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findmeinforks · 10 months

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Not Letting You Go Easy - Paul Lahote x Fem!Reader

IM BACKKKKKKK!!! Wow I just checked my last fic and it's been TWO years. Does anyone even remember me? 🥹 I'm back on my twilight bs, this one is my longest ever! Let me know what you think! - 3.2K Words ❤️

*Second Person POV*

The sun poured on your face as you soaked in all the warmth it allowed. You missed the sun, watching the palm trees sway peacefully as the ocean tide rolls in. The goosebumps that arise on your skin as a strong breeze passes, the warmth blanketing back over them.

You keep your eyes shut as your mouth curls up in a smirk, listening faintly to your mom try and convince your sister to stay in Jacksonville. She could offer up the moon and all the stars...Bella would still choose Edward, every time. It's true that you were weary of the vampire, after she flew like a bat out of hell half way across the world to Italy to save him. But could you blame her?

If it wasn't for your sister stumbling her way into the supernatural world, it's possible you could have never met Paul. A blush crept up your cheeks as you crack a full smile, thinking back to the day you met the hot head.

There was absolutely zero hesitation when you followed behind Bella in the truck to go to Jacob's. You had been worried for weeks about your sister, who had been spiraling ever since she was ghosted a second time by someone she trusted. Not only did you care about your her, but Jacob too. He had been around your family for years, and this behavior...especially towards Bella...was concerning. So when she frantically barged in your room asking you to go with, you were out of the house in minutes.

You had taken off in a sprint to try and keep up with your sisters manic running towards the group of shirtless men in Jacob's backyard. You heard rumors of the so called "cult" that had formed in the recent weeks. Jacob's haircut and tattoo had confirmed that part. But seeing the others approach through his window, you knew this was going to be a bad idea. You barely had time to catch your breath before her hand came in contact with one of their faces. You let a gasp slip as you made it in time to yank her back by the elbow.

What had gotten into her!?

Not able to process why she would resort to slapping him in the first place, the man, who looked like a carbon copy of the other ones standing around, began to shake violently. The others were urging you both to get back while attempting to calm him down. Never in your life had you witnessed such immense anger. In seconds his shakes became tremors. It was as if he ripped apart, and in his place stood a massive grey wolf. Mirroring the emotions of the man before, the animal was growling, snarling at your sister with its teeth bared.

Your heart was beating out of your chest. You felt as if you were dreaming, blinking rapidly to make sure this was real. Not standing around to question the animal who could very well kill you, Bella grabbed your hand and you both booked it towards the house. The outburst must have woken Jacob, who was running towards the scene. Bellas blood curdling scream was telling him to go back, though he kept charging forward.

You both fell hands first onto the grass as Jacob launched over you both, shreds of clothes flying as yet another wolf emerged.

Now it was you who was shaking. The only thing that prevented you from having a panic attack was realizing that all the other men were calm, as if this happened all the time. You swallowed your fear as you accepted the hand of one of the younger men, who led you two back to the truck by the order of the oldest one.

As you walked into the cozy secluded home, your mind was running a million miles a minute. They were werewolves....as if after learning vampires existed wasnt a shock enough already.

The oldest one, fiancé, Emily, you had learned, helped ease some of the headache. Besides the scar she wore upon her face that made your stomach drop when you first saw her, she was the epitome of kindness. You could see when she was greeted by Sam that their love was far more deep rooted than the mark she wore. Only knowing her for an hour, you felt happy for the girl.

You vaguely registered Jacob returning, finally looking away from the couple when you heard an unfamiliar voice apologize to Bella. As he then turned your way, you both locked eyes. An electric current jolted through your body, through your veins as you held his stare. You felt a fuzzy warm feeling race its way all the way down to your toes. The feeling lasted what felt like forever, until Jacob's "no fucking way...." pulled you back to earth. It's as if you had been some other place. A place of immense happiness and love. You knew you looked as bright as a tomato when you realized all eyes were on the two of you, mortified they caught you staring.

You did a quick scan of the room, noticing they were paying more attention to the man rather than you, who, was still staring.

When you craned your neck to look at Bella behind you, you found relief in that she looked just as confused.

The man was slapped on the back by Embry, which snapped him out of his trance. He quietly introduced himself as Paul. You blushed hard when you quickly said your name back. As if to break the tension in the room, Jacob asked you both to go for a walk.

Before you left, you had sworn you heard Paul growl.

"Not now. She's been through too much today already." Sam lowly said to him. You furrowed your brows as you trailed behind your sister out of the house.

After a walk on the beach and many questions answered, you were able to take a deep breath. The world was getting scary for you, but Jacob seemed to ease your fears, promising he would always protect you both.

Before he dropped you both off at your house, he had mentioned going to a pack bonfire the following night. You couldn't help but get excited at the prospect of seeing Paul again. You both hadn't even spoke other than introductions, but there was some type of spark in your core when you both met.

Attempting to shove it away, you reminded yourself it was nothing but a crush.

You sat on a log by the fire, rubbing your hands together in front of it. Everyone was up gathering their food, but you were focused on the warmth as it was more than chilly outside. Nerves bubbled in you as Paul approached, asking to sit next to you. Your cheeks heated as he sat, only inches away.

"I just wanted to apologize about yesterday," he spoke, his voice gruff as he looked into the fire. "You could have gotten hurt and I let my anger get the best of me. I promise I'm not like that all the time, and I don't want you to be afraid of me."

Your heart melted at how softly he spoke. "It's really alright. My sister acts out of impulse, if you couldn't tell." This got him to laugh lightly. You laughed too, until a strong breeze made you break out into a shiver.

Paul immediately noticed, grabbing a blanket from the pile beside him. "Here," he said as he wrapped one around you. His warmth radiated off you as he had gotten closer to do so. Not even realizing what you were saying you spoke, "I bet your girlfriend never gets cold with you around." To your embarrassment but surprise he cracked a big smile. "I bet she would, if I had one." It was your turn to smile. "What about you?" You shook your head no as Paul let out a small breath that almost sounded like relief.

Before either of you could say something more, everyone gathered around the fire. The legends of the tribe had you captivated. So much history that you were never aware of, right under your nose. You could feel Paul glance at you every so often, gauging your reaction to everything that was said.

When the fire died down and Jacob's dad came to a stopping point, everyone quietly mingled until deciding to call it a night. You had talked to Paul the entire time, getting to know the basics. You had a lot more in common than you thought. The more you learned about him, the more you liked him. A lot. He followed you to Bella's truck, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"I had a really good time tonight" you spoke softly, now inches away from his face. You were so close you could feel his breath.

"I did too. I hope this won't be the last time I see you?" he questioned.

You glanced past him to see Bella and Jacob making their way up the hill.

"With everything going on, everything that's happening...I have a feeling we won't be going away anytime soon."

Paul smiled.

This is the part where he'll kiss me, you think. Your heart beats fast in anticipation.

But Paul just stands there. Staring. He stood there so long that you cleared your throat awkwardly.

"I'll see you around Paul." You tried to hide the disappointment on your face as you climbed into the truck and shut the door. He had let you, still standing there for a moment before turning around to walk back to the house.

Tears welled up in your eyes. How foolish were you, to think that a guy like Paul Lahote would just sweep you off your feet? Sure, a kiss might be moving fast for the first night, but he didn't even give you his number. You analyzed everything you had said to each other. Nothing was even romantic, so why on earth would you think he liked you back? Pathetic.

Bella said goodbye to Jacob and got in the truck. One thing you loved most about your sister was that she knew you better than anyone else. And if there was one thing you hated, it was when people asked if you were upset. One look in your direction and she didn't say a word, starting the truck and driving off. She knew when you were ready to talk, you would.

*Paul's POV*

I turned around, watching the truck drive away, getting smaller and smaller in the distance. I was frozen in place.

What is wrong with me?

"Everything go okay?" Sam approached, clearly sensing my distress.

"I'm never like this with women, Sam. I should have kissed her, but I didn't. I stood there, right in front of her with my mouth open like a fucking fish. I-I've never felt this way-" I rambled on.

"Dude it's alright" Sam interrupted, "Did you tell her that she's your imprint?"

I sighed. "I didn't even get that far. I don't, I don't want her to feel forced to like me like that right away. I want to treat it like a normal relationship....but I think I went ahead and screwed it up anyways." I huffed.

Sam placed his hand on my shoulder. "Deep breathes. You didn't screw anything up, you just met her. You can tell her about the imprinting when you're comfortable....as far as the kiss, well, it's never too late." Sam held up keys to his vehicle, putting them in my hand. "Only if you need them." He slapped me on the shoulder, winking, as he walked back to where Emily was.

I watched him sneak up behind her, she giggled as he peppered kisses on the back of her neck. I knew what he was doing. And it was working, as I made my way towards his car.

*Back to Second Person POV*

You sniffled, taking a deep breath. You were done crying over this man. This man you had literally just met. So what if he didn't like you? There is a million other people out there. Why did you care so much?

A knock on the door interrupted your thoughts. Charlie was gone over night on a hunting trip and Bella was fast asleep.

Another knock. It was almost damn near midnight. As you slowly approached the door, bat in hand, you looked through the peep hole.

It was Paul.

You flung open the door, ready to ask him what the hell him problem was, when he lunged forward. Grabbing you by the face, he kissed you feverishly. Your heart pounded in your chest as you melted into the kiss, tongues dancing together in perfect harmony. One hand held you by the hair as the other grabbed you by the waist, pulling you impossibly closer. When you both needed to breathe you pulled away, Paul's hand held tightly so you couldn't go too far. He leaned his forehead against yours, panting.

"I am so sorry I didn't do this when you left. You, you make me nervous. It's a feeling I've never really had before. When you left I- I didn't want to let you go that easy. I'm sorry." He said.

You leaned in to kiss him once, slowly, softly. "I've been waiting for you to do that," you smiled. "There's a lot more where that came from...if you'll have me." he said, his hand sliding down to interlock with yours, bringing back up to place a gentle kiss on the top.

"I couldn't imagine anything better." you grinned.

*Paul's POV*

Y/N guided me to the couch, asking to stay awhile. We held each other until the sun came up, just talking. It was as if everything right there had changed for me. She would be my number one priority, to have and protect. I vowed to myself that I would do anything she asked, that I will love her no matter the cost. Whatever makes her happy.

I had to leave before Charlie got home, but not without a heated make out session at the door. It took everything in me to pull away from her, both of us lingering. Despite her not letting go either, I could see the bags under her eyes forming.

"Get some sleep baby, text me when you wake up okay?" She nodded, and after a good 20 minutes of more kissing, I left.

I understood why Sam was always mopey without Emily around. As I drove away I could feel my heart ache like something was missing. This was a whole new feeling, and for the first time I thanked whatever spirits gave me her.

My imprint.

I bit my lip as I remembered I still had to tell her. I'm worried about how she'll take it, but there was something heavier on my mind.

Victoria.

Part Two Anyone? :)

#paul lahote #imagine #sam uley #twilight #bella swan #new moon #embry call #eclipse #breaking dawn #quil ateara #emily young #wolfpack #jacob black #edward cullen #paul lahote x reader #paul lahote x you #fanfic

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carlos-in-glasses · 6 months

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Where All This Love Comes From

I'm so excited to share what has been known as Flashback Fic! 107k words, with all 14 chapters here on Ao3, rated E.

Six months after Gabriel Reyes’ death, TK grows concerned about Carlos’ drinking and brings him to a meeting at the Y. Afterwards, over omelets at the diner, the husbands open up to each other. TK reflects on meeting Carlos after years of addiction and self-destruction, while Carlos has continued to seek closure by uncovering two unknowns: The identity of his father’s killer, and how his father truly felt about Carlos as his son.

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Carlos puts his arms around him from behind and holds him still, kissing his neck. TK tries to twist in Carlos’ grip, but he won’t let him. He starts walking him towards the bedroom. “I’m desperate for you,” TK says, his blood hot, cheeks red, eyes pricking with tears. “I know.” “Make me forget everything.” “I will.” “I only want to think about you.” “You will.” Carlos stops for a breath. He smells TK – his clean hair, his evanesced cologne, his natural man scent, his salty tears that have imbued his skin, the sweat of stress. Sad, but still beautiful to Carlos. TK, delicious. “I never thought I’d have you. I never thought–” he can’t speak anymore.

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Chapter 1: A Trail to Follow

In 2023, TK discovers something that triggers memories of heroin withdrawal seven years before – and Carlos makes amends with Gutiérrez after accusing him of his father’s murder.

Chapter 2: A Very Nice Sweater for the 'Y'

TK takes Carlos to the N.A. meeting – but when things don’t go as hoped, he instigates another method to get Carlos talking.

Chapter 3: Snowballing

A messy situation in 2010 causes TK as a high school junior to lash out. In 2023, Carlos realizes it's time to tell TK about one more secret.

Chapter 4: Original Sin

In 2013, Carlos accidentally destroys Gabriel’s oldest friendship. Nine years later, he attempts to make peace after he and TK get engaged.

Chapter 5: Between Two Bridges

In 2022, a grieving and struggling TK is compelled to talk to Owen about his 2020 overdose, which leads him to remember when his addiction nearly killed him years before. In 2023, TK asks Carlos about his history with alcohol. (Note: Chapter features TK using and gets fairly graphic)

Chapter 6: One Tequila, Two Tequila, Three Tequila, Floor

TK and Carlos compare notes on when they first came out – with Carlos spiraling in 2011 after an unexpected outburst, while TK in 2008 is embraced (and embarrassed) by his parents. In 2021, both handle the raw days of their breakup differently too.

Chapter 7: A Boy's Best Friend

In 2009, Gabriel attempts to connect with his increasingly distant and unhappy teenage son. In 2013, the fallout of Carlos leaving Iris has begun, and he knows his relationship with his parents will never be the same. In 2023, TK tries to talk to Gabriel about the bombshell revelation that Carlos doesn’t want kids.

Chapter 8: Your Heart, As If It Was My Very Own

In 2011, TK is left bewildered after he loses his virginity. Years later, with Carlos, TK's mind (among other things) is blown in a whole new way. In 2022, TK has an important conversation with a certain visitor when he wakes from his coma.

Chapter 9: Coffee with Gutiérrez

In September 2023, Carlos seeks an important but painful truth from Gutiérrez, and finds an unexpected ally within the 126. Two months later in Blue Moon Diner, TK gets ready to tell Carlos more about his past in New York.

Chapter 10: The Day Begins Like Any Other

In 2016, after TK experiences an assault and sees an old friend again under devastating circumstances, he makes a life-altering decision when his dealer suggests he try something new. In 2009, TK is attacked at school. (Note: Please heed the tags and the chapter note. Reader discretion advised. Look after your hearts).

Chapter 11: Lonely as a Sparrow in the Rain

When Carlos confesses to TK about where he went with Judd back in September – and why – TK has to tell Carlos something he won't want to hear. In 2014, a rift develops when Carlos shows off his new Camaro to his parents.

Chapter 12: Happy For You, Son

Before moving to Austin, TK falls out with his parents over his relationship with Alex. In December 2020, it's a different story as Carlos hosts Owen and Gwyn for TK's birthday meal. In 2012, Carlos has some unexpected news for his own parents, but Michelle tries to intervene. When TK and Carlos get engaged a decade later, Gabriel has something to say about it.

Chapter 13: The Risk of Love

In May 2023, Owen and TK save a spiraling Carlos from making the biggest mistake of his life when he thinks he’s found his father’s killer. In 2020, TK and Carlos become boyfriends beneath a sky full of aurora borealis.

Chapter 14: A Night Worth Celebrating

On a rainy night in 2020, TK and Carlos meet for the first time. In 2023, weeks after their big talk at Blue Moon, TK celebrates his thirtieth birthday with his husband, their family and their friends by his side – and Carlos is a little bit better at sharing his secrets.

Read on A03

#Where All This Love Comes From #Flashback Fic #cig fic #my fic #Tarlos #tarlos fanfic #tk strand x carlos reyes #I've been working on this since March so I'm beyond delighted and relieved to share it #Thank you so much for reading if you do - I cannot explain how much I appreciate it

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13rurururi · 10 months

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I'm Your Lover: Haganezuka Hotaru x Reader (SFW Oneshot)

in which Haganezuka thinks he lost the love of his life

Pairing: Haganezuka Hotaru x Female! Reader

Content: angst, hurt/comfort, you have an argument with Hotaru, near-death experiences, etc.

