turn heel now and flee, but he wasn’t a coward and owed Mingjue this, at the very least. He would reap what he sowed and hope to survive it until Mingjue was satisfied. So he did.

It was a new apartment, nicer than what Mingjue and he had shared fresh from university and barely getting by on pocket change and love. This was bigger, cleaner, on a nicer street, closer to the military base Mingjue was stationed at. Tidy, but homey, a balance between modern living and traditional comfort. Just as he knew Mingjue liked it.

“Want a beer?” Mingjue asked with a slight smirk on his lips. So, he remembered Meng Yao hated beer and offered him one anyway. The start of the torture, then. Meng Yao took it without comment.

“What is this, Mingjue?” he asked, deftly whacking the cap on the counter and sending it shooting off. Mingjue’s brows rose, perhaps pleased that he had remembered the trick, and sipped his own beer.

“Off brand shit,” he said, as though that was the answer to what Meng Yao had asked. Meng Yao shot him a look, but only got a smile in return, wide and guileless, open, and that pit in his stomach started to pull on his insides to see it, like free fall, like being drowned.

“Why aren’t you throwing me out of your house?” Meng Yao demanded, tired of the game for once. He took a drink and immediately remembered why he hated beer so much. Guts tumbling, he set the bottle carefully down, desperate for calm.

“I just invited you in. It would be counterproductive to throw you out,” Mingjue said, almost pleasant about it too. Enjoying this then. Damn it.

“Mingjue,” Meng Yao heard himself say softly, as close to begging as he ever got, and finally got a better reaction.

That smile slipped away, but that damned softness remained. “A-Yao,” he said, chuckling low. “What are you expecting here? If you want me to toss you out the door, I will. If you want me to shout and yell, I will… even if I don’t see the point in further punishing you when it’s clear you’ve never forgiven yourself for it.”

That implied Mingjue had forgiven him, which was too much to ask for, wish for, hope for. He swallowed and wondered if he should run from this, before Mingjue got smart and left him like the trash he was.

But he’d always been weak to the way Mingjue looked at him, like he was worth something, like he was someone worth a smile, that kindness and compassion.

That love.

“Come, there’s something I want to show you,” Mingjue said when it was clear to the both of them that Meng Yao wasn’t bolting for the door. In a sort of daze, Meng Yao followed him to a back room. Even before he saw the bed, he smelled the man’s strong incense and favored deodorant, which clearly hadn’t changed in the years he’d disappeared from Mingjue’s life.

Then he saw the spot of red against the dark silk of the pillows and pulled up short, breath catching. The little fox stared back with it’s button eyes, its sewn on mouth smiling pleasantly at him. The fur was lopsided and the body was carefully settled on the pillow, proof of use, of care and attention.

A foolish thing to cry over, but the tears came all the same.

“You kept it.”

Mingjue turned to look, then smiled a bit at the little stuffed animal. “Of course I did.”

Meng Yao’s brain whirled, just trying to understand it, but for once his mind failed him. “Through basic training, through deployment…?”

“I took him with me,” Mingjue confirmed and moved back to him. Obviously, the little fox had not been what he’d wanted Meng Yao to see, but did not seem put off by Meng Yao’s tears. With far too kind fingers, he brushed at the corners of his eyes, as though to keep them from falling.

The tenderness alone was threatening to kill him. “You sleep with the stuffed animal I won for you at the fair when we were in school?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Mingjue asked, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “When I couldn’t have my true fox in my arms?”

“You… are such a fool,” Meng Yao told him, trying to be angry, to bite, to force an opening to run. But Mingjue only chuckled, agreeing, and Meng Yao suddenly knew he was lost.

“You have always made me a fool,” Mingjue told him and tilted his chin up for a kiss. “And I will always be one for you.”