Synopsis: Seeing your long-term lover, Haganezuka, battered and bloodied — with gashes etched across his body — filled you with overwhelming dread. Unfortunately, the ever-stubborn swordsmith upholds his craft over his own health, and you exchange heated words neither of you truly mean. Hotaru thinks you overreacted, and he believes his fresh cuts and wounds aren't worth an ounce of worry; that is, until he saw you in the same state — on the brink of death.

The pain from a wounded heart is shared with one's true love.

Your night is sleepless and engulfed in excruciating dread. Pacing within the quiet gardens of the Demon Slayer Corps Headquarters, you try to steer your attention away from your pounding heart by listening to the crinkling leaves below the soles of your feet.

It was a futile attempt, for you inevitably return to the spiral of paranoia clouding your mind.

"The Swordsmith Village is under attack!"

You remember how your heart dropped to your stomach when you heard the shrill caw of your Kasugai Crow. It has been a few hours since the dreadful news, and no updates are yet to be shared.

As an esteemed Hashira, you are entrusted with protecting the fragile lives of humans against the evil deeds of demons. You act with honed composure and impressive calmness. However, in this moment, no sort of breathing can alleviate your clammy hands and panicked eyes. After all, in this moment, you are none other than the lover of a man who resides in the endangered village.

You blink away the tears framing your waterline as you internally plead for the safety of your betrothed — your soon-to-be husband — Hotaru.

You remember having your forehead touch the ground as you lurched yourself in a desperate bow, begging for the secret village's location to be revealed to you. You have to ensure your lover's safety, and you would never forgive yourself if he found himself in irreparable harm.

Oyakata-sama — the frail, sickly, and kind leader of the Demon Slayers — could only offer a gentle and genuine smile as he said, "I believe in the combined strength of Kanroji and Tokito. Please, raise your head."

If this were any other situation, his calming voice and presence would have reassured you, but the anxiety of whether or not Hotaru is still alive overwhelms any other thought. With that, you pace around tirelessly, restlessly under the glaring moonlight.

Soon, your body grew tired with the weight of your exhausted mind, and you curl yourself into a ball under a solemn tree.

Please, Hotaru — please be safe.

One shall traverse the universe to reconnect fragile hearts.

You vigorously clamp your sweaty hands onto the uniform of the Kakushi carrying you on their back. The sun is already brightly plastered amidst the blue skies, and you eagerly await your arrival in the — supposedly wrecked — village.

That morning, you awoke in an anxious jolt to your crow's pitched cries, "Upper Moon Four and Five were defeated by the Hashiras and slayers in the village!"

Without a doubt, you wasted no time in traversing the convoluted route towards the Swordsmith Village, heart nearly pounding out of your chest due to immense concern for the well-being of your beloved Hotaru.

Is he well? Did he get attacked? Is he alive?

Your crow thankfully delivered news that made you kneel and shakily sigh in relief: Hotaru is alive; however, he sustained injuries from an encounter with Upper Moon Five — that idiot, he can't even cease his work for the sake of protecting himself.

Your thoughts are interrupted when the Kakushi gently urges you off their back, "Here we are, Hashira."

You remove your blindfold and can't help but lightly gasp at the heaps of wrecked houses that initially stood beautifully in the serene village. All the masked swordsmiths are scurrying about, trying to recover whatever belongings they could find under splintered planks and crumbled concrete.

You feel your lips twitch in a concerned frown when you note how each villager appears to have bandages wrapped around various parts of their body — the attack was that bad, huh?

With a light shake of your head, you sprint towards the nearest familiar face — well, mask — that can inform you of Hotaru's whereabouts. He always had a tendency to hide himself away for days, and (at least today) you don't disregard the prospect of tearing down the decrepit village even further just to locate your beloved.

To your relief, you spot Kanamori Kozo, a close companion of Hotaru (even if the latter will never verbally admit to it). He spots you before you can utter a word, and as if he can read the desperate worry on your face, he says,

"Ah, if it isn't our beloved Hashira. Please, try to wipe off the worry in your eyes. Haganezuka-san is fine; he's his usual stubborn self, as always."

"Kanamori-san, thank you — but do you have any clue where he is?" Your shallow breaths are more of a testament to your suppressed worry than exerted stamina, and Kanamori gently places a hand on your shoulder as kind reassurance.

"The last time I saw him, his wounds were already bandaged, and he persisted in returning to his workspace in the mountains."

You don't outwardly react to this information, but you feel yourself swallow a lump of frustration. Hotaru's choosing to return to swordsmithing hours after the threat of death? Stupid, stupid man.

Kanamori flinches at the aura of infuriation emanated by your figure. He continues, "He will be healed fully in time," he appeases you. "It's a miracle he only lost his left eye—"

"What?" Your chilly voice rings through the morning air, and you hear a light yelp of fear from the man beside you. "His eye — what happened to his eye?"

Kanamori flings around his bruised arms, suddenly forgetting his dull pain amidst your bubbling rage. "He was too focused — it was both impressive and foolish — the Upper Moon wanted him to stop sharpening the blade, so he took out his eye." Kanamori's voice falters by the end of his sentence, a look of concern adorning his features behind the Hyottoko mask.

"I thought he would have sent you a letter prior to your journey here." His usually collected voice, now barely a whisper, is laced with bewilderment.

You feel your jaw clench as veins pop on your forehead. Stupid man — you're engaged to a stupid, reckless man! Suddenly, as if thrashed around by harsh waves, you feel your anger falter with sadness. Why hadn't Hotaru sent you a letter to inform you of his state? Is he unable to comprehend how stressful your night was while all he did was dedicate his whole being to a sword?

Turning away from Kanamori, you bid him your quiet gratitude and rushed towards the mountains where you are sure to find your tactless lover.

Behind you, Kanamori sighs to himself and mutters, "I started a quarrel, didn't I? Haganezuka-san, please be considerate to your one and only lover!"

However, cowardice shields one from facing their bruised, weeping soul.

You try to suppress the frustration from fully seeping through your figure, briskly stomping towards the collapsed pile of wood and dirt — Hotaru's work shack.

You instantaneously see your lover's bulky figure crouched down and digging for whatever tool he was searching for. Your body and heart react in a conflicting flurry of emotions: you feel relief wash over you, and you blink away tears that were beginning to pool; on the other hand, your head feels like it's overheating from anger — anger towards how Hotaru deliberately forgot about even sending a measly letter to the love of his life.

Perhaps it's the combination of heart-wrenching stress and sleep deprivation, but you find yourself grasping onto Hotaru's shoulder, making him aware of your presence as you twist his upper body to face you.

"Stupid! Stupid! Unbelievably stupid!"

Before Haganezuka can even express his bewilderment at your arrival, you snuck your fingers under the thin string of his Hyottoko mask, removing it to reveal his face: his wounded, cut-filled face accompanied by a left eye that can't even open to reveal one of his brilliant amber irises.

"Why — why didn't you send me a letter?" The lump of sadness sitting in your heart is veiled by stuttering annoyance; with that, Hotaru simply places his rough palms on your shoulders, slowly standing up to his full height (which prompted you to crane your neck to look at him).

"I was going to send you one, but I figured I needed to salvage some materials first. You see, that Tanjiro brat needs this new Nichirin blade and—"

"Enough with swords, for goodness sake! You lost an eye!" You cut him off as your lips trembled. "You're bleeding through your bandages because you're not supposed to work after being nearly killed!"

"Hey, it wasn't a big deal. I didn't even realize I was being attacked. Calm down," Hotaru's (limited) patience begins to waver, scrunching his nose to hopefully deter you from becoming too angry. However, Hotaru does not seem to understand that it upsets you more to hear him downplay his health after hours of you ruminating whether he was alive or not.

"I spent the entire evening mulling over your safety, and you're here casually rummaging through rubble because swords are your priority," your sentence stops before you could mutter 'over me.'

Rather than deciphering the hidden sorrow behind your words, Hotaru becomes defensive, misinterpreting your sentiment. "I'm a swordsmith; of course it's my damn priority," with an angry huff, he stared you down with his eye. "Is my work not flashy enough for you, Hashira?"

"That's not what I said!" You felt your heart crack with how distanced Hotaru is at the moment.

"These wounds aren't a big deal, alright? Stop worrying over nothing and go back to your Hashira priorities. I'm not the only one who has work to do," with a light 'tsk' of his tongue, Hotaru turns away from you, ready to return to the pile of discarded materials.

Although, you weren't pleased with his attitude, and the dam holding your tears and overwhelming emotions broke.

"I am your lover! We chose each other, and you have a commitment to me that you should uphold!" Your voice wavers in inconsistent pitches, and you try to choke back your tears. "Right now, I'm in front of you as someone you are engaged to — worried sick because my beloved had his life at risk!"

Hotaru doesn't face you, and he doesn't respond with even a hum of acknowledgment. It is silent, and only after a few minutes of your flowing tears and his stubborn front did he speak,

"Right now, I'm a swordsmith, and I have work to do. Go home."

Hearts of fiery anger fizzle into hearts of dampened yearning.

Haganezuka regrets what he said to you. It has been a few days since your sudden visit to the ruined village, and he didn't even embrace you in his arms nor did he properly acknowledge your feelings.

He heard your hiccups and sobs, yet he rooted his feet on the ground and offered no solace. He feels nothing but guilt and a desire to see your lovely face again.

He rolls the quill on his fingers, unable to write anything but your name on the paper spread on his desk. He urges himself to write an apology — or even to bid you to visit him in the temporary village they were residing in — but his hands are stagnant and his mind is empty of everything but the throbbing ache of regret.

"Haganezuka-san, you really messed up," Kanamori was shameless in scolding him. In any other situation, Haganezuka would have angrily responded in a nearly comical manner. However, Kanamori is right:

He did mess up.

Just as he writes the first word of his letter to you, a Kasugai crow abruptly enters his hut, making him curse under his breath and glare at the raven-colored bird.

The crow intently looks at Haganezuka, making the man feel an eerie shiver of dread run up his spine. The crow then opens its beak to deliver a message that makes Hotaru drop his pen in sheer horror,

"The Hashira — your betrothed — is in critical condition after protecting a town from powerful demons."

To feel a lover's warmth once again, one would relinquish everything.

Hastily running on the dirt path to the Butterfly Mansion, Hotaru's mind is tortured by the image of your body rendered immobile and weakened on a hospital bed. His rush to see you made him forget his Hyottoko mask, for he only bothered to bring himself and an apology at the tip of his tongue.

Soon, he rushes through the gates of the Insect Pillar's abode, ignoring the surprised stares of Aoi and the other girls of the mansion. Afraid that he might wreck havoc in his emotionally volatile state, Aoi yells, "Haganezuka-san, she's resting in one of the guest quarters! She's stable!"

However, it did little to quell his worry, for he continues to run through the wooden floors of the mansion with only one thought in mind: you.

He then hears the distant sound of voices conversing with one another in a relaxed manner. One of the voices he immediately identifies as Kamado Tanjiro, and the other — sweet, kind yet tired — is your voice.

With a desperate hope bubbling in his chest, he opens the door without an ounce of hesitation, and he sees you — adorned in white bandages all over your limbs and temple, small scars littered on your cheeks, and a dumbfounded look on your face.

"Haganezuka-san!" The bandaged Tanjiro yelps in surprise, eyebrows furrowing in a mix of concern and shock.

"Out," Hotaru spares no glance at the redhead, for his gaze is locked in your hardened one. "Get out, brat."

Haganezuka does not even pay attention to the boy limply scurrying out the room, muttering flustered apologies as he closes the wooden door shut.

"Hotaru, he was just keeping me company," you lightly scowl at your ever-so immature lover, huffing a puff of tired breath.

"Yeah? Well, I'm your company now." Hotaru brings his large figure closer to your bed, but you twist your head to avoid looking at him. Rather than becoming frustrated, Hotaru feels his heart squeeze with the same regret that plagued him for days.

"My love, I'm sorry." His voice was quiet, weak, and vulnerable — entirely opposite to the gruff, deep voice that angrily curses at any miniscule annoyance. Hotaru kneels by your bedside, taking your bandaged hand in his calloused one. You initially flinch, but you relent and relax in his comfortable, familiar hold.

"I want you to know that I regret what I told you that day. I am a swordsmith — that's true — and I pride myself on my role, but I also pride myself on being your lover." His genuine tone makes your eyes water, and you blink hastily to rid of the tears.

"I was so worried — so, so worried — and you were so mean to me, Hotaru," you can't suppress your sobs as you face him again, tears cascading down your bruised cheeks.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry," he gently shushes you, nuzzling his face onto your temple as he sighs deeply. "I didn't understand why you were so worried about me, but seeing you in this state," he swallows down a sob, his tone wavering. "I thought — I thought I lost you, and I realized how you must have felt when the village was under attack."

"Yeah? You got a taste of your own medicine, that’s good," you try to playfully tease him, voice tired and raw with emotion. Hotaru’s face contorts into a half-hearted smirk as he settles down on the foot of your bed, not once unlinking his hand from yours.

His expression turns solemn once again. " I mean it when I say I want to be a better lover to you and soon — a good husband." His honest declaration of love makes your heart swell in warmth, flaring brightly when he brings your battered knuckles to his lips.

"I want to live a long life with you, and I’m not leaving you anytime soon — not even when we age into cranky old people with wrinkles and frail backs." He presses his tender lips against your knuckles once again, feeling himself relax at the sound of your quiet breaths of relief and contentment.

"Let’s take care of ourselves and each other, yeah?" He bends down to kiss your quivering lips lightly, hand still holding yours as his other palm gently combs through your hair.

"Yeah."

Once you part, you can only stare at him with unbridled love — his scarred cheeks, unusable eye, and the damp locks of dark hair stuck to his temple; despite all that, he’s still Hotaru, your unbelievably handsome, reckless yet amazing lover.

Hotaru’s face holds a raw emotion reserved for you and no one else. Your scarred face and puffy eyes do nothing to hinder your magnetic beauty — your gorgeous soul — from shining so brightly, and he feels like he’s falling in love all over again.

You bask in each other’s presence for hours, making up for lost time as you share warmth, comfort, and hushed promises of a better tomorrow. By the time the room is painted by the moon’s grace, you whisper,

"Hotaru, don’t you need to restore Tanjiro-kun’s new katana?"

"That can wait. I’m not a swordsmith right now."

"Hm?"

"I’m your lover."

Souls can be healed, no matter how nasty the scar, as long as you give the right person your heart.

A/N: There's a shortage of angsty Haganezuka posts — hope you like this one.

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oneshlut · 6 months

Text

Overjoyed (Dr. Flug x Reader) [Headcanons]

Rules For Requesting

Characters I Will Write For

Masterlist

Summary: General Dr. Flug crushing and confessing headcanons

VERY rarely experiences love. This is very new to him, so he will NOT recognize it the first few months he has a crush

Will think of you as a really close friend! At least, he thinks so. He may get a bit more insecure because he thinks you're a better person than him

If you treat him like a normal person and like.. don't bully him??-- He will get attached. I don't think he's recieved affection in a hot minute

You, overall as a person, fascinate him. How can someone be so kind, smart, witty, good-looking (in a totally platonic way), AND care for him? Part of him thinks you're not real. Don't worry, he just hasn't experienced love that often to know what admiration is

He doesn't understand why he gets so nervous around you. He's not scared of you at all, not like he is around Blackhat--you were, in fact, the opposite of him. So why was he getting all fidgety and jumpy around you? It didn't make sense how he could feel so comfortable around a person, yet still feel so anxious all the while

Over time, he becomes a bit protective over you without really knowing it. He'll push you out of his lab when he's doing a dangerous experiment, or will give you the easiest job on missions (besides 5.0.5.'s). He tries to refrain himself from acting this way sometimes, he doesn't want you to feel like you're incompetent in any way--all his intention was to keep you safe! And now he's spiraling because he doesn't know why he feels so protective over you

Sometimes you'll compliment him, and he feels as if Blackhat himself just told him he did a great job on a mission. Except, this time his heart was beating faster, his palms were more sweaty than usual, it felt stuffy inside his mask, and-- ..Goddammit, why is he getting so nervous again?? He then realizes he hasn't responded to you yet, and mutters a small 'thank you' that made him sound a lot less confident he wished he could've sounded

Eventually, he got sick of it. He needed to find out what the hell was going on. So imagine his mini panic attack when he googles 'why is my heart beating so fast', and Google tells him his heart is failing

It's not like he doesn't know what love is, no, far from it. He's seen his average romcoms (and hated them), he knows what love should be like. Hell, he knows the entire chemical formula for the damn feeling. He was just never able to understand what others felt when they said they were 'in love'. Until now.

For him, it was unbelievably weird to have his heart race for someone that wasn't out of fear. Honestly, he.. liked the feeling. If it weren't for how he reacted to it.

Dr. Flug wasn't this nervous around you before. Normally, not at all. When you hung out at his lab, he would ramble on and on about his inventions, only checking in every few minutes to make sure you weren't getting bored of him or anything. But now, knowing his feelings for you, he feels horribly nervous around you. This affects every little thing he does, and he hates it.

When you hang out with Flug now, he realizes how truly lucky he is for you to even do more than just glance over him. Him? Why him? Why not spend your time with anyone else..?

Then he realizes you actually care about him. His existence. He isn't.. invisible to you. And suddenly he's over the moon.

Right--about the way Flug acts around you. Every conversation you have with him suddenly has this weird air around it. You could tell he was more nervous than.. well, usual, but whenever you asked he just waved it off as some upcoming mission or invention he still had to work on. You'd normally decide not to dwell on it too much.

On his end, he thought he was doing everything horribly wrong in front of you. "Catch you on the flip side"??? When has he ever said something like that?! Not to mention his stammering practically increased by 5 times its normal amount, as he was fumbling over most words in every single sentence he dared mutter around you. If he wasn't talking, he was tripping over his untied shoelaces (he almost always had them tied, god, what happened to his schedule-?) or spilling some important chemical all over his workspace.

Overall, he was more fidgety than normal, and he hated it. It made him want to tear his bag out. Why couldn't he just be normal around you? Now he's just worse than he ever was. All his attempts of impressing you were down the drain at this point. But at least he hasn't completely drawn you away--I mean, you still liked hanging out with him! At least, he thinks you like spending time with him.. Part of him is still just the slightest bit insecure.

His worry for you has increased when you go on missions with him now. Part of him wants to just keep you in the hat ship so you don't get involved in something messy, but he knows that would be unfair for you. Flug just worries about you getting hurt, is all. He tries to focus on you a bit more during missions to make sure you're doing alright, but sometimes this just causes him to fuck up even more in front of you. Way to go, Flug. He suddenly feels as if his engineering and villainy PhDs didn't really do that much for him in the long run.

As we all know, Dr. Flug is far from someone to act on feelings. He acts on his logic, most of the time at least. With this in mind, he is the last person you'd think of as someone who would confess their feelings to someone. In all honesty, even if he did muster up the courage to try, he would pass out on the spot. So, he just tries to wait it out until this crush subsides. Spoiler alert: it doesn't!

Right, right--so, since he probably won't ever come clean about his feelings to you, you'll probably eventually just have to confess yourself. Unless Flug slips up one day and accidentally says he loves you in one of his long-winded rambles, in which would make a very awkward situation.

Under the circumstances that you do confess to him first, he.. well, Flug won't believe you at first. You've probably just gotten yourself mixed in with one of Demencia's pranks. A bit cruel, but nothing he couldn't handle. He will have to talk to Demencia later though, she's been getting on his nerves lately.. And besides, the whole spiel of you actually liking him, caring for him, and wanting to be with him? Yeah, okay.

So he laughs. And then he realizes you're serious. Oh. You're serious.. Oh.

Ohhhhhh crap. Okay! So you like him. It was.. It didn't feel real. But it was. And now that same feeling came back to him, the one where he feels his hands getting sweatier, his bag getting stuffier, and.. a new symptom. His legs turned flimsy, and could now just barely hold his body. He leaned onto his desk for support. If only he could see how red his bag was at the time.

And yes, you were able to calm him down, but even as the day progressed, Flug still couldn't swallow the situation. He laid in his bed unmoving, still, and.. awake. He couldn't get his mind off of anything that had happened that afternoon. He's probably pinched himself at least 6 times now, making sure he wasn't just dreaming or anything. After the 7th pinch.. yep, he wasn't.

Eventually, this surprise faded away into another new emotion.

Overjoyed.

#villainous #dr. flug #dr flug #dr. flug x reader #dr flug x reader #headcanons #x reader headcanons #x reader #villainous headcanons #villainous x reader #dr flug x reader headcanons #dr flug/reader #crush headcanons #romantic headcanons #sfw #fluff #tooth rotting fluff #no beta we die like men

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princessanonymous · 3 months

Text

When Night Comes

Platonic Yandere Vampire

Previous Part | Next Part

First Chapter

Trigger Warning: A bit of gore and death. (Y/n) ain't ok guys.

21. 𝓒𝓸𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷

(Y/n) had thought she would finally be safe. She had thought she was free.

As the night of the blood moon unfolded, everything spiraled into chaos. She shouldn't have left her guard down, yet she did. Her lapse in vigilance sealed her fate and that of so many others.

That night, she had looked out in the sky, painted in a deep, foreboding shade. Under the ominous shade of the sky, the moon gleamed brighter than ever, casting an eerie red glow. Its deep shade of red was unlikely to go unnoticed. She had slept that night, feeling as if she was finally free ; a momentary respite. Dorian would surely give up now. It was too late, he wouldn’t want to wait three other months, would he? His infatuation must have dwindled by now, he would eventually forget about her.

She closed her eyes, feeling peaceful and relieved.

Until screams shattered the tranquility, pulled her out of slumber. Panic coursed through her entire body as she quickly rose, recognizing the sounds of pain and struggle from outside her room. A part of her already knew who the attacker was. A sinking realization gripped her — he had found her.

She placed a chair below the doorknob as a makeshift barricade even though she knew it would only buy her seconds. True to expectation, the door knob moved shortly after. Her defense stopped the vampire, though she was aware it was just a matter of time until he would brute force his way in.

"Doll," Dorian's voice oozed sickeningly sweet. "I know you are in there."

A surge of fear paralyzed her momentarily. Foolishly considering hiding under the bed, she dismissed the idea as impractical. The window seemed her only escape, but the second-floor fall carried its risks.

"Let me in, dear," he insisted.

Stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea, she hesitated. "(Y/N)," he snapped loudly and threateningly, "If you do not open this door now, you will regret it, young lady!”

She looked out the window, her heart beating rapidly. Outside, he began counting down, leaving her with no choice. She struggled to open the window; her hands were trembling and her vision was blurry. She had to get out. She could hear his voice, and she knew he wouldn’t remain patient for much longer. When "one" resounded, the window finally yielded. Simultaneously, the vampire burst through the door. She jumped out, but her landing was flawed — a sharp crack resonated through the night as her left leg met the ground.

She cried out as she clenched her leg. Pain seared through her, yet the urgency to escape eclipsed it. She couldn't forget the danger following her. She fought against the tears and dizziness to run away as fast as she could. Every step was agonizing and the burning sensation didn't leave.

Despite her efforts, the Duke's supernatural speed prevailed. Capturing her effortlessly, she found herself back in the monster's clutches. Sobbing, she pleaded, "Let me go! I hate you, I hate—" Her words were cut short as he yanked her hair with a brutal grip.

Angry and bloodstained, he presented a menacing figure. Red eyes and sharp canines accentuated his fury. "You foolish girl," he spat out the words with venom, the hatred dripping from each syllable.

With a cruel and relentless grip, he seized (Y/n) by the hair, the strands entwining around his bloodstained fingers. Her desperate screeches and uncontrollable sobs echoed through the night. As they arrived at the nunnery, he released his vice-like grip on (Y/n), who crumpled to the cold ground like a broken puppet. Her body convulsed with sobs.

"Look at it !" He ordered, his wrath clear to see. His command cut through the chaos, compelling her to witness the gruesome aftermath — a massacre.

It was a carnage. In front of her, there was nothing but death, the bodies of the nuns scattered around. The nuns lay dead, most decapitated, their kindness repaid with brutality.

Red.

She only saw red. Everything was red. Her own hands were red. Red from the blood of these kind people that had let her stay with them.

"This," he said with scorn, "is mortality. A disease. An uncontrollable fate that comes to all humans. A parasite that has followed humanity for far longer than any of us could comprehend. Death comes for all. All except us. Do you now understand why I want to turn you ?"

He leaned down to her level, cupping her face in his hand softly, a stark difference to the strong grip he previously held on her hair. His eyes, bright red, and looking intensely at her, seemed to pierce through her entire being. “I want you to become something greater. Something far more powerful. Something Eternal.”

She sobbed uncontrollably, because there was nothing else she could do. She was helpless next to this being, overwhelmed by the carnage before her. At her reaction, his eyes grew colder and he stood up. "We are going home," he ordered after some time. She offered no response, and he simply carried her, the pain of her broken leg hadn't subsided either.

The girl squeezed her eyes shut and bit her lips during the entire journey, feeling an intense need to erase these images out of her mind.

With the vampire's speed, they arrived rapidly, the journey being a rapid blur of emotions and feelings. And once he quietly brought her to her room, once she was put in bed with care, once she thought everything was over, the vampire's fangs sunk deep into (Y/n)'s neck.

A scream echoed in her throat as two burning rods pierced her. Venom surged through her veins, scorching and annihilating everything in its path. As it reached her heart, her consciousness desperately attempted to cling to awareness amidst the excruciating pain. The room blurred, voices entered, and her eyes snapped shut. Darkness enveloped her, a cruel embrace as the transformation took hold. ☾ Killian's miscalculation unfolded like a haunting prophecy. In underestimating Dorian, he had unwittingly paved the way for a relentless pursuit. Dorian, fueled by an unyielding determination, had seemingly uncovered the whispers of a girl surviving a vampire assault, finding refuge under the protective wings of a nunnery.

As Killian roamed the shadows with his heightened senses, the cry of pain reached his ears, emanating from the girl's room. The realization struck him like a cold gust, sending shivers down his spine.

She had been turned.

┉┈◈◉◈┈┉

It was mentioned in the last chapter that word of mouth had already been traveling about her situation, wasn’t it ? Dorian doesn’t like gossiping, but he’s willing to listen to any rumor to find her. ;)

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unicyclehippo · 9 months

Note

15. kiss on the back for the prompt thing!

Imogen has spent years submerged in the sweet, babbling waters of Laudna’s mind so, while she may not be able to hear her thoughts now, she still remembers their current. And besides, some things don’t need to be said. It’s an unspoken agreement between them—a quirked brow, the tilt of an answering smile—to return Zhudanna’s coin.

Laudna distracts their elderly friend with an enthusiastic—and slightly gooey—recreation of recent journeys while Imogen carries the groceries to the kitchen. She unpacks jars of olives and honey and jam, every pickled thing they encountered, wax-wrapped cheeses, smoked and salted meats, dried fruits and beans, bags of fine-ground flour and spices. She leaves the fresh fruit and vegetables on the countertop with the pumpernickel loaves and, as she does, pulls Zhudanna’s lockbox from its hiding place beneath the beans with a subtle bit of magic.

It’s easy to use her powers now. She knew she was getting stronger but something about being here—where she spent much of her time in degrees of agony with no way to control it or stop it, her powers flaring whenever they wanted to—the difference is stark. How reactive her magic is now, how finely-tuned to her will. A thought, and the lockbox opens. Imogen busies herself selecting and slicing an orange. Another thought, and the coins lift out of the shopping basket and zip over to the box. She arranges the orange segments on a colourful plate. The box clicks closed and slides back into place beneath the beans. It’s all done in a matter of seconds with Zhudanna none the wiser, even if she had peeked over to check on Imogen despite Laudna’s distraction—though how anyone could look away from Laudna for so much as a second during one of her stories - vibrant, enthralling as she is - Imogen doesn’t know.

She lingers a while, helps herself to a slice of orange. It’s tart, almost sour, the way she likes them. The sun blankets half the kitchen in a square of light. Standing in that warmth recalls fragments of an old dream—baking, home, Laudna. The details are too faded and vanish when she reaches for them; in the space where they had been, her memory provides instead the aroma of baked bread and the cool press of Laudna’s lips against her own. Fingers sticky with orange, Imogen twists her wrist and presses her smile to the back of her hand. We kissed, she thinks, giddy, and suddenly the handful of steps separating her from the sitting room and Laudna is too far.

‘—a shape like dripping tar, a great blob of malice, hovering in the air. It struck Orym with a spiralling bolt of shadow, pinning him against the rock!’ Imogen hears as she rejoins the story.

‘Oh!’ Zhudanna squeaks. Her eyes are wide, both wrinkled hands covering her mouth in horror. When she speaks, she sounds so old—had she always, Imogen tries to recall, or is it all of this…this fucking mess around them? The solstice, the god-damning speeches, the fear suffusing the streets like thick jungle mist, the moon, the way oncoming way tilts the axis of every heart. ‘Oh,’ she says in a small, quavering voice, ‘oh dear, oh no, is he alright?’

‘Who?’

‘Your friend. Orym.’

The question makes Laudna’s smile falter. Zhudanna, half-blind, probably doesn’t notice. Imogen does. She fills the agonising pause, steps between them to put the plate down next to Zhudanna. By the time she plants herself on the footstool, twin to the armchair Laudna has claimed, Laudna has recovered.

‘Yes. Yes, of course! He’s a warrior—a hero!’ Zhudanna heaves a sigh of relief at that, claps her hands. Laudna continues. ‘He pulled free of the shadow spear with a horrid yell and spray of blood—’

Geez, Laud, don’t forget she’s old as shit.

And? She has such a creative soul, she’s enjoying—ah. I suppose…heart attacks…hmm. Should I…tone it down?

Imogen rests her chin on her hand as she settles in to listen to the rest of the story and, catching Laudna’s eyes, offers a small smile. Just for her, darlin’.

With a wobbly nod—one that makes Imogen want to yank off the circlet and dive deep into Laudna’s thoughts, wade through them muck and all, hear for herself the knotted tangle of fear and nervy tension and trust she knows is causing havoc in there—Laudna launches back into her tale.

‘Together with our dear new friend Prism–’

‘I like her,’ Zhudanna says. ‘Sensible, for one of those wizard types. Getting out there and having a go of it. Good for her.’

‘Indeed. Very sensibly, she and I harried the foul spirit with our joined magic, giving our companions time to protect the Heirophant and dragging them clear of the danger of this hungry shadow. We threw everything we had at it—flaying it of its shadow piece by piece, cracking its sallow face, until there was nothing left of it but a slug of tarred shadow that I crushed, sending it back to whence it came, into the merciless dark,’ she hisses, hand closing in a tight fist, eyes a brittle, glossy obsidian. After a moment, her intensity relents; the faint gloom in the corners of the room disperses like an audience post performance, and as it leaves, air rushes in to fill the empty space. ‘Anyway,’ she trills, ‘apparently that wasn’t the first time it had appeared there, can you believe that? The Heirophant—the elf Orym and Ashton saved—told us that they had fought it before—or was it their order that had? Hm. Don’t recall. But yes - it’s like a recurring thing. Like a bad ex turning up on their doorstep. But not a bad ex because Evithorir—’

‘Evi- Evirerth-’

‘Evithorir. I think. It was so hard to tell, it hissed a lot. Regardless, the shadow spirit, it turns out it was some, like, ancient terrible hungry fey spirit that sought to devour everything in the world, blah blah, the usual. Starting with Oma-Dua who is this - get this - equally ancient druid who buried herself in the last moments of her life in the depths of this cavern centuries ago to sustain the land around this mountain for the rest of time and took on the form of an enormous glowing green crystal…’

Laudna drifts into an odd silence and sinks back into the plush armchair, into herself, looking small and troubled. Her teeth dig well-worn trenches into her bottom lip as she loses herself in thought.