#ruenwrites #nieyao #writing prompts #nie mingjue #meng yao #jin guangyao

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elmidol · 4 years

Text

Consuming the Innocent (NSFW)

Three Blind Tooke Part One Resistance is Futile

Read on AO3

Warnings: noncon, threats, loss of virginity, mind control, lightsaber insertion

Three Blind Tooke Part One: Resistance is Futile

Chapter Two: Consuming the Innocent

Cold toes and the shivering night, Pull up the sheet and avoid a fright; It lives and breathes beneath the bed, Let it catch you, now you’re dead.

While you were still shackled, while his fingers remained in your mouth, his thumb pressing into the underside of your jaw, there entered a member of the First Order whose position you were uncertain of. Air rushed in and out of your nostrils as a strange coating was applied to your teeth; it felt as though there was rubber sealing them, and you became aware of the fact that you would not be able to bite—not yourself to end your life, and not the creature who had at last relinquished his hold of you. Kylo Ren took a step back as a sort of muzzle was secured around your face to prevent you from placing anything into your mouth to harm yourself in that manner. You pressed your teeth together in frustration and felt, for the first time, the rubber-like coating doing its work.

Next were your hands, upon which were placed mittens that were secured to new shackles. The chain of these shackles was draped behind your back and still limited your movement, but was more to prevent you from removing the mittens. You had very limited use of your hands now, of what you were able to grab and do. It was when you were in this state, essentially defenseless, that the creature took his leave of you. The First Order member undid the first set of shackles. He seized you by your upper arm, hoisting you up and practically dragging you away. You stumbled at almost each step, which jarred your body and caused pain to throb around your wound.

The man stripped you—literally cutting away your shirt and bra so that the shackles did not have to be removed—wet a cloth, and cleaned you in that manner. You fought off tears of shame, of embarrassment, as this occurred; but you said nothing, not wanting to give them the satisfaction. After you were cleaned, the First Order member held open a pair of underwear. It was black, which hardly surprised you. You stared at it for several seconds, wondering if you should protest, should make his job harder. But you hated the fact that you stood bare before him, and so you weakly lifted your leg and allowed him to pull the cloth over you. The other portion of your new attire was laughable; it almost appeared to be a dress—again, black—that lacked sleeves, and the man easily slipped it up your body. It hardly covered your chest. Any sudden movement threatened to cause it to slip—if you attempted to escape while wearing this, you would soon be exposed once more to your enemy.

They left your feet bare. The First Order member once again grabbed your upper arm. You felt his fingers digging into your flesh as he led you down the corridors and hallways of—you still were uncertain where you were. Not on a ship. A planet? Some random base? Your eyes darted here and there, taking in all that could be seen. You wanted to be able to provide the Resistance with something if you managed to devise a way to escape. The man thrust you into a room and closed the door, not even bothering to enter with you.

You stared at the door, your fingers twitching underneath the mittens and your tongue running for the umpteenth time along the seal around your teeth. You sniffed indignantly—then paused. You could smell food. You had not realized how hungry you were until that moment; your stomach grumbled, and you mentally cursed it for the noise. The next thing you noticed was that you had the strangest sensation that you were not alone in the room.

A new cage, but the same predator. Trapped with him for another time.

You turned slowly, trying to keep a brave face despite circumstances. His black figure was seated on a bed, beside which there was a tray of food. To the Kylo Ren’s left—to the right of the bed—stood a container that was nearly half the creature’s height. You could see the ashes therein; the thing was filled with them. It disgusted you, threatened to negate the hunger that was building inside of you.

“Those are the newest.” His first words to you since you had entered what you could only assume was his bedroom. You felt bile rising in your throat, and you feared you would vomit—feared it because of the muzzle on your face. Kylo Ren rose from his spot on the bed. He paused, which allowed ample time for you to take in his full height. The way he held himself, as though ready to spring yet at the same time he appeared almost relaxed. You were no threat to him, not in your current state. You blinked, dropped your eyes to the floor, and then lifted your gaze when the creature took a step towards the container. He dipped a gloved hand into the ashes. Your fingers threatened to curl underneath the mittens, to form fists with your hands—save your broken digit, which only throbbed.