Imogen clears her throat. ‘It’s been an awful long time since we got a proper rest, Zhudanna—d’you mind if we rest a while?’

‘Not at all, not at all. Let me move my easel, dear, and - ‘

‘No, please, don’t go to any trouble. I’ll set it aside, if that’s alright?’

‘Certainly, certainly.’

Zhudanna lets herself be distracted gracefully, pulling an old knitting project from the box by her chair. Her eyes—wrinkled, worried—linger on Laudna as Imogen helps her up from the chair, curling a gentle hand beneath each elbow.

She looks so exhausted and Imogen is certain she’s bearing most of Laudna’s weight for her when she pulls her to her feet but she’s so fucking light it nearly has Imogen stumbling, off-balance. A dozen questions cluster behind Imogen’s teeth, on the threshold of her mind. Did you eat at all? Did you rest? Who took care of you? The thought might’ve made her jealous a month ago but now it just hurts. Laudna is too light, bordering on frail. Her hair is stringy—dirty, greasy, like its been a week since she washed it, brushed it, cared for it (for herself)—and Imogen knows the answer. Knows Laudna. She cares like caring is what keeps her alive, will drag the energy out of her own fucking marrow for everyone else and when it comes to her, she shows them something dead and dying, shows them a grinning skull. Something beyond repair, beyond need of care.

Red flickers behind her eyes, smoulders in the cracks that split the tips of her fingers. But her hands stay gentle as Imogen helps Laudna to their old room.

The door shuts behind them, shuts out the world. Blissful. There’s no window in here to show them the ruddy moon. There’s no crowds, no intrusive minds. No guards, no traitors, no one but the two of them.

Laudna’s slow walk turns to a hobble. She sits at the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched.

Giving her a little space, Imogen puts their bags at the footboard of the bed and Pate’s birdhouse on the bedside. He’s sleeping in there or pretending to be. Creepy, beloved spy. She moves the easel like she said she would, tucking it into an out of the way corner.

‘She’s really very good, don’t you think?’

Laudna stirs. Glances over, dark eyes flicking between the easel and Imogen, and the smile she manages is a wavering thing but it holds steady at the corners.

She’ll be alright, Imogen decides. Promises.

‘Yes. Very talented, our Zhudanna.’

Her words trail off again and Imogen watches as Laudna begins to fidget, fingers twisting, tugging, pull and plucking in her lap. Was the closed room not blissful for her? Was it too crowded, with Imogen and her and all her thoughts and Delilah and now Bor’dor haunting her? Or was it as simple as the strain of her journey taking its toll? Or was it…

‘Do you regret it?’ Imogen blurts. Laudna stills. ‘The kiss, I mean. Me, kissin’ you. Because I know I asked and I know you kissed me back but if - if you got caught up in the moment or thought it’s what I want - Laud, you gotta know, it doesn’t matter to me how you care for me, I’m so - I’m so happy. So lucky. Just to have you near me. Truly.’

It takes a hell of an effort to shut up then—to bite her lip and give Laudna the room to speak.

Her stomach flips from nerves and her traitor heart follows suit; it flips, flutters in her chest, so gentle and so warmed by the memory of getting to take Laudna’s face between her hands, getting to touch her after so long of only being able to dream about it, getting to lean in and—that kiss! The memory of it fizzles through her, sweet lightning, and it’s ridiculous, actually, because her hands start sweating and her lips tingle and her skin goes hot all over, sensitive. It’s such a silly feeling; she feels like a stumbling foal - clumsy and awkward, unsure, but so fucking eager to get up, go, explore. It’s silly - she feels silly with it, giggly and warm - and then, of course, sense reasserts itself firmly because Laudna hasn’t said anything yet—is staring over Imogen’s shoulder with a tiny, worried frown—and Imogen’s stomach sinks, veins flooding with ice. If she could just take off the circlet, but…

‘Laud?’

‘Imogen.’

‘Do you?’ It’s harder to ask the second time. ‘Do you…regret it?’

‘No,’ Laudna says in that barely-there way. Imogen wants the shadows back. Wants the intensity. Wants Laudna cackling over one of Pate’s horrendous comments, or chiding her for mussing the bedsheets. Anything but this ghost. ‘No, darling. I was - I was only thinking,’ she sighs, ‘how silly it is, how hard it is to talk about…well. About what we want.’ She blinks, dim and distant. ‘I often think that if only everyone were honest, there would be less space for misunderstanding and heartbreak –’ The words send Imogen’s heart sinking ever lower, but Laudna doesn’t seem to notice and continues, ‘– and cruelty and war and, oh, I don’t know. People wouldn’t get away with murder or inheritance trickery and such. I think about all the people who lie whenever they speak and how foolish it is and then it is my turn to speak and I…I’m terribly afraid.’

At that, Imogen crosses to sit beside Laudna on the bed. She takes one of her delicate hands in both of her own. It’s so light; bird-boned, Imogen thinks distractedly, mind cluttered with midnight-plumed ravens and the Duskmaven, of scavenging vultures and red seeping into cracked desert soil, of a canary in the dark. She hopes—as it gets harder to breathe, lungs struggling to contend with the weight of hope and panic—that Laudna won’t warn her away.

‘You can tell me,’ Imogen says, and her words stay blessedly steady. ‘Even if you think I don’t want to hear it. I do. I do.’

For a long moment, Laudna examines their hands. Intertwined. Her own—delicate, long-fingered, pale. The dark web of stagnant veins. Imogen’s—broader, tanned, calloused. The cracked skin, red seeping out. Squeezing Imogen’s hand, Laudna says,

‘I won’t lie, darling. I won’t tell you I wasn’t surprised. I was. I am. You are—’ Dark eyes lift to meet Imogen’s; without thoughts to skim, all Imogen can see in the depths is warmth, a glittering fondness. Sorrow lurks there too, somewhere, even if she can’t see it. ‘You are extraordinary. Young and beautiful and so very alive. I - you wishing to kiss me - you understand why I might be startled. I don’t know what I can offer you, darling. I will always be at your side, of course—to protect you, to wake you from your nightmares, to support you, to - to tether you against the storm, as you said, but - ‘

‘But what?’ Imogen shakes her head with a gentle laugh. ‘Who could ask for more than that?’

‘And the kissing?’

‘We don’t have to do it again. If you don’t like it.’

Laudna tilts her head; it’s not a no, but neither is it a yes. ‘You could choose anyone—’

‘I want only you.’

‘Even though I am—’ Laudna cuts off the words with a snap of her teeth. Turns away, sending a gloomy look to the dim corners of their room.

Imogen’s heart thuds, hard, against her ribs. She rubs at at it, sympathetic. Her bruised heart. She wants what it wants—to be close, ever closer. To hug her, hold her tight. To love her. To rip Delilah out of her—fry the bitch, burn her to ashes, and the ashes to smoke, and the smoke to nothing at all in white lightning—and then offer up her own heart to fill the lack. To welcome Laudna into the red hollow of her ribs, already wondering what kind of home she could make out of them. To take back the ruby ring and present it again, with all the ceremony Laudna deserves. To kiss her. Again and again.

But right now, Laudna doesn’t need a storm, even one of love. She only needs Imogen to listen to her. So she asks,

‘Even though you’re what?’

Laudna’s hands curl into talons and a snarl erupts from her throat. Earlier, Imogen hadn’t known what to make of the idea that Laudna could summon a wolf but she gets it now. Hears it in that mournful, ragged sound.

‘Dead. Broken.’ She claws at her heart. ‘Weak.’

‘No. You’re not, sweetheart, no.’

Imogen cannot resist reaching forward. She keeps her touch feather-light. Skims a high cheekbone before sliding back to the strand of dark hair that has escaped its high bun. She tucks it behind Laudna’s ear with exacting care, thumb grazing the gold ear-cuff. I see you. Every bit. Laudna’s eyes fill with inky tears and, when Imogen lifts her other hand to cradle her precious, lovely face, Laudna leans into the touch.

For a moment, Imogen can only stare.

There is no one in the world like Laudna—so starkly beautiful, so sweet, so enchanting. There is no one half as creative. She knows Laudna’s story—saw her die—but no one could spend an hour in Laudna’s presence and leave thinking her anything other than vibrant. How could that be death? And as for broken, well, Imogen thinks of the mosaics in Uthodurn’s royal halls, and of stained glass windows in the Dawnfather’s hall—what little she had overhead of that part of Laudna’s story—and thinks of Laudna’s mendings and crafts and the hundreds of achingly beautiful smiles Laudna has made up just for her and yes, maybe she’s been broken, but who hasn’t? How can that make her less? Less lovely, less wonderful? It doesn’t. It doesn’t. She thinks of faith and lets her pinkie slip down to touch, so gently, the ragged mark of Laudna’s first death. She thinks of destiny and meets Laudna’s eyes.

Beautiful, she thinks, and then - because they are being truthful, because they are telling each other the truth - she says it out loud too.

‘You’re beautiful. You’re my—‘ Imogen falters, tries to think of a word that doesn’t stick in her chest like a knife, but pushes on because her love doesn’t make her fearless, it just makes her brave. ‘My favourite.’

Her blush blooms purple under Imogen’s hands. Laudna glances down, shy, then up from under lashes dark and sticky with inky makeup, splayed like delicate spider legs.

‘It is strange,’ Laudna says, covering Imogen’s hands with her own when she starts to pull away, worried. ‘Don’t leave, darling. Let me… Let me?’

Let her lean in, yes, let her press close, forehead to forehead, yes, stay so still when Laudna touches her cheek, fleeting. Laudna trembles—afraid? excited? damn this fucking circlet—but the contact settles her and when she retreats, she pulls Imogen’s hands from her cheeks but doesn’t let them go. She breathes in and out. Then says,

‘Waking from death is much like waking from sleep, except it hurts. Only a little but all the time.’

Imogen’s fingers brush over Laudna’s wrist, where her pulse plods away. ‘Laudna,’ she whispers, not to interrupt. Only because Laudna ought never go a moment thinking she didn’t care.

‘For all those years, even though I…I ran and built my huts and Pate too, of course, and of course I felt things—fear and loss and joy, too, sometimes—I was alive and awake but. So much of me was still dead. I was so - confused. And angry, often. I was surviving, you see. I had strength enough to hold myself together and fix things, here and there, but no more than that. I was hungry, all the time, I had so many teeth.’ Laudna searches her face. ‘And then I met you and you helped. Cared. These past years with you… It used to be that when I wanted something, it - it was hunger I felt. This endless hunger. A great pit in my chest. And it was hard to tell, you see, what it was I wanted except for everything, anything I could get my hands on. Do you understand?’

Imogen gnaws at her lip. Slowly, she shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t.’ She dips her head, catches Laudna’s eyes. ‘Explain it to me?’

Laudna’s fingers shake as she slides them over the backs of Imogen’s hands. Long fingers curl around one of Imogen’s wrists and she lifts it to press a chaste kiss to her knuckles, lips cool against the burning ridge of her oldest lightning scar.

‘You have given me so much. You gave me friendship and purpose and trust. Food. Fun and stories. Strength. A bed. A home. And the hunger…it doesn’t gnaw so terribly, darling. Now, when I - when I want something, it isn’t an impossible task. I needn’t lose myself in that great black pit, blinding searching for what I lack. It starts to make sense. I start to make sense. What I want. Outside of her, and hunger. You’ve given me so much,’ Laudna tells her, and her voice creaks with the weight of her words. ‘How can I possibly take more? How - selfish, how greedy it would be to want… To want.’

‘Do you want me to kiss you?’ Imogen asks, voice soft. She tries not to sound to hopeful.

Launda holds her hands for a long time. It’s maddening, because Laudna never stays still for long; she doesn’t now either, instead stroking tiny patterns against her skin, fingers sliding over and between her own. At the occasional scratch of her nails, a frisson of electricity crackles down Imogen’s arms, through her body. Finally, Laudna nods.

‘I do. Oh, Imogen, I do. I didn’t know it - I knew I would be content for centuries, the rest of my days, if only I could sleep in your bed, stand at your side, content with any touch or favour you might share with me. And then - to be kissed?’ A shy smile creeps across her lips. ‘Would it be terribly unfunny to say it struck me like a bolt?’

Imogen snorts. Pulls her hands free so she can shove at her—lightly, though, barely enough to make even Laudna sway. Her hands settle on the tender branching of Laudna’s collarbones. The fabric of the new dress is silk-smooth under her palms; the lace neckline, though, catches against her work-rough, scar-rough fingers. She strokes it again, entranced. It’s so soft, the lace, in its reluctance to let her go. It’s so beautiful, the whorling patterns of leaves and flowers, and the contrast of blue-black fabric against Laudna’s pale skin is enough to make her glow. And beneath lace and skin, the steady tap of Laudna’s pulse—a knock on the door, on the coffin lid, here I am.

Beautiful.

‘That’s dreadful,’ she scolds, wrinkling her nose.

‘That’s me. Full of dread.’ A ghostly visage flickers across Laudna’s face, there—skin and skull shifting, FRIDA’s inspiration?—and gone. ‘And you?’ she asks. ‘You too?’

‘Full of dread?’

‘Do you wish to kiss me, I meant, actually.’

Imogen swallows harshly. ‘Yeah,’ she rasps. ‘Yeah, I do.’

A frown pinches Laudna’s forehead. ‘Have you been afflicted with this desire for long?’

‘Afflict— You say it like it’s a sickness or somethin’,’ Imogen teases, but Laudna flaps a hand for her to hurry up and tell, so she shrugs. ‘Um. Yeah. I ‘spose I’ve been wantin’ to kiss you for a while,’ she admits, cheeks burning. ‘When I could hear you, it was… Do you remember when Dusk was hangin’ around, you told me you hadn’t thought about it? Hadn’t accessed that part of your brain?’ Laudna nods. ‘I know. I knew that. Because sometimes, when we were close and you…’

Imogen pauses. Sucks in a breath—it’s a little stuffy in their room, no windows, but it smells of freshly laundered sheets and paint and wood polish and Laudna and Imogen lets it steady her.

‘D’you know that you say the kindest, sweetest things sometimes? You always know what to do to calm me down or make me laugh, even when the whole world is—’ She gestures awkwardly to the south wall where the moon hovers in her minds eye. ‘You know. Going to shit. And sometimes—I wasn’t sure how much you…’ She stops again, lips twisting, frustrated. ‘I knew that you cared for me because, well, because you do.’

‘Naturally, of course.’

‘But sometimes I wondered if…if you wanted to kiss me, like I sometimes thought of doing. But when I looked into your mind, you were never thinkin’ about it so -’ Imogen shrugs, cheeks hot. ‘I never brought it up. You hardly ever thought about it when other folk were flirtin’ or talkin’ about it, so I figured it wasn’t something you wanted. And that didn’t matter to me! Just so long as you were with me, and we were together, I was happy with that. But then Dusk,’ Imogen strangles the name in her throat, hopes fiercely that Yu can feel it, wherever the fuck they might be, ‘put the idea in your head and then they…left…and you were confused and I’d sometimes catch flashes of it in your head but it didn’t feel right to bring it up, even though sometimes I thought—the way you were lookin’ at me, and not pullin’ away when I was lookin’ at you—I thought…maybe? Maybe it was - Maybe you could. Think like that. And when you died—’ Her voice cracks. ‘That wasn’t the right time either, obviously,’ she scoffs. Pulls a hand back to swipe at her eyes.

‘Darling,’

‘It had to be your choice. All of it. Everything, after what happened. And I was fucking terrified because of all those questions in my head like if I’d be pushin’ you if I asked, or makin’ you more of a target, burdenin’ you with all this Predathos moon shit—’

‘Never. Never a burden.’

‘—and then I got this,’ Imogen taps her circlet, ‘and I couldn’t hear you anymore, couldn’t check, and so, yeah, Laudna, you could say I’ve been thinkin’ about it for a while.’

‘Thinking about,’ she says, so carefully, like she’s afraid if she speaks it too loud or too fast the whole thing will break, ‘kissing. Me.’

Imogen laughs. Smiles at her with her whole face, her whole heart. Every soft, exposed, grotesque, tender part of it. ‘Yeah, sweetheart. Is that alright?’

Laudna nods jerkily. Eyes Imogen’s mouth curiously. ‘Can I - that is, if it’s alright with you,’

‘Please,’ Imogen whispers, and she isn’t sure if she’s reading her own mind or if Laudna’s is loud enough to overpower the circlet, if she’s letting the power of it subside in her eagerness to know if Laudna wants what she wants, but it’s so clear—Laudna’s dark eyes, warm and kind and wanting; her reaching hands, aligning them hurt to hurt, heart to heart; plum lips pressing, ever so gently, against hers.

The kiss lasts a heartbeat. Barely long enough to register the touch. Even so, Laudna flushes deeply. Touches her fingers to her mouth and breathes out, shaky.

‘Oh. Imogen.’

Imogen lifts a hand—‘Can I? Let me, please’—to Laudna’s neck, grazing the high collar she’d been so jealous of in the store for getting to touch Laudna’s neck, but adores now as she coaxes it down so she alone can see, can touch the soft skin of her neck. Feel the way Laudna’s breath hitches when she does, her shiver as Imogen’s fingers slide forward, following the path of her jaw and swiping beneath the hinge of it—tender, awed, lingering on the mottled silver marks of bullet holes and torn skin—before she slides her fingers into the curtain of dark dark. She presses gently, guides her forward for another kiss. Her lips find the corner of Laudna’s mouth and smiles at the noise of displeasure it pulls.

‘I think,’ Imogen whispers, kisses her more solidly. Tilts her head and loses herself in Laudna: Laudna’s nose nudging into her cheek; Laudna’s hands fluttering between her elbows and shoulders before laying gently on her back; a clumsy bump of lips, which is actually mostly chin, a giggled apology, and then something gives and Laudna’s lips are on hers again, steady and slow and careful, like they have all the time in the world, like now that she is here there is no where she would rather be. Imogen pulls back, licks her lips. Citrus bursts on her tongue.

Laudna stares at her mouth. ‘What - ‘ She has to clear her throat, voice breathy, like Imogen has kissed all the air out of her and the thought makes want crackle beneath Imogen’s skin. ‘What do you think?’

‘Amazing. Great. Perfect.’

Dark eyes gleam. Laudna smiles—no, she smirks. ‘Darling. You were saying something, that you thought…?’

‘Oh.’ Imogen starts to speak—and has to stop. She laughs. ‘Y’know, I’ve totally forgotten?’

‘Oh.’ Laudna’s blush deepens. She’s so fucking pretty. ‘It will come back to you. If it’s important.’ She fidgets. Reaches out a hand to touch Imogen’s elbow, her knee. She looks for a moment as if she is about to speak but then a calm settles over her and she only smiles and nods. ‘Do you mind, dearest, if I take a little time to fix the birdhouse? Only Pate said it’s dreadfully uncomfortable and I think - if I add some soft cushion fabric, maybe curtains - I can fix the place up for him.’

Imogen nods. She understands—and could do with a minute to calm down too. She crawls around Laudna up to the headboard, props herself up against it.

Laudna frowns. ‘Really? Boots on the bed?‘

She smiles, closes her eyes. ‘It’ll be alright, I’ll magic the dirt away after.’

‘It’s the principle of the thing,’ Laudna insists. After a few moments of Imogen ignoring her, Laudna sets aside the birdhouse and begins to unbuckle Imogen’s boots. Imogen watches, thoughts far too chaotic to pin down. It doesn’t take long—Laudna has helped her before, when migraines stopped her from doing just about anything—and she pats Imogen’s shin, tuts at the unhappy state of her socks, and mends the hole by her big toe with a needle and thread of black shadow. It looks good as new when she is done.

‘There,’ Imogen drawls, snuggling down into the pillow at her back. ‘What would I do without you?’

Laudna laughs. ‘You’d wear boots in bed and put your cups upside down on the shelves–’

‘First of all, I’m right about that and second of all,’ she nudges Laudna with her toe, ‘I never wanna find out.’

She smiles and, oh, Imogen thinks, Dawnfather, eat your heart out. You don’t know light like this. You couldn’t make a light like hers if you had a thousand solstices.

They spend a lazy afternoon together. They don’t kiss again—Laudna is far too intent on her work, and Imogen merely watches her and allows time and proximity to ease the tight, grating knot of nerves in her chest that had built with every moment of Laudna’s absence. She asks easy questions and retreads old, familiar jokes and stories, and everything resettles. In some ways, it is as it has always been. It’s the two of them, together. It’s also new in a way that makes Imogen’s heart flutter every time she remembers; I kissed her, I can kiss her.

‘Pate,’ Laudna croons, as she takes apart old clothes and blankets, stitches them into cushions for the interior of the birdhouse. ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are,’ she sings, and the rat-bird clambers out of his wooden house and up her arm, waits until she’s packed the cushions into place to skitter back inside, taking pride of place in the decadence. ‘What do you think of your new ho-ome?’ It’s so fucking weird. They both are. Imogen has to get closer to her. Tucks a foot under Laudna’s knee—who beams at her, wraps a chilly hand around her ankle and keeps her close—and makes a note to kiss Pate on top of his awful little skull soon. Just because. ‘What do you think? Will this be more comfortable?’

‘It’s nice!’ he croaks, little paws patting walls and floor. ‘I do have a suggestion, though—’

‘What! You’ve only been alive for a few months, what could you possibly know about decorating?’ she demands, aghast.

Pate flies from the house, landing on the roof. There are no eyes in his bird skull but Imogen swears he rolls them anyway. ‘Pfft! What don’t I know? I’m the whole package, you know. Bird brains and rat cunning, fanks very much.’

‘Fine, then, if you’re so smart! What’s your suggestion?’

‘Curtains.’

‘Curtains?’

‘Curtains. For, you know, setting the mood, or sleeping in the day. Or if you two need a little, heh, private time to lock lips—’

‘Alright, yes, fine!’ Laudna yelps. ‘I’ll make you some damn curtains!’

Pate chuckles. His wings peel open with a wet squelch that Imogen is never going to get used to—how could he be wet, he’s been dead for years, that’s what she wants to know—and he takes off with one, two laborious flaps of his wings, gliding down to the bed covers and scampering back into his now-comfortable home. ‘Thank ye kindly,’ he calls out from within.

Laudna grumbles as she pulls together curtains rather quickly, delving in her pack for supplies. She pulls out shards of metal–splinters, almost, but as long as her palm.

‘What’re those?’ Imogen asks, as she tries to bully the pillow under her head into a more comfortable shape.

‘Hm? Oh - one of Ashton’s climbing pitons. It shattered.’

The pillow refuses to be comfortable; Imogen gives up, gets up to search the room for wherever the other pillow went. She finds it, after a while, on the top shelf of the little linen closet and jumps for it before remembering she knows telekinesis. How in the nine hells Zhudanna even got it up there, she has no clue. Wandering back to the bed, Imogen watches over Laudna’s shoulder for a minute as she crafts.

‘You went climbing?’

‘When we were separated, that’s where we landed,’ Laudna says. ‘On a cliffside. Jagged rocks, Steam vents. Now that I think about it, we were rather lucky, actually, that we didn’t appear in the air above a sharp spike or roll off the cliff. But yes, we had to climb,’ she says, and tells Imogen all about it— finding Deni$e - Mona, at the time—and the climb and the endless valley of verdant trees.

Imogen listens carefully, heart heavy. She thinks of a long, cold walk and finding truly kind friends at the end of it - a celestial bull they befriended - shopping - the warmth and bustle and commerce and, yes, anxiety, of Uthodurn, and meeting royalty—and she thinks of Laudna, who dislocates something whenever she sneezes, having to pull herself up a cliffside. She rubs Laudna’s shoulder and dips her head, presses a kiss there on her back—because she can, because she wants to, because Laudna wants it too. Laudna hums, a happy sound.

‘I’m sorry you ended up there.’

‘It wasn’t all bad. It was rather beautiful. I would have enjoyed it, I think, if you had been there.’

‘Maybe we’ll go together someday.’

Laudna smiles. Affixes one of the piton curtain-rods into place as Pate guides her—’Higher, higher on the left - other left - all of it lower now - perfect!’

‘I think Ashton will want to go back.’

‘Oh?’

‘There was something of the Hishari there - a town. Cursed now, apparently. He wants answers.’

‘Then that’s what we’ll do,’ Imogen agrees. ‘Kill the moon, then go on holiday to a cursed town in Issylra. Sounds nice.’

‘You were right, by the way,’ Imogen says later, as they walk back from the Windowed Wall to their friends.

‘Of course I was.’ Laudna beams across at her, tone bright, teasing; it’s such a shift from her mood of the morning that Imogen can do nothing but smile back at her. ‘About what, though?’

‘You said if it was important, I’d remember what I was gonna say. And I remember now.’’ Imogen wraps her arm through Laudna’s, pulls her in tight. There aren’t many people crowding the street but she doesn’t need an excuse to hold her close anymore. ‘You know, the thought you kissed right outta my head?’

‘Imogen!’ Laudna slaps her hand lightly, but her eyes gleam. Imogen thinks she might be pleased by the idea of driving her to distraction. ‘Well, go on then. What was it?’

‘You asked if I’d been thinking about it for a long time. Kissin’ you. I was gonna say, I think I’ll never get it outta my head. I’m gonna be thinkin’ about kissing you forever. If that’s alright with you.’

Laudna’s chin lifts - proud, pleased by the idea, clearly - and she gains what could only be called a strut. Her cheeks colour faintly. ‘I’ll be thinking about it too.’ Her eyes glitter brightly over a sweet smile. ‘After all, you’re very capable,’ she teases, and laughs, delighted, at the blush her words pull from Imogen.

They’re still smiling when they rejoin their friends. It earns them strange looks, but fond, relieved. No one pries—though Ashton has a stare like a crowbar—and they say nothing, for now.

#tagging my stories #prompt fill #cr tag #imodna my beloveds #imodna

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anime-to-the-t · 11 months

Text

#Sailor Moon #Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon #Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon #Usagi Tsukino #Spiral Heart Attack #my caps #Sailor Moon cap

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sleepingdeath-light · 10 months

Text

yandere hcs ; stardust cookie

requested by ; anonymous (23/05/23)

fandom(s) ; cookie run

fandom masterlist(s) ; hub | super epic

character(s) ; stardust cookie

outline ; “yandere stardust cookie headcannons? also your writing is so addicting I keep coming back and rereading all your fics lol”

warning(s) ; unhealthy obsessive behaviours, implied acts of violence, possessive stardust cookie, yandere stardust cookie, stalking

stardust spent the vast majority of his life drifting through the cold and unforgiving void of space — of course he had the stars for company but there are only so many one sided conversations one can have with the cosmos before something snaps

he’d come to the city of wizards seeking answers then companionship then vengeance once he became aware of his origins — and it was through that chaos and anger and fear that he met you

patient, protective, fragile you — a mortal no stronger than a twig yet holding a heart worth far more than its weight in platinum or gold

someone who helped to talk him down from the edge of his mania, who spoke in a voice that rung as bright as galaxies and as warm as the light of a thousand distant stars

you were so familiar despite never having met before — you felt like the cosmos and the void and the life held within, you felt like home

both the home he’d known his whole life and the home he’d been searching for as long as he could breathe in that breathless ocean of stars

he didn’t want to hurt you, to lose you, so then he started to listen — to fold in his wings and retreat his talons until he was human again

human enough, at least

went through all of the necessary motions: fusing with his other half, protecting the city from his attack, apologising and offering his service as an apology

and your companions — but most vitally you — believed him, or at least believed him enough to mostly take him at his word

he promised to keep his distance and help moonlight with her mission of protecting the city and rebuilding it to its former glory and bid you all farewell — biting back his grimace as moon started sighing dreamily about the ocean and it’s song

but he couldn’t stop thinking about you

during the day he was haunted by the brightness of your eyes and the warmth of your hug, ghosts of your fingertips brushing against his spine as he patrolled the ruins of the city from above

and at night your voice tormented him — the tinkling of your laughter morphing into your screams of terror from during his attack, played on repeat like some twisted record that he couldn’t shake or erase

he rarely slept most nights because of it

staying up at night, your face tattooed on the insides of his eyelids — teasing him with how present yet out of reach you were

it had been a month of moon pestering him and him brushing her off before he snapped and tracked you down one night

he’d found you in no time at all, having tracked you with his old friends’ aid (nobody hides from the stars, after all), and he lost his nerve the moment he saw you

asleep, vulnerable and peaceful — completely aware of the entity looming over your resting body

he was torn between taking you then and leaving you be because you were just so… beautiful when you were at rest

beautiful like nature, like the stars, like nebulas, like spiralling galaxies and like everything he’d known and loved — yet you still somehow eclipsed them all

he decided to leave you be

watching over you until the break of dawn, at which point he swiftly took flight and returned to the city before moonlight cookie even realised he was gone

(not that she ever did, all she did most days was sleep and stare out at the ocean)

he goes back the next night

and the next

…

he never does anything to you, though, he’d never dream of hurting you — doesn’t even think he could — he just watches you sleep

watches you smile and shuffle around

listens to you sigh and murmur and snore and breath

the most he’s ever done is brush some hair out of your face and lay beside you and listen to you breathe — revelling in the way you subconsciously snuggled closer to him and feeling warmth blossom in his chest at the way you buried your face in his neck

like you knew he was there

like you wanted him to be there

(of course you didn’t, though, you were asleep, but that didn’t stop his mind from wandering)

(from hoping)

and this little routine of his continues for months at a time — him trailing you and laying beside you as you go about your journey, blissfully unaware that you’re being followed

and he never gives you the slightest hint that he’s there, he’s not ready yet, he’s content as an observer

until him

until he stops by earlier than usual after you’ve just drifted off to sleep, face buried in the pillow of an inn that you’d stopped by for the night — your friends sleeping around you, piled in beds and sleeping bags and all so comfortable looking

he almost envied the simplicity

almost

and he didn’t intend to hurt him, but he could hear him from the window ledge of your assigned room

hear his crude remarks about you

about your body, your mouth, how you’d sound

and it infuriated him — bringing out a side of him that he had tried to keep contained since he almost destroyed the city of wizards

and suddenly he’s all wings and talons and teeth as he lures the drunkard outside with the promise of a good lay and good booze — an easier lie than he’d like to admit

he tortures the man until the break of day and brings back one of his ribs to keep safe in his home — a reminder of his role as your protector

(self assigned, of course)

what remained of him wasn’t even recognisable as human — no body to bury except for fragments and smears

and you were none the wiser

nobody talks that way about you — his light, his heart, his home, his you — not the drunk, nor a musician, nor a duke nor a king nor a god

they didn’t deserve you, none of them did

he didn’t either, not really, but that didn’t stop him from coming back

from hoping that one day you’d be able to accept him wholly

to love him

to adore him

to covet him

to want him

not yet — he wasn’t ready — but some day, and he was willing to wait as long as it took

because you were worth it

because he had nothing but time

because he couldn’t imagine a life without you in it

because you were his even if you didn’t realise it yet

his stars, his void, his nebula, his supernova, his everything and more

… if only he could bring himself to finally say it to your face rather than just whispering his affections to the endless night sky

#sleepingdeath #gender neutral reader #yandere hcs #yandere x reader #yandere crk x reader #yandere crk #yandere cookie run #yandere cookie run x reader #yandere stardust cookie x reader #stardust cookie x reader #cookie run x reader #crk x reader

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fnafwritings · 5 months

Note

Could you write Sun or Moon comforting the reader while theyre having a panic attack? 🥺

You’re not quite sure how you even ended up in the daycare in all honesty.

It’s not as if you had anywhere particular in mind, so you could have ended up almost anywhere and would have been just as confused—but the daycare seemed… better. Quieter. It shut down a few hours before the rest of the facility so that it could be cleaned and prepared for the next business day, so it meant that all of the kids had been picked up; no screaming, no noises, no blaring horns or overdriven guitars.

It was quiet.

You needed quiet.