His fingers drew lazy patterns in the remains of your fallen comrades. You tore your gaze away from what he was doing to search for something—anything—with which to strike him. Your efforts ceased, however, when he cupped his hand and entrapped some of the ashes. He stepped away from the canister, towards you, and you felt your limbs freezing. It was by no effort of his, by no manipulation of the Force, that rendered you immobile. It was not quite fear either. Simply a sick sense of anticipation, the knowledge of what he planned to do evident. When he was directly in front of you, the creature curled his fingers around the ashes, raised his arm and tilted his hand so that the remains trickled onto your head. You blinked your eyes, some of the ashes threatening to enter and irritate your orbs.

When half the ashes he had collected had descended onto you, Kylo Ren lowered his arm. His hand pressed against your collarbone, flattening and smearing the remains along your flesh as he trailed his limb across the length of your body to your shoulder. All the while he did not stop watching you.

“You wanted to join them,” he said, his tone indicating a sense of detachment. Kylo Ren shifted, stepping behind you whilst keeping his hand on your shoulder. You did what you could to not tremble at his touch. You were not afraid of him killing you—you would prefer that more than anything. But the contact was foreign to you. Only your allies had touched you, and even then it had never felt so…intimate, so invasive.

But, you reminded yourself, you would not let yourself be intimidated by him. You started to turn your head, watching him out of the corner of your eye. The gloved hand made its way along your skin to the side of your throat; all the while, ashes were smeared on your flesh. What had been the point of them cleaning you?—so that you could see more easily the blackened remains of your allies upon your flesh?

“Perhaps you should be fed…” Passive still, uncaring. You looked towards the tray of food. Nothing that would require much chewing, which hit you like a punch to the gut. You were being treated like an animal. Like some form of mild entertainment. You refused to allow these facts to break you in any way, shape or form. You lifted your chin, staring down your nose at the tray. Behind you, Kylo Ren chuckled. “Obstinate creature.” You felt him draw even closer to you, the metal of his mouthpiece hovering near your ear. “But, you are mistaken—I can take whatever I want.” He lifted a hand, causing you to flinch when it was placed in the air on the other side of your head. His fingers hooked, as though he were latching onto something—and you felt something in your mind, something digging and clawing its way into you as he sent tendrils of suffering through you. “Your willpower is no exception.”

You could feel him digging, searching. He was dragging up memories, the creature attempting to discover your every weakness. You sobbed in pain, however did what you could to throw up mental roadblocks. Walls. You imagined walls, thought of nothing else—until, in frustration, the monster behind you shifted and his body brushed yours. He latched immediately onto the coldness that gripped your heart.

“I see.” The clawing tendrils retreated as you swallowed down the bile that had risen in your throat. The hand lowered from your head, the creature’s limb resting on your thigh. You tensed at the contact. “You didn’t cry when you were bathed—how badly you wanted to.” You legs were locking in place. The hand parted the slit that ran up the length of half the material that covered you. Those leather fingers pinched the edge of the cloth, drawing it aside to expose the black panties. “You’ve been too afraid to even touch yourself.” You moved to catch his hand, yet found the chain stretched as far as it would go when your mittens were mere inches from his wrist. Kylo Ren chuckled again. Rather than touch you, as you had feared was his intention, the creature allowed the material to drop.

Your meager sense of relief was short lived. His grip was like a vice on your upper arms, the darkly clothed Knight of Ren forcing you forward. Your knees hit against the edge of the mattress. You tried to shoved backwards against him, attempted to deadweight to stop him from accomplishing his task, and yet you were too weak to do anything more than prolong the time it took him to finish by, perhaps, five seconds. You were turned around and shoved down, your arms practically pinned to your sides as the chain was trapped under the weight of your body.

With your legs dangling over the side of the bed, you did what you could to kick at the creature. Kylo Ren had lowered himself into a crouch. He held up an arm, upon which your first feeble attempt to harm him hit. There was a soft sound of impact. He moved forward, his hands on your inner thighs, parting your legs as well as the material that had hid your panties from his view. The creature hovered above you, his visor pointed at the simple cloth that maintained the last shreds of your dignity. Slowly, as if drinking in the sounds of you hissing and growling in frustration, Kylo Ren lowered his head so that his mouthpiece rested against the front of your underwear. You froze instantly.