Whatever had set off the episode was a complete mystery, but the Pizzaplex had absolutely no shortage of sights, sounds and smells that would have set you tumbling over the edge of ‘okay’ and thoroughly into ‘spiraling anxiety attack’

Your chest was on fire, your thoughts were flying—no comfort came from the knowledge that you only had an hour or so left on your shift, and the general noise from the crowds still within the building only made you feel like you were suffocating. Not enough space, not enough air-

Not enough.

Whether by choice or fate of your footsteps, you slip through one of the back doors of the daycare so you can hide yourself away and lean against the wall. The supply rooms kept most of the extra toys and supplies and smelled too strongly of disinfectant to be perfect, but it was better than most options; even the bathrooms had speakers constantly pouring music and advertisements for one of the hundred things that the company wanted people to spend money on.

But none of that mattered right now.

Right now it is quiet and dark. You hadn’t bothered to turn the light on when you came into the room, so only the thin sliver of light from the hallway lit it up enough for you to find a sufficiently empty corner of the room to lean against the wall and slide down until you were sitting on the cold linoleum.

Nobody would find you here—you are safe. You are safe. You are safe.

The words echoed in your head, a fragile mantra to quell the vicious storm of thoughts and emotions sending a rapid heartbeat through your ears.

“And just whooo might you be?”

The voice, soft and almost lyrical, nearly made your heart stop. Before you could even try to hurry out and claim you’d made a mistake in finding the bathroom, there was already a presence kneeling beside you. The only light came through the bottom of the door and the small window out into the main daycare area, so couldn’t make out very much of the figure.

An animatronic—that much was obvious right off the bat by their size alone. Even crouched the figure was several feet high, towering over you with a lithe figure and looming red eyes that seemed to pierce through you. It didn't take more than a few moments to recognize them as the Daycare Attendant, the animatronic tasked with looking after the kids dropped off in the aforementioned daycare. You'd only seen them a few times, but weren't very familiar.

They... looked a little different from normal. Instead of a beaming face resembling a cartoonish sun, their face was divided by a crescent-shaped moon. There were some other minor differences, but it is their eyes that make you squirm beneath the gaze.

“S-sorry,” Is all you can stammer at first, voice shaky and quiet between shallow breaths. “I’m not—I’m just taking a b-break.”

The figure is silent for a few seconds, which at first is incredibly unnerving, at least until you realize they're looking at your chest—more specifically the employee ID card hanging from the lanyard around your neck. A moment passes, and you assume they're scanning the employee number on the front.

Finally they move, shifting fluidly so that they’re sitting cross-legged next to you, but it's the sound of your name that catches your attention most.

"Aren't you rather far from your station, little star?"

The endearment is one you've often heard within the daycare, a soft way to refer to the kids. And while you'd like to correct the animatronic on the diminutive nickname, something stops you. It... feels kinda nice.

"I..." the sound stills within your throat. Heart is still racing. "I work by the Fazcade."

"We know," they respond, words neither cold nor particularly comforting. "But you're nnnot supposed to be here. Naughty naughty."

They raise and waggle a finger in front of you as if they were scolding a child. You're not sure whether to feel offended or not by the gesture, but it's probably just because they're programmed to care for kids; and technically you really aren't supposed to be the dark storage room for a section of the building you weren't even assigned to.

"I'm sorry," the apology is repeated, and for a moment you worry if the daycare attendant is going to kick you out. "I'm not going to mess with anything, I just n-need a few moments."

The animatronic is silent, watching with that eerie gaze until you start to squirm again and your heartbeat picks up in tandem.

"I-... Everything was starting to get t-too loud, too... s-small."

"Sssmall?" the attendant inquired. Their low tone of voice carried a gentle note of concern.

Your eyes flick to the floor in something akin to embarrassment. How would an animatronic understand what an anxiety attack is? How do you even begin to explain the layers of emotion involved or how it makes your skin absolutely crawl at the thought of going back to that crowded noisy arcade for another entire hour?

Some time passes before you find the words to answer with. They're half-ready on your tongue when you look back up, but the daycare attendant has disappeared from where they had been sitting not even a minute before.

You blink.

Before the question of your sanity can even emerge from the murky pool of your inner thoughts, they return with a few quick, fluid steps. With one motion they sit down and reach out a closed hand towards you, something enclosed against their fingers and palm.

Extending a hand in turn is almost instinctual.

A heavy, metallic shape falls into your palm, a bit larger than a deck of cards.

"Turn it on," they say, tone low and raspy, but oddly comforting.

Though you fumble a bit in the low lighting, it doesn't take long for you to find a little toggle on the side of the item and click it over.

Slowly, softly, a tune begins to fill the air from your palms. It is very simple and bright, though it takes a few seconds for you to recognize the music and the item itself quickly after that.

"A music box?"

They were sold at the main entrance gift shop, but you had seen kids walking around with them after getting picked up from the daycare. Did they give them out? Why are they giving you one? The answer to the former is elusive, but the second one actually is quickly put to rest--the daycare attendant tilts their head quizzically to the side for a moment before letting out a low noise that you assume is akin to a chuckle. Can animatronics chuckle?

"Sssometimes the world is very scary," they say, a gentle hiss in the 'S' that you have to wonder is a verbal quirk or not, "but it's okay to be scared. It's very brave, in fact."

Ah. Another programmed response--again, you're not entirely surprised, given the fact that they have to care for children, so undoubtedly they had encountered something like this before.

A hand, much larger than your own and metallic, settles on the top of your head in a motion that, while surprising at first, feels rather nice.

"Didn't mean to frighten you," the attendant says, gently messaging their fingers against your head while trying not to mess up your hair. "This is... what often works for some of our wards."

Our? You certainly weren't in charge of any kids. The verbal error is quickly filed under the thoughts from before and largely forgotten as they continue to speak.

"Just focus on the musssic," they instruct, "and breathe slower. Don't worry about counting--nothing else exists right now little star. It is just you, me, and your little gift."

Quick, shallow breaths are hard to stop. It's as if your body is on overdrive, pulling itself by the strings from a complete and total meltdown.

But your chest begins to slow. Little by little. It doesn't help the racing thoughts in your brain or the feeling of being too cramped, but... it does help. The attendant coos at you in a low tone almost rhythmic against the repeating tune; normally you'd hate how the music cycled over and over again, but the repeated notes act almost like an anchor in the moment. Familiar. Safe. It is so tiny in your hands.

"Gooood," they hum. "You're doing a good job right nnnow, little star. Can you slow down that breathing a little more?"

Something inside you wants to follow the gentle instructions, so your breathing starts getting deeper, more prolonged and deliberate. At first it feels suffocating, but slowly... eventually... your heartbeat begins to even out to a healthy resting rate. The attendant presses their hand down a little more firmly on your head; not enough to hurt, but enough to feel the pressure distinctly. To focus on.

"Safe."

The word seems to melt into the gentle tune still echoing in the dark, empty room.

"You are sssafe. Nothing is going to hurt you. Weee're... riiiight... heeere."

The words mimic the mantra you had been trying to focus on ironically just before they found you, and it continues for... you're not quite sure how long, actually.

Minutes? An hour? All you know is at some point your phone starts buzzing in your pocket with a text message, and that almost startles you back to reality--but not in a way that tosses you right back into your spiral of anxiety. No, when you lift your eyes up and finally find breath and voice, it's with a renewed sense of stability and assurance.

The daycare attendant simply meets your gaze, though the once red eyes seem less unnerving and more lulling, and you can only imagine that this version of the attendant is to help putting the kids down to nap during the day.

"...Thank you," you finally whisper, and they pull their hand back from your head. A quick glance at your phone reveals that while it hasn't been an entire hour, twenty minutes seemed long enough.

"You should return to your area, little star."

With a nod, you slowly get up onto your wobbly feet and try to take a step; somehow your ankle doesn't bend quite the way its supposed to in order to catch your weight, and you nearly tumble onto the floor.

Only nearly because the attendant catches you, hands carefully on your shoulders and applying just enough pressure to keep you from tripping over your own feet.

"Shit," the word fumbles awkwardly out of your mouth. "Th-thank you... sir?"

"An acceptable title of formality," they say, affirming at least one new fact about them. "But you may call me Moon."

The realization of the animatronic having a name is more surprising than the sudden shift from plural to singular pronouns. But why? All of the other animatronics in the Pizzaplex had names and personalities... why couldn't this one?

"I... Thank you then, Moon." It is a fitting name, at least. But did they give it to themselves? Or was it simply something assigned so that kids had something easier to say when talking to them?

After a few moments to make sure you wouldn't trip again, you follow the thin trail of light towards the door. Just about to turn the knob, Moon's voice stops you with the sound of your name.

Peering back, you can't see much of Moon's figure, but their eyes peek out of the darkness, and their voice carries with it such a genuine sense of warmth that it lingers for hours afterward.

"Make sure to return... if things ever feel too loud again."

#fnaf #fnaf x reader #fnaf x you #fnaf dca #fnaf moondrop #fnaf daycare attendant #fnaf moon #fic #sfw fic #moon fic #dca fic #sfw #i love me a soft moon okay i think he's normally probably very good with kids; much less energy than sun #dca fandom #dca writing

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delimeful · 9 months

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how easy you are to need (redux) (6)

warnings: PTSD, misunderstandings, panic attack/anxiety spiral, MASSIVE miscommunication moment this chapter, brief mentions of past death, lmk if im missing any!

Despite having every intention of plotting escape, Virgil found himself spending the bulk of the next few days sound asleep.

He’d suspected foul play, something slipped into the meals that they kept freely giving him, but there was nothing unnatural or forced about his rest.

His body and mind had been pushed to their limits, and he was simply exhausted.

The humans did their best not to disturb him, but he was restless, his mind always registering the wrongness of his surroundings and trying to drag him back into consciousness. He woke the moment one of them stepped into the room, no matter how brief or silent the intrusion.

He didn’t open his eyes or twitch when this happened, morbidly curious to see how they would behave if they thought he wasn’t aware and watching their every move. He laid there with his heart racing, listening keenly to catch the muffled steps and soft breathing, waiting for the inevitable moment that one of them approached.

They never did.

When he wasn’t sleeping, the humans held meals with him. Unperturbed by his stubborn silence, they would chatter on just as much as they had back when he’d taken refuge under their floorboards, the thread of conversation frequently derailed by quips and rambling anecdotes.

He thought he had figured it out after that first night, between the food he’d assumed was drugged and the sting of the silverware in his grip— not pure silver, but close enough to burn.

But he’d only felt more and more clear-headed as time passed, and the moment one of them had noticed his fingers spasming around a fork, they’d all kicked up a fuss and instantly swapped the silver utensils out for carefully carved wooden ones.

As though that wasn’t enough, Logan continued to check on his wounds with precise regularity, and despite the fear that rose in Virgil whenever the scent of medical supplies filled the air, the human never took so much as a hair from his head.

His care seemed designed to be as painless as possible, from the way he carefully instructed Virgil through each step of administering treatment to the damp, oven-warm cloth he would press against bandages to keep scabs from tearing free when the padding was changed.

It was bizarre, and Virgil didn’t know how to handle it.

He could see why they would want to keep his wounds clean and uninfected. It made sense; they wanted him all healed up by the full moon, not sickly and delirious in the grips of a fever.

That didn’t explain the rest of it. The meals, the sleep, the way they listened.

The way restraints still hadn’t appeared, even as he slowly but surely regained his strength.

They might have called his bluff, somehow realized that he was too weak (too attached) to turn his teeth against them, but any hunter worth their blade knew better than to rely on such an uncertain assumption.

Especially not when he could potentially do so much damage, placed in the soft, unguarded center of their home.

There was nothing to gain. His body would serve its purpose to them whether it had spent the last few weeks on a silk cushion or a stone cell floor. Why would they risk it?

Once he’d successfully spent most of the day awake, and even shuffled through the house without tearing any stitches, they seemed to deem him well enough to hold a coherent conversation.

(He’d actually been trying to count all the potential exits, maybe even see what sort of lodestone Logan was using for the ward. When Patton had caught him slinking around, he hadn’t seemed suspicious or angry at all, only overwhelmingly enthusiastic about his health improving.

He also hadn’t seemed at all wary about stumbling upon the unrestrained captive that had taken him hostage the last time they were alone, because of course he hadn’t. How had these idiots even survived this long?)

“Did you like the meatloaf?” Patton asked him, over halfway through his own meal. The three of them tended to occasionally neglect their dishes in favor of rambling conversation or spirited arguments, so Virgil was almost always done well before them.

They also tended to not ask him such direct questions, and Virgil blinked in silent surprise for a moment, waiting for him to realize his mistake.

Instead, Patton let the silence stretch, unperturbed, for long enough that Virgil finally gave a half-hearted shrug.

“His plate speaks for itself, does it not?” Roman jumped in eagerly, tilting his head towards the empty space where the meatloaf had– very briefly– sat.

Virgil resisted the urge to snort, shifting in mild discomfort at becoming the topic of conversation. They could have put basically anything edible on his plate and gotten the same result. He knew better than to turn down food.

“Dishware can’t speak,” Logan informed him blandly. “Or consume and judge the quality of food, for that matter.”

Virgil felt a flare of amusement at the look on Roman’s face, and the words slipped out without thought. “He’s got you there.”

Three pairs of eyes flicked over at the barely-audible statement, and he only barely resisted the urge to shrink back. Surprisingly, none of them seemed mad, although Roman was visibly torn between surprised delight and dismay.

“Well, I thought it was just loaf-ly,” said Patton, because he was the funniest one there. Virgil’s lips twitched as Roman settled fully into dismay with a groan.

“Must you mock me?” Logan asked with a longsuffering air.

“Your recipe was delicious!” Patton continued. “I’d love to meat the ones who made it!”

Roman groaned louder.

“You’ve already met my family?” Logan replied, confused. “My mother– ah. You were engaging in more juvenile wordplay. More the fool I.”

“I pan do this all day!” Patton paused, and then shrugged. “That one would have worked better if it was still in the baking pan.”

Roman cleared his throat.

“Wow, Specs, I didn’t know this was your family’s recipe,” he said, his words just a little too over-exaggerated. “Are they going to come to visit any time soon?”

Virgil kept his gaze on his cleared plate, trying to force down the sickening lurch in his stomach. More humans. Just what he needed.

Logan hummed. “At this point in the season, I imagine they’re very busy with the farm. If they do decide to visit, they will let me know well in advance. And yours?”

“It’s been a while since I’ve gotten a letter.” Roman’s expression soured. “Not that it matters. If he decides to visit, he’ll let me know about five seconds before he kicks the door in. Probably by screaming at the top of his lungs.”

Despite all the irritation in his expression, there was worry hidden there, too. Virgil was also feeling worried, admittedly for entirely different reasons.

(For some people, hunting was the sort of thing that ran in the family.)

“At least his visits are always… exciting!” Patton tried, sounding a little uncertain himself. “What about you, Mister Wolf?”

The words registered a beat late, and Virgil’s head jerked up enough to see that they were all looking at him, again. “What?”

“I know you’ll only be here for a little bit, but I know I always worry when my loved ones are injured, especially if I can’t be by their side,” Patton elaborated. “Should we be on the lookout for any potential visitors?”

Understanding hit Virgil like a fever, his blood running cold for a moment before spiking into an unbearable furious heat.

So that was why. He should have known.

“You won’t find anyone out there,” he forced through grit teeth. A low growl had started vibrating in his chest, and he relished in the way the three of them went taut at the noise. “There’s no one to find. If there was, I would never give them up. No matter what.”

Maybe he should have lied, pretended that there was a reason for them to keep treating him with this targeted kindness. Lead them on with stories about a pack that didn’t actually exist, make them believe he was nothing more than a naive idiot, act as though he didn’t have a single clue as to what they were trying to do. It would probably have made escaping easier.

It didn’t matter. Anger had overtaken fear, sharp and fire-bright, and now all he wanted to do was burn. They could do whatever they wanted to him, use the stick now that the carrot had so miserably failed, and it still wouldn’t ever be enough to make him give up a pack. Not to a fate as cruel as this.

Movement caught his eye, and his head snapped up with teeth bared, a snarl at the tip of his tongue as he braced for an attack–

The humans had retreated.