“I have no interest in touching you, Resistance scum,” he said. Your lips parted, your mouth falling open at the vibrations that traveled through the lower half of your body. You had never felt anything like it. Just as quickly, as though to prove his words true, Kylo Ren moved up the length of your body. You glared at him through the tears that had formed. “You will do as I say.”

“No,” you hissed out, your voice and words distorted the slightest bit by the seal around your teeth.

Kylo Ren raised a hand, the tips of his fingers on your face, near your eye. You hated the feel of leather on you. “You will do as I say.”

And something in you snapped, clicked. As though it only made sense for you to do whatever he willed. Something crawling into your brain, nudging you. “I will do as you say,” you repeated. Kylo Ren tilted his head to the side, observing you for a moment longer before he straightened himself. He stood there beside the bed, his legs between your parted limbs. The creature, your captor, withdrew the hilt of his weapon from its place at his belt. Turning it upside down, he considered you even longer.

Though your mind, under the creature’s control, was incapable of fully comprehending the abstract concept of time, it was able to feel that there was a sort of wavering. The hesitation was not on your part; you knew only that, for an unexplainable reason, your purpose was to bend to Kylo Ren’s will. Ah, your mind supplied—or was it his? His wavering, his hesitation. A mindless creature could commit more acts than a knowledgeable human, who understood the depth of what such actions would ultimately mean. All repercussions taken into consideration. It went far beyond the ends justifying the means. It delved into every tiny ripple that was created by the disturbance.

The considerations of potential ripples entered your mind, which could not understand why the thoughts were there at all. What purpose did they serve in terms of you obeying the master of your mind? He wants to know—he should know all. Something buried deep within you stirred. A small voice, nearly a whisper, that urged you to resist. You should fight against this, the voice demanded.

The waves of indecision from your captor dissipated. His will power pushed across your mind again; a thick fog that obscured any images you may have been able to conjure on your own. It drowned out the small voice of resistance.

Please and obey, a new voice purred. It had no face, however such an image would have been superfluous. What need did such a benevolent sound have for some visage that would never do it justice?

Humanity—empathy and compassion gave way to the necessity of control. And thus the creature spoke:

“You will desecrate yourself on my weapon.”

“I will desecrate myself on your weapon,” you said, almost robotically. At the same time, you started to sit up, somehow knowing that this was what he willed. You maneuvered yourself onto your knees, your legs still spread. Kylo Ren hooked two fingers into your panties, drawing them to the side and exposing your cunt. You were not aroused at all—not that he cared; it was not for your pleasure, rather for his own sick entertainment. To watch the Resistance crumble, observe your will, your resistance shattered.

He lined the tip of the hilt at your entrance. Your mind did not register the feel of the metal. Only his words were present; not the feelings your body should have experienced. His former command repeated itself in your brain, and you blindly obeyed. You lowered yourself onto the metal, so that it filled you up. Stretched you. Ripped you, your hymen. It was as you were raising yourself, the hilt slipping out of you, that Kylo Ren observed the blood of your virginity running down the metal. He said nothing. Not even as you plunged yourself back down onto the weapon.

“The Resistance is more willing than you let on.”

And all at once it was as though your very life was handed back over to you. It took your mind a moment to realize that you were a person; that what was happening to you was real. You screamed in agony, the pain coursing through your lower anatomy hitting you in full. As though you had been scalded and stabbed at the same time. You used your legs to push away, to raise yourself so that the metal left you. Falling backwards, you sobbed, twisting your body and curling up on yourself. Kylo Ren ran the fingers of his left hand along the hilt, smearing the blood—your blood. Without another word to you, he turned and strode away, presumably to clean the weapon so that its make was not compromised.

You breathed heavily as you lay on your side. It felt as though someone had split you in half. Tears spilled down your cheeks by the dozens. The greatest insult was not that he had ripped through your virginity with his weapon, the weapon that had killed countless allies; it was that he had tricked your mind into making you commit the atrocity.

“You must be desperate to do something so vile!” you spat out when Kylo Ren reentered the room. His lightsaber, cleaned, was in its rightful spot on his belt. “Pathetic, disgusting monster!”

By way of response the creature walked to the tray of food. You could still feel blood slipping out of you, some remaining in your panties, which were not completely on you correctly; some ran down your thigh and dripped onto the sheets. Kylo Ren lifted a small morsel of food, which he rolled around between his fingers. He smashed it, rolled it again, working the piece into an even smaller form. It would be able to slip past one of the open portions of the muzzle, you realized. Shaking your head, you attempted to turn your face so that he could not reach your mouth. Kylo Ren was not deterred. He seized you by the hair, tugging so that your neck snapped back enough to give him room to shove the piece into your mouth. You worked your tongue against the food. Despite the fact that you were salivating, that your stomach was churning in hunger just as much as it was disgust, you attempted to push the bite back through the muzzle with your tongue.

Kylo Ren grabbed your thigh, his thumb pushing into your flesh in a manner that you let you know a bruise was going to form. The throbbing in you from the breaking of your hymen returned in full. “Gnnn!”

“It would be wise to swallow.” You hastily obeyed, wanting to rid yourself of the pain, of his touch. His hand indeed left you in favor of preparing another piece.

“You’re depraved,” you ground out before more food was shoved into your mouth.

Kylo Ren set the back of his hand against your face; his knuckles brushed your cheek in what would be considered a soothing manner had it been anyone else touching you. “You want to kill me.”

“I will kill you,” you screamed after swallowing. You would have lunged for him, would have attempted to fight him in any capacity you could, if not for the throbbing between your legs. A breathy noise, as though he had scoffed at the idea. Or laughed at it. “I don’t fear you, you monster!”

“You fear—“ He paused, as though recalling his trip inside your mind. He waved a hand before your face. “Touch yourself.” Your hands dropped to your hips, parting the material and tracing through the blood. You rolled two fingers against your clit, dipped those digits to your entrance, and gathered both blood and the traces of your own juices that were forming. Kylo Ren watched you the entire time as you drew your fingers back to your clitoris and drew lazy circles around it. “A strange thing to fear,” he murmured.

Again were you handed back the faculties of your mind. You snatched your hands away from yourself, whipping them to your sides. You clenched your teeth and eyed that mask cautiously.

“You’re the first to fear it…” He almost sounded curious. “The first who had no reason to fear it.” Had being the operative word. You looked away in shame.

His fingers slipped into the material, this time aiming for the wound that had been tended to. The physicians had sealed the majority of the holes that had been created by the lightsaber. Yet there remained some damage, which would heal on its own. There would, of course, be scarring. The leather of his gloves against your healing wound caused you to tense up.

“You’re still willing to fight me.” It sickened you to know what he was hinting at; that your fallen allies had broken under lesser circumstances. They had likely wanted to die, not because it would prevent Kylo Ren from achieving sick satisfaction in their misery; but because they were afraid of him. You did not want to die because you were afraid of him. It was the former. It disgusted you that you were alive for his amusement. That you were in a position that was making it nearly impossible for you to attack him. Yet, because you were denied death, you would not give up so easily. You would find a way to harm him. You knew this was the reason the chain was secured behind your back; so that you could not attempt to use it against him.

He reached behind himself with the hand that was not set on your flesh; seizing up the cup, which had a straw protruding, he brought the drink towards your face. You pinched your lips closed. Kylo Ren cocked his head to the side, adding pressure with his thumb to your injury. Your mouth snapped open, a cry of pain leaving you as the straw was forced past your muzzle and into your mouth. Though you could not see the creature’s face, you were under the impression that he would do worse to you if you did not drink; that he would pinch your nose closed and pour the water down your throat so that you choked but were forced to swallow some. You abhorred that you saw no better choice than to temporarily humor him. Sealing your lips around the straw, you sucked up a small mouthful before the cup was dragged away.