“We’ll leave you be,” Logan said, and Virgil realized that at some point, he’d corralled the other two out of the room and into the hall; he could see Patton’s arm around Roman’s shoulder, the two of them casting worried looks back as they shuffled away. “We didn’t mean any offense. Please call on me if you need anything.”

When Virgil only stared, his growl still rumbling from deep within him, Logan nodded once and slid the divider door into place, his footsteps retreating shortly after.

The dishes had been left where they were. Virgil’s plate was shattered, the ceramic pieces laying heavy on his lap. It was quiet.

They’d left him alone. By now, they had to know baiting him wouldn’t work. And still, they’d given him space, backed off instead of pushing on with other, more painful tactics. It didn’t make any sense.

Unless they had some other way of getting what they wanted.

Virgil curled in on himself, his growl cutting off as panic doused him. Logan knew enough about spellcraft to make potions, to set wards, to locate leylines. If they knew something Virgil didn’t, if they knew enough about magic to twist it to their own ends, and if they knew a way to find other wolves through him without his participation– if they knew about packbonds, and had a way to reveal his…

So what? He didn’t have a pack, not anymore. He didn’t have a pack. He didn’t, except.

Did any packbond count? Even ones that had only existed for a day?

The thought sent icy nausea through him, and he gripped a shard of the ceramic hard enough to break skin, his breath coming too-quick and catching in his throat.

No, no, no. He couldn’t panic. He couldn’t afford to pass out, not when he didn’t know what they might do to him while he was under. Who they might find.

Unfortunately, knowing he had to stop panicking and actually calming down were two entirely different things.

Black spots dotted his vision, and he passed out between one frantic inhale and the next.

—

He woke to something touching his shoulder, and ingrained reflexes had him snapping a hand out, lips curling up to bare teeth.

“Oh!” a voice exclaimed quietly, and Virgil froze.

It took a few blinks to make out Patton’s form in the dark. He had the human by the wrist, his claws pricking at skin, but he seemed more sheepish than anything.

There was a blanket slipping off his shoulder, one that hadn’t been there before.

The sight of it sent a miserable curl of guilt through him, one that was quickly dampened by the memory of what had happened before he’d passed out.

His hand sprang open as he scanned the room for the other two, desperately straining his senses for any trace of magecraft that had been performed on his person, only to come up empty on both counts.

It was only Patton, standing there in the dark with his hands clasped tightly.

There was a beat of silence, in which all he could think about was that one ephemeral, damning packbond, and everything he’d do to keep it undiscovered.

If he could just convince them to settle for one. For him. He could behave, he would swear it, he would beg–

“I’m sorry,” Patton said, which was so surprising that it practically stole the voice from his throat. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, asking that sort of thing at dinner.”

‘Didn’t mean to hurt’ him? How stupid did he think Virgil was? Or worse, how cruel?

“How would you feel,” he forced out, “if I’d asked you that. And it was your pack.”

The words were hardly more than a rough whisper, but Patton reeled back as though struck.

“I know,” he replied after a moment, his voice thicker now. “I know. We weren’t– It wasn’t meant to bring back painful memories. I swear. We only wanted to know if there was anyone missing you, and we didn’t think about how you would feel if… if there wasn’t. We– I, of all people, should have known better.”

Virgil’s brow furrowed as he listened, a small spark of hope flaring to life in him. It sounded like… like Patton had taken him at his word.

Was it possible that he had a chance, after all?

“Yeah, well. I should have known you’d ask,” he said, trying to keep his voice under control. “Still, it doesn’t change my answer.”

Patton inhaled, his words coming out slightly wobbly. “You really don’t have anyone? It’s… It’s just you?”

Virgil swallowed, aware that he was walking into the trap of his own volition. Once there was nothing else to drag from him, there was no reason for them to keep treating him like this.

“Yeah. It’s just me.”

Patton exhaled, slow and shaky, and reached out for Virgil’s hands. His face was hardly visible in the low light, but he was moving slow enough for there to be a question in the motion. Trying to see if he would cooperate?

Restraints right away, then.

Well. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t fight if it would keep them from tracking down the only good thing left in his past.

He held his hands out and braced himself for the burn of silver.

Instead, he felt two warm points of pressure against his palms. Patton was holding his hands firmly but harmlessly, in a grip that Virgil could break away from with a twitch. He was rubbing small circles on the side of Virgil’s hands with his little dull-edged thumbs.

It was a soothing gesture. A gentle one.

Virgil stared dumbly down at the shapeless mass their hands formed in the dark.

“Why?” he asked, unable as always to keep himself from looking the gift horse in the mouth. “Why are you treating me like this? You have to know this isn’t necessary.”

Patton withdrew slightly, seeming almost startled.

“I’m not doing it because it’s necessary, kiddo. I’m doing it because I want to. Because it seems like maybe you need it.”

“You don’t even know me,” Virgil replied, his hands twitching the slightest amount. They were beginning to tingle with that strange warm sensation that he’d felt when Logan had carried him.

“I know that you protected my partners,” Patton replied steadily. “I know that you probably saved my life, and got hurt something awful in the process. Is it so strange that I’d want to comfort you?”

Virgil paused.

That’s right. He’d saved them.

It wasn’t that he’d forgotten, it was just that he hadn’t expected it to matter. The moment they’d realized what he was, his fate had been sealed. To humans, shifters were dangerous and valuable, and so they couldn’t be allowed to live.

Even his humans knew it. Why else would he be here, locked behind wards to wait for the full moon?

It was a necessity, but that didn’t change who they were. He’d spent all this time bracing for a blow, waiting for the cruelty and malice that he’d experienced at the hands of humans before. Yet it hadn’t come.

Maybe it wasn’t coming at all.

“You want me… to be comfortable,” he tried, the words strange on his tongue.

“Of course!” Patton replied. “It’s the least we can do to repay you.”

Virgil nodded slowly, finally grasping the shape of the puzzle that had been placed before him.

Back when he was a pup, his pack had run across a solitary wolf, badly wounded. There was nothing they could do to save her, but the pack stopped anyway. They’d curled up around her, shared what meat they had from the morning’s hunt, and invited her to sing when dusk fell. For the handful of hours she’d had left, she’d been one of theirs.

His humans had their own sense of honor. They couldn’t afford to let him live, but it was thanks to him that their small pack hadn’t been torn to shreds. This gentleness, the way they held meals with him and offered him conversation and tended his wounds, it was their way of showing gratitude.

He could trust it would stay.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

Until the full moon rose again, he was one of theirs.

#sanders sides fic #werewolf au #heyatn #heyatnr #how easy you are to need #ts virgil #ts patton #ts roman #ts logan #my writing #writing

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anonymousewrites · 8 months

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One Hell of a Love (Book 1) Chapter Seven

Sebastian Michaelis x Demon! Reader

Chapter Seven: One Hell of a Reaper

Summary: (Y/N) and Sebastian fight a Reaper.

Grell slashed at (Y/N) and Sebastian wildly as they dodged and flipped around to avoid her attack. “Two demons and a reaper!” said Grell gleefully. “Ah, I wonder if it really is impossible for us to understand each other.” She leapt into the air after (Y/N) as they dodged onto the roofs. “What a Shakespearian tragedy! Two loves that cannot be! Ah, (Nickname)! Wherefore art thou (Nickname) and Bassy?!” She pushed off and wall and drew close to (Y/N).

Sebastian jumped into the air and kicked between Grell and (Y/N) to force Grell to flip to another roof and move away from (Y/N). The two demons regarded her carefully as she continued her laments and flirtations.

“If you were to throw away the name given by your masters and only look at me…perhaps we could be meant to be!” cried Grell dramatically.

“You’re too loud. Like a puppy dog,” said (Y/N). They narrowed their eyes. “I don’t like dogs.”

Sebastian smirked at their words as Grell gasped in offense. She deserved it for being such a nuisance. “I will say just one thing. From the moment my master named me Sebastian, I was baptized in the contract, and from that day forth, I truly became Sebastian, as I vowed by the moon.”

(Y/N) had to admit they understood why Grell was so fascinated with Sebastian. With such poetry, such power, and such an appearance in the moonlight, Sebastian was the epitome of the demonic beauty that tempted so many humans.

“A vow that sways as the moon waxes and wanes?” scoffed Grell. “You are quite the inconsistent man.” She smirked. “Your eyes are filled with impurity that loves absolutely nothing. You are a demon that befouls pure souls with your hands and lips.”

(Y/N)’s eyes flicked to Sebastian, and his eyes gleamed fuchsia. Neither demon felt bad about any of the acts they had committed over the centuries.

“Ah, how splendid you both are! I can’t decide, I must have both!” cried Grell, blushing. “Hold me in your arms and kiss me until I lose my mind!”

“Please stop. That is disgusting,” said Sebastian, shivering.

“I think she already has lost her mind,” said (Y/N).

“How cruel to reject my love!” cried Grell. Her chainsaw revved to life. “Beautiful tyrant!” she cried to Sebastian as she swung at him. Whirling on (Y/N), she forced them to dodge as she praised them, “Angelic demon!” Sebastian grabbed Grell’s wrist to keep her from moving. “Raven with heart-shaped wings!” (Y/N) stamped down on the Death Scythe to jam it into the ground. “A ferocious kitten!” She sighed dramatically as the demons held her back. “Ah, if only morning would never come, we would be able to continue our love like this forever! But our adventure must end here,” she cooed. “Let us part with a kiss!” Grell slammed her forehead against Sebastian’s, and he jerked back. “A thousand farewells!” She swung her chainsaw down on (Y/N) and sliced through their front. “Now, allow me to see your devilishly dramatic record!”

Blood flew through the air as (Y/N) stumbled back and scraps of their Cinematic Record spiraled into the air. They gripped their chest as they watched pieces of their memories be exposed.

Sebastian and Grell watched a roll of film fly by, dark with a hand stretching up towards the sun and people’s faces obscured by a watery prison. Another glowed with flames as angry mortals screamed and shouted.

But those scraps flew by in flash, merely seconds in the full extent of (Y/N)’s life. The rest of the memories Grell managed to grab were just…the four troublesome servants causing issues at the mansion.

(Y/N) narrowed their eyes as they watched Grell cry out at not getting anything more interesting. They panted as they held their chest, angry at Grell trying to get to their memories like that. Those were personal.

Sebastian’s eyes became slits beside (Y/N). He glanced at them, his blood boiled, and his eyes flashed fuchsia. Grell had to go.

“Just what the hell is this?!” cried Grell as she watched the other servants of the household run around like hooligans.

“Their recent time here on Earth has been filled without nothing but that,” said Sebastian, smirking.

“I have no interest in such domestic flashbacks!” said Grell, pouting. “I saw something good! I want it back!”

“Grell.” (Y/N) smiled with their eyes closed, but it was chilling. “If you try to pry again, I’ll tear you to pieces in a firsthand experience of what I’ve done to people in my time as a demon.”

Grell shivered. “Oh, now that really gets me going!” She jumped at (Y/N), but Sebastian kicked her back decisively.

“Ah, (Y/N), your dress is ruined,” said Sebastian. He sighed as he pulled their coat from overtop their dress. (Y/N) raised an eyebrow but allowed him to take it. “It was not my wish to employ this sort of tactic, but I have no choice.”

“You’re finally going to be serious with me, then?” cooed Grell. “Let’s put an end to this with the next blow! Farewell to this world! Let us be bonded to each other in the next, darlings!”

She leapt at the demons, and Sebastian threw up (Y/N)’s coat and jammed it into the Death Scythe. Grell stared in surprise as the blades stopped turning.

“Hey!” she cried, trying to pull the fabric out.

“That jacket is made from the finest Yorkshire wool. You will find that there’s a lot of friction in wool production,” said Sebastian. “Once it is woven, it is quite hard to tear apart. I didn’t want to use it, but you had already ruined it.” He smirked and stood over Grell with (Y/N). “Well then, I have a bit of confidence in plain fistfights.”

“Absolutely,” said (Y/N), smirking darkly at Sebastian.

“W-Wait a minute!” said Grell. “Please, not the face!”

Sebastian kicked Grell in the face and sent her flying off the roof and falling to the ground below. (Y/N) attacked in the air, punching her so she hit the ground hard. The demons landed beside Ciel as he glanced at the reaper lying in a heap before looking at them.

“You’re in quite the state,” said Ciel, glancing at Sebastian’s torn shoulder and (Y/N)’s bloody front.

“We had a little resistance,” said (Y/N) distastefully.

“Hey!” cried Grell.

Sebsatian’s eyes slid to Grell. “My, that’s a reaper for you. I suppose you would not die from blows alone.”

“But Sebastian, she was so kind and brought along her own weapon,” said (Y/N), smirking playfully.

“You’re right, she did,” said Sebastian, smirking and picking up the Death Scythe. “And a reaper’s scythe can cut through anything, which means it should be able to cut through you, right?”

“Wh-what?” stammered Grell from the ground. “W-wait a moment!”

Sebastian stamped down on Grell. “It is quite unpleasant to be stepped upon. Doing the stepping, however, feels good.”

“It hurts!” cried Grell dramatically.

“I hope so,” chirped (Y/N).

“Young Master, even though this hideous reprobate is a reaper, a god of death, are you prepared to accept the consequences of killing her?” questioned Sebastian.

“Are you trying to make me give the same order twice?” snapped Ciel.

“Understood,” said Sebastian. He pulled the wool coat from the Death Scythe, and it roared to life.

“W-wait!” cried Grell.

“My, you do have an attractive screaming voice,” said Sebastian slyly. He raised the chainsaw above his head. “Let me reward you.” He was going to be immensely satisfied by ending Grell’s life, for more reasons than just being ordered by Ciel. “I will let you depart via this beloved toy of yours!” He looked at (Y/N). “Ready?”

“Absolutely,” said (Y/N).

Sebastian smirked. “Perfect.” He swung the chainsaw down.

A metallic object stretched out from above and blocked the attack before it reached Grell. Sebastian and (Y/N)’s eyes snapped up to see another man standing over them. He wore a suit and spectacles and had the same fluorescent eyes as Grell. It was another reaper.

“Forgive me for interrupting you mid-conversation,” said the reaper formally. “I am one of the supervisors of the Reaper Dispatch Organization. William T. Spears. I have come to take that reaper back.”

“Will! William!” cried Grell gratefully. “You came to save m—!” Her head was slammed into the ground as William landed basically on top of her.

“Dispatcher Grell Sutcliffe, you have committed several regulations violations,” reported William. “First, the elimination of those not on the To Die list. Next, the use of a non-sanctioned Death Scythe. And finally, the disclosure of information pertaining to the lives and circumstances of death of the aforementioned departed.” He bowed to (Y/N) and Sebastian. “I apologize profusely for any inconvenience caused by this.” Sebastian and (Y/N) were not impressed, nor were they moved by William extended a business card to them. “Here is my business card.” William raised an eyebrow distastefully. “Honestly. Having to bow my head to vermin like you really does smear mud across the reaper name.”

(Y/N) scoffed, and Sebastian replied, “Well, in order for you not to cause the ‘vermin’ further inconvenience, please keep a close watch. Humans are vulnerable to temptation. When they are forced to stand on the hellish precipice of despair, they will unfailingly take any route out of it that appears to them, no matter what kind of web it tangles them in, no matter what kind of person they are.”

“The ones who take advantage of that and taunt humans are you demons, no?” said William stiffly.

“Neither of us deny it,” said (Y/N), smiling pleasantly.

William glanced at Sebastian and then at Ciel, knowing they were contracted. “I suppose that those dogs kept leashed as pets are better than the mad dogs that roam around with no principles.” His eyes moved to (Y/N). “The ones who can go about as they please are troublesome strays.”

(Y/N)’s eyes flashed fuchsia, and they smiled. “I’m no dog.”

William tsked before looking down at Grell. “Well, then, we shall return, Grell Sutcliffe.” He grabbed her hair and began dragging her behind him. “My goodness, at a time when we’re already short-handed, once again, I won’t get to leave today. Of course, the director will scold us anyway…If I keep having to do overtime like this—”

Sebastian threw Grell’s Death Scythe at William. The reaper caught it between two fingers.

“You forgot that,” said Sebastian with a “pleasant” smile.