Having grown bored with you, Kylo Ren called for a stormtrooper to return you to the small cell in which you had previously been kept. This time you were not chained to the table-like structure you recognized to be a bed. With your hands and mouth bound as they were, you were granted the liberty of moving about the tiny area. In one corner was a bucket, which you understood to be your toilet. You wrinkled your nose, yet within minutes you had no choice but to either use it or wet the panties you wore. That would result in either you sitting in your own urine or else being returned for another cloth bath. You sloppily wiped yourself with the toilet paper after you were done; the mittens inhibited your movements more than you liked.

The blood from your broken hymen had dried to your legs. The pain had not fully dissipated. Each time you moved a certain way, the throbbing and discomfort returned. Urinating had done nothing more than aggravate your sensitive flesh as well. Your stomach was burning in hunger; the small amount of food he had fed you had, if anything, only heightened your appetite.

But that was what he wanted, you realized in little time. The creature wanted you to beg him. You wouldn’t, especially not after what he had done to you—what he had made you do.

Even when you were shivering as you laid on the hard bed, you refused to beg. You knew you should ask for a blanket lest you catch a cold. Or perhaps pneumonia. Stars, you prayed you would get sick. That you would catch some sort of infection the First Order physicians would be unable to cure. No such affliction arrived, however; the familiar stomping of boots echoed through the hallway outside the door. You squeezed your eyes closed, curling into a tighter ball then choking on a sob as pain rippled through your lower anatomy again. The girth of the lightsaber hilt had been anything but merciful.

The cell door opened and then shut just as suddenly. You could feel his presence in the small area with you. “You’re cold,” he observed as he closed the distance between the pair of you. His hand touched your shoulder, though you weren’t sure why he would do that—he was still wearing those gloves, so it wasn’t as though he could feel you.

“Don’t you fucking touch me,” you hissed, jerking your body away from his touch.

Kylo Ren’s hand, hovering near your shoulder since you had moved so that his grip on you faltered, found your throat. You stilled at the light amount of pressure that he applied. Staring up into that cold mask of his, you could feel his gaze glued to your face. There was a sudden pressure on your mind, a single word nestling itself and repeating over and over: submit.

No, your mind chanted, though you could not find the strength to speak the single syllable aloud. Could not fight against the creature’s will, which was forcing itself into you the same way it had before. Sweat was gathering on your body despite the cold; in fact, it worsened the chill that assaulted your body.

When his hand slipped from your neck to your shoulder, you said nothing. You were dragged up to your feet; your knees threatened to buckle as more pain shot through you. Crumpling, you found yourself pitching forward, your body hitting into his. He hardly seemed to care.

“Are you afraid?”

“Never of you!” you said through clenched teeth, gagging the next second as you fought through the discomfort.

“You fight so well.” The compliment did nothing other than make your stomach drop, especially when Kylo Ren lowered himself onto one knee before you. His arm snaked around your waist. You lifted a knee, using it to keep some distance between your body and his as he tugged you closer. “You don’t yet realize that you’ve already lost.”

“If I had already lost, you would have finished killing me,” you responded, looking down your nose at him through narrowed eyes. “I’ve no reason to fear a coward hiding behind a mask.”

“Perhaps you would be more afraid of what’s behind this mask,” Kylo Ren said levelly. He tugged you harder, which caused your knee to press uncomfortably against his armor before it was forced to give way. The mouthpiece of his helmet was, for a second time, pressed to your more intimate regions. This time the sorry excuse for clothing you had been given separated it from your panties. “A little tooke.”

“Is toxic to a rancor,” you returned, trying to ignore the vibrations that traveled through you. Pain threatened to give way to another sensation, which you had no desire to experience—not with this monster. Kylo Ren stood, his mask pressed against your body the entire way until he was able to hook the mouthpiece against the side of your neck. It was too intimate again—perhaps that was the sole reason he was acting this way. To get under your skin. His fingers toyed with the ashes he had previously smeared against your flesh.