“Thank you,” said William with cold civility, letting the Death Scythe lay on Grell’s stomach carelessly. He adjusted his glasses. “Well, then, excuse us.” William pulled Grell after him, and they disappeared into the night.

(Y/N) put their hands on their hips. They were disappointed at not getting to finish Grell off, especially for having nearly exposed their private memories, but at least the reaper was gone. Their hand traced over their chest, but although blood stained the clothes, the skin beneath was already healing due to their demonic nature.

Sebastian glanced at (Y/N) and then at their wound. Satisfied that they were recovering well, he turned to Ciel, who sat beside Madame Red’s body. “I must apologize. I let the other half of Jack the Ripper escape,” he said.

“It’s fine. It’s over,” said Ciel dully. Sebastian stepped over to guide Ciel to his feet, but he slapped Sebastian’s hand away. “I can stand on my own.”

“So, the funeral arrangements went to plan?” remarked (Y/N), pulling a red rose petal from the shoulder of Sebastian’s jacket. They had known Ciel planned to give Madame Red a true departure in red as she would have wanted.

“Yes,” said Sebastian. “The Young Master created quite the impression.”

“Just as the Madame would have wanted,” said (Y/N). They turned and went back to folding clothes (better to keep Mey-Rin away from this since she had somehow managed to tear several pieces of clothing last time).

“I will never understand the need for humans to have such a ceremony surrounding death. They spend their short lives fearing it and yet obsess over it at the same time,” said Sebastian in amusement.

(Y/N) paused in their work. “Death is the one thing they cannot avoid. They cannot beat it once it comes for them. And as we have seen over the centuries, all it takes is a moment for death to arrive, and then they have to face the unknown.”

Sebastian cocked his head. “Do you speak from observation or experience?” He gazed at (Y/N) as they slowly put the shirt they were folding down.

(Y/N)’s eyes were fuchsia as they met his gaze. “My…mortal life was long ago. I faced death and came out of it stronger.”

Sebastian smiled. “Yes, you did.” He remembered the same look in their eyes the first time he had ever seen them, the same weight of knowing a human life before becoming a demon. And he found it as fascinating now as he had then.

(Y/N) blinked as they saw a strange look in his eyes. The fuchsia left their eyes as they relaxed. Sebastian wasn’t disrespecting them for having been human, nor was he prying. (Y/N) respected his slight, very slight, honor.

“I speak from experience,” said (Y/N), simply, answering his original question. “As a demon I know that once I die there is nothing else for me. As a human, I didn’t know what awaited me, not really. That is why mortals have such a fascination with death despite their fear.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “And those two older memories that appeared. Were those your death and experience after?”

(Y/N) was silent. Sebastian had never asked about their human death. They had never spoken about it. “They are what led to my death.”

“Do you feel shame about your human life?” questioned Sebastian suddenly.

“Excuse me?” (Y/N)’s eyes flashed. “I died and came back a demon. I’ve lived for centuries bringing justice and power to those who are preyed upon by other humans. What do I have to be ashamed of?”

Sebastian chuckled as (Y/N) spoke before he opened his eyes. His eyes were glowing in the evening’s creeping darkness. He reached up, and his hand brushed over their skin. “Nothing. No demon like you should be ashamed of anything.” He smirked. “I chose to teach you for a reason.”

“Because I had already died?” remarked (Y/N), eyes darting to Sebastian’s hand. They should be worried about his touch, uncomfortable as usual, but they weren’t. They stood calmly before Sebastian.

“Because you had strength already,” said Sebastian.

(Y/N) raised an eyebrow and was about to ask what that meant, but Sebastian smiled and stepped back. “Continue with your work. We shall have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow.” And with that, he left (Y/N) alone.

(Y/N) gripped the shirt in their hand tightly before letting it fall to the table they were working at. What was that? (Y/N) sighed and ran a hand through their hair. They were a damn demon. They shouldn’t be at all offput with someone being that close. They’ve literally seduced dozens of people. But for some reason, Sebastian made them actually have a reaction.

Pushing aside the feelings wasn’t working. (Y/N) couldn’t escape the thoughts. They were attracted to Sebastian. They liked him far more than a demon should like anyone. They liked the one demon who respected them but was also so skilled as a demon that he didn’t get attached to anyone.

Damn.

Sebastian quietly watched the stray cats hanging around the mansion eat the scraps of food he had given them. Ordinarily, he’d be cuddling and cooing over the cats by now, but his mind was otherwise engaged. As much as Sebastian attempted to ignore it, the picture of (Y/N)’s blood spilling flitted through his mind continuously.

(Y/N) had come closer to death than he had ever seen them.

And Sebastian hated it. He hated it because he was attached and he didn’t want to let them go. Sebastian narrowed his eyes. (Y/N) may have seemed unconcerned due to having already died before—which also made Sebastian angry since if drowning or flames were part of their death that was suffering he wished to impose on whoever had caused it—but Sebastian hat despised the situation. He wanted to keep them close. He shouldn’t want the bond, but he did.

Sebastian straightened. He was attracted to (Y/N). He was attracted to the strange, human-born demon that respected him and earned his own respect and honor.

And now he had admitted it.

Taglist:

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@im-making-an-effort

@izzieg3987

@jinxxangel13

@alexpangender

@otomyoli

@neenieweenie

@nex-crowley

@anxious-chick

@bellacastiel

@v1l-ismissing

#one hell of a love #x reader #x gn reader #gn reader #x nb reader #nb reader #demon reader #demon!reader #sebastian x demon!reader #sebastian x reader #black butler sebastian #sebastian michaelis #sebastian michaelis x reader #black butler x reader #black butler fic #black butler ciel #black butler #kuroshitsuji x reader #kuroshitsuji

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starchildghost · 5 months

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too many dreams unsung - set post-episode 78, Imogen doing her best to comfort Laudna in the face of all of the recent Delilah trauma and they share a dream about it. also on ao3

Ligament Manor creaks around you, a faint glow of purple and red emanating from the flowers outside into your bedroom. Red moon, red scars, red glows all around - you would be sick of it all if this wasn’t such a necessary, welcome change of scenery and responsibility.

Laudna rests in your arms, finally having wiped herself out after apology after apology and pulling her hair out until you caught her hands, laid her down, and wrapped your arms around her, stilling her self-flagellation for a betrayal she did not commit. Her sleep doesn’t seem to be restful, but you thank whatever god happens to be listening for it nonetheless.

You should have gone after her.

You should have gone after her,

but you didn’t, and you both have to live with the consequences of that. You let yourself get caught in your rage, in your desire to understand, and you had let her run away. You couldn’t find her on your own, and you didn’t go after her. She had slipped through your fingers. No red ribbon, no glowing red scars to hold it fast, to keep her tethered.

She hadn’t been forthcoming about her night, but you know she hadn’t spent it alone. How could you have been so stupid?

Just the night before, you’d witnessed Laudna take on Delilah’s visage and attack ghosts that Delilah had made. If she had a kindred soul on Exandria who was not yourself, it would have been those poor, poor people, and instead Laudna shouted that she had killed them once and would do so again, siccing Delilah’s dog on them once more.

You had seen the shift in her form of dread - no longer the Sun Tree, no longer the new beginning she had seemed to think her resurrection had brought - instead, a choker, a high collar, and green necrotic energy sparking off of her.

And you let her wander Whitestone and spend the night alone, you fucking idiot.

You grit your teeth, remember how you had to pause Laudna’s spiraling self-hatred just a few hours ago, and try to do the same kindness for yourself.

Your eyes turn to the woman you hold - her back is to you; you had insisted on cradling her tonight. Love is warmth, she had said, almost afraid to meet your eyes, and you didn’t know how to fix this, how to push the pieces of Ashton back into place, how to kick that fucking bitch out of Laudna’s head once and for all, how to make Laudna realized that she is so much more than the monster thinks she is, how help Fearne avoid becoming the wicked creature thinks she will become, give Orym his family back, help FCG stop from ticking over the edge or to find the absolution they so desperately seek - you don’t know how to do any of that, but you can, at least, give Laudna the warmth she wants. You’ll give her all the love she ever wants, too, but for tonight, this is the best you can do for that, too. Her body is so small, so frail, her hair parted in the back as she sleeps to display the scar the rope left behind. You can’t take away the scars, the pain, can’t force air into her lungs or jumpstart her heart to provide warmth of her own, but you can do this. And you will. For the rest of your life, if the gods are willing.

If they aren’t, well, it seems you’re doing all the work for them anyway, so it doesn’t matter to you what they think. You’re going to save them, because saving them is the only way to save Laudna. That’s the truth that’s planted itself behind your sternum, that propels you forward day after day - your actions are for her, not for them, and they’ll have to make their peace with that if you’re going to do this at all.

Sleep takes you eventually, your long, lonely previous night and stress eventually winning out over the worried circles your mind paces, and the night is calm and peaceful as your beating heart warms the two of you in bed.

And then, and these things happen unwitnessed - a shift of the head on the pillow, perhaps, or someone’s arm lifting to cover her eyes from that glowing red, so like the moon you’re both sure you’ll die for, or one of the fey decides to play a little trick - you’ll never know, as it goes for so many things that happen in the middle of the night - there is a soft plink neither of you hear, as your circlet tumbles from its secure place upon your brow and falls to the floor. You won’t know how long it takes for your unconscious mind to discover it’s no longer bound, no longer safely tucked in as you are, but eventually, it must realize that the familiar melody of two years of your life lies so, so close, its favorite tune finally playing again, and so - it travels, and brings your consciousness with it. Who can blame anyone for drifting towards their favorite lullaby?

You’re baffled and alarmed, of course, to see Laudna facing off against yourself in the woods it takes you a few beats to recognize - you’re in the forest outside of Whitestone, nearly exactly where she ran to today. You have to swallow back that sinking feeling, again, at how it had felt as she turned and ran from you after you had sought her so desperately. You look at yourself - rather, this other version of you, and your panic begins to give way to clarity.

The you that stands sixty feet from you is younger, her scars hidden under gloves, glowing only purple - this is the Imogen that Laudna met in Gelvaan, the Imogen that ran away with her. Your eyes turn to Laudna as you begin to piece together that this must be her dream, and you wish you could wake yourself up, put the circlet back on, leave her to her privacy, but as your eyes meet hers your vision stutters and jolts, and you are no longer Imogen, an observer who got here by accident in her sleep, safely out of the way of the confrontation, but Imogen, a young woman who fears herself above all else, facing a woman who seems to feel exactly the same about herself.

“Get away!” The woman yells, her body contorting as she does so, lengthening her body and her jaw expanding and hanging loose, revealing a dark void within, then reverting back to herself. You feel a pulse of fear - but then your eyes catch her shoulder underneath the tattered gown she wears, bleeding a black ichor as furiously as a wound can bleed on someone who is not alive. Your eyes wander over the rest of her, which seems to contort and retract without her intending to, and you see she’s bleeding from several wounds, all over.

She screams at you, trying to get you to run away, but you’re no longer the Imogen Laudna imagined and placed here - you’re the Imogen that has spent years with Laudna, the Imogen that was never afraid of her.

“The farmers did this to you,” you interrupt her, feeling your rage creep into your voice, making your words drip with it. This, you think, is more or less how you responded in real life, too. “They can’t stand a single thing they don’t understand.” Your hands flex, and you feel the painful itch of your scars against the leather gloves you used to wear to hide from them.

She stops twitching and contorting for a moment, her eyes finally meeting yours, and within the black that you’re used to, you see a slit of that same, necrotic green that sparked from her in that Whitestone chamber, forming a snake eye with the colors inverted. She’s not quite your Laudna, then - is this who she thinks she is? Is this what she fears what she might become?

“They won’t be a problem anymore, pretty girl.” Her grin is too sharp, too wide, her voice practically a hiss. She circles you a bit, revealing a pile of drained corpses that her twitching form had concealed from you. Your eyes can’t help but focus on a familiar boot.

It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter.

You left him behind, anyway. He spent years hiding from you, anyway. This isn’t real, she didn’t hurt him, and even if she had, this isn’t her.

You return your focus to Laudna - the Laudna you had met in Gelvaan was near starving, a cornered animal who couldn’t do anything but run, but had made crafts to pretty the shacks she stayed in and invented a little companion for herself so she would have someone to talk to other than the murderer in her head. She was light, she was music, she had joy despite everything.

This Laudna, she is wiry, stronger than the woman you know. Your eyes flicker back to the husks - this Laudna hasn’t spent thirty years fighting Delilah, rather; she fed her and ate up the table scraps. “Laudna, this isn’t you.” Perhaps it’s unreasonable to argue with a version someone has of themselves in their own dream, but what are you supposed to do, run away? From Laudna? A day after you had let her run and didn’t go after her? There was no chance of that.

Her head tilts curiously as she licks her lips and looks you up and down again. “Oh? Tell me more about me!” She laughs, and it’s an echo of the laugh that Delilah had mocked the three of you with the night before it all went to shit.

You fumble for a second, but it doesn’t take long to gather your resolve. This is Laudna, after all. You haven’t told all of the Hells that you love her because, ultimately, you want that to be her choice - but you would fly above every city you visit and scream it to every citizen if she would want you to. “You don’t want to hurt me.” You raise your chin, trying to meet her height. “You told me that, just today. You said you never wanna hurt anybody, especially me.”

Her snake eyes narrow - it seems you’ve annoyed her, if nothing else. She transforms with intention - the mourning veil drops, she grows another six inches, her fingers lengthen and her nails sharpen further, ichor dripping off of them, and once again her jaw unhinges, this time baring rows and rows of sharp teeth as she emits a piercing shriek.

You don’t wince. You feel her mind trying to pierce yours, feel her try to make you afraid. She wants you to run away, you know. She tried the same thing when you met her in Gelvaan, tried to turn you away as she did the farmers who attacked her. This Laudna, too, just wants to be left alone. You didn’t fear her then, and you won’t now. “Laudna, please,” you whisper, reaching for her. “Please, this isn’t you.”

She flinches away from your hand, and you drop it immediately. Laudna stalks forward, coming closer to you. “Look at me, pretty girl. I’m a monster. You should leave me alone.” She bares her teeth again, inches from your face. Her voice is more cracked than usual - crushed and cracked windpipes from a broken neck, even more constrained by the chokehold Delilah still has on her. Perhaps she’s forgotten, or doesn’t realize - underneath the mourning veil, black ichor spills from her eyes. She’s crying.

“Laudna, I -” words fail you, as they so often do - you’ve spent so much of your life hiding from other people. An idea comes to you, instead - the circlet must be off, or else you wouldn’t be here.

You won’t speak, then. Instead, you shut your eyes, and reach your mind out to hers - whether you’re reaching the Laudna in front of you or the one sleeping beside you, you hope it will soothe her. You try to give her only your best memories, your best dreams for the two of you: your hands linked, you saying “I’m so glad I found you… I don’t know what I’d do with you,”; you pushing a ring of entwined snakes onto her finger, trying not to blush while you do so; “I love you so much” - “I love you more than anything”; her waking up in your lap, you getting to tell her that this gets to be real now, this isn’t one of Delilah’s tricks; your dream of domesticity, of baking cookies with her in a small kitchen that belongs to the two of you; the first kiss in the marketplace, the way your heart hammered as she kissed you a second time. You keep your eyes closed, but she’s grabbed your hand in her own, her fingers back to their normal size. “Fate made me,” you whisper, “just like fate made you. I’m not running away.”

“Darling,” it’s a whisper, but the voice isn’t this demented version of Laudna - it’s your Laudna, and she’s reached for you. You open your eyes, and the ones that meet them are pure obsidian, still shining with inky tears. “Thank you.”

You let go of her hand, instead hugging her as tight as you can.

You awake suddenly, and Laudna is still tight in your embrace. She rolls over, and the same leaking eyes meet yours in the glow from the Feywild’s flowers. “Love is warmth,” she whispers, and nestles in even closer to you.

#cr 3 #critical role #cr3 #imogen temult #laudna #southern gothic #southerngothic #imodna #c3e78 #c3 #cr fic #imodna fic #anyway the title and some of the inspiration for this fic comes from stray gods #so play that too #laudnogen #i think that's also a tag #i almost forgot to add a read more lmao that would've been my bad #bell's hells #bells hells

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