“So easily crushed.” His hand slipped underneath the layers of black cloth, dipping into your underwear. You clenched your jaw to keep from saying anything; begging in any form would be handing him a victory. And so you endured the sensation of leather caressing your outer lips before teasing your clit. The pain fully gave way to a swirling sensation that settled in your lower belly before it pooled lower. Kylo Ren moved a single finger to your entrance, where your juices had started to drip out of you. You had to swallow repeatedly, put pressure on your tongue with the rubber capping on your teeth, to keep from crying.

“They send forth the naïve to destroy those they fear,” the creature said passively. There was a humming quality to his voice, as though perhaps he was in some way curious about you. Or perhaps it was simply the way he pondered how best to break you. “How often I expect more than the Resistance is capable of.” The finger at your entrance swiveled back at forth, the tip of it tapping against either side of your walls. The grip your teeth had on your tongue nearly faltered, however you managed to press down before the organ could be fully released.

He dragged your juices back to your clit and slowly traced out the letters of his name. You were breathing through your nose, the air going in and out of you with enough noise that he could definitely hear you. Not to mention the way your chest was starting to heave. Your knees wobbled. A seam of his glove added more to the pleasure he was lazily delivering—delivering only to show you that he could trick your body into doing whatever it was he so desired.

Your eyes darted up to the ceiling. “‘I have no interest in touching you, Resistance scum,’” you said, your voice quivering around the words he had spoken earlier. His finger paused. The metal at your throat shifted back momentarily then dug more tightly into your flesh. He resumed his actions, this time working his digit faster. “Ggg…” Your jaw dropped open, and you greedily, noisily panted in attempts to gather enough air for your lungs. Kylo Ren stepped behind you, keeping his face at your throat, yet now angling so that he could watch his own actions. Your eyes darted around the room. You tried to think of things—you were covered in your allies’ remains, you reminded yourself. This creature had—he raised his other hand, kneading your chest, adding a second finger to tease your clit—he had killed so many. Would be killing more until he was killed.

“So evasive…”

Then suddenly you were not alone in your mind any longer. You could feel him once more digging, knew he was devouring your every reaction to his toxic touch. Your body was throbbing with want for more, while mentally you were screaming for it to end. Yet that screaming stopped. You tried to hold back, even in your thoughts, any pleas that would otherwise form. You would not let him hear any of it.

Kylo Ren pinched your nipple through the cloth. You gasped then cursed yourself. He was rubbing your cunt with three fingers, back and forth. Sliding over your entrance then back to your clit. Over and over again, now rolling his hand. You squirmed, moving to retreat by taking a step back only to press more tightly into his body.

Images pressed into your mind. You on your knees, his cock halfway down your throat as he gripped onto the sides of your head. You shook your head, swallowing thickly so that you did not scream out the No! that was on the tip of your tongue, the no that was nearly erased by the word yes! when he flexed his wrist, the new angle proving to provide more stimulation. More images. Something hot and wet on your cunt; his breath. A tongue delving into you, the sound of him slurping up your juices. That tongue waggling about in a manner that had you bucking your hips up, pressing yourself more tightly against his face, a face that was still a mystery to you.

“N-yes!” You threw your head back, choking on a sob and moan as you spilled onto his hand. Kylo Ren caught you when your legs gave out as your first ever orgasm crashed over you. His hand did not stop moving; he milked it out for all it was worth. “F… D… Don’t touch me!” You tried to wrench yourself from his grasp the moment you came down from the high achieved by your release.

“And yet you crave my touch,” was his response, the words instantly bringing you to a stop when a moment before you had been trying to elbow him to no avail. “This…” Kylo Ren stroked your over-sensitive clit, causing your legs to buckle again. “…you now know how it feels…” He repeated the action. You sobbed, wanting to beg him to stop but not wanting to beg. The creature behind you smeared your juices along your inner thigh, mixing them with the blood that had dried there. “A simple touch and you crumble.”

“You haven’t won,” you managed between sobs. You shook your head. “You’re disgusting!…Loathsome!…Depraved! Damned pervert!”

“Pervert?” He chuckled, a sound you hated. Kylo Ren seized one of your mitten-clad hands, bringing it to the front of his pants. Even through all the layers you could feel him. “You have no affect on me, Resistance scum.” It disgusted yet at the same time shamed you to find he was not lying; touching you as he had had not seemed to arouse him in the least.

“Your actions are no less perverse,” you said, bending your wrist so that you were no longer touching him. “As though touching me isn’t in itself sexual—you monster.” This time he did not respond. Instead, Kylo Ren swept you up into his arms and carried you out of the cell. It hardly surprised you to find that he had brought you once more to his own living quarters. You were dropped unceremoniously onto the bed. Looking over your shoulder, you glowered at the sight of him punching in a code, which he hid with his body. The room was locked; the only way you could leave was if he willed it.

He returned to the bed, lying on his back as you scooted as far from him as you could without falling off the bed. The material had caught, dragging downwards so that it hardly came above your nipples. “Is this a welcoming gesture?” he taunted. Your cheeks flushed hot. More than ever you wished you had control of your hands; at least then you could reestablish some of your dignity as well as attempt to strangle him. Kylo Ren reached to the side, seizing the front of the poor attire and tugging down in a single movement. You could look at him no longer as your breasts were fully exposed. “Perhaps if you asked for mercy, you would be humored.”

Again did he want you to beg; and with the sweet lie that you would be shown mercy. “I will die before I submit to you,” you said, turning your back to him and rolling onto your side. You laid down on the bed, hating the fact that you were starting to cry.

Under the bed lies a monster; it likes to eat children, because people taste better when they’re—they call it innocent. If you place your foot upon the ground, you can feel his breath. That’s him drawing closer. You have to look under the bed quickly or lift your foot back up. Otherwise he’ll eat you.

It had been a tale told to you by a friend in childhood. Face your fears or else avoid them. Never let yourself be caught off-guard. You shifted, draping your leg over the side of the bed. You gripped onto the edge of the mattress while placing your foot upon the ground. You waited with bated breath.

Behind you, the creature trailed his hand along your spine.

Gloved fingers ventured down to where the material pooled under your breasts. If you sat up, the entire top would fall down to your hips. You closed your eyes, squeezing them shut as tightly as possible to where flashes of red threatened the edges of darkness. It was not the breath of the monster from your childhood that you felt. Nor was it Kylo Ren’s breath; his mask was covering that mouth. The mask that touched between your shoulder blades. In this close proximity, you could hear him breathing. You waited, wishing that breathing would stop.

If you yanked your foot back onto the bed, the monster should not have been able to touch you. But it was already lying with you—behind you, against you. Its body pressed more firmly against yours. You trembled.

How you despised that you were quivering in anticipation of his next actions. In disgust. Self-loathing. How could your body have reacted that way?

You were not entirely naïve, not as Kylo Ren had implied. Your training had allowed you to know that one’s own body was such a traitorous fiend. You could not allow him to break you that way. It was your mind he was after. Your willpower. Even when he was able to control you, he could not fully bend you to his will. The creature had been incapable of tearing from you the true secrets he desired.

He’ll consume you if you let him, your mind informed you. The voice that spoke was from when you had been younger; a small, terrified child. The same voice that had told your parents: It’s gonna eat me!

“You may be terrified.” You wanted to tell him that you were not. You were not! Yet if you spoke—what would actually slip past your lips when his finger skimmed along the edges of your sorry excuse for a dress? Your heart hiccupped in your chest as you waited. Always waiting. Ready to brace yourself against whatever act the creature committed. “If you could see behind my mask…you would be.”

And there the monster felt silent—but it did not leave you.

[Fleeting caresses in the depths of night, Comes the creature that leaves you terrified; So small and scared, don’t you cry nor plea— Those noises only fill the creature with glee.]

#kylo x reader #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren smut #kylo ren imagine #three blind tooke #elmidolfanfic #resistance is futile #kylo ren

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