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shadesoflsk · 2 months

Text

THE OLD WAY

pairing: Leon Kennedy x fem reader

summary: Living at a farm and being married surely has it perks. However, Leon can't help but think something is missing.

warnings: smut, MDNI, oral (fem receiving) p in v, mating press (??), creampie, breeding kink, outdoor sex, age gap (unspecified), established relationship, fluff, Leon is so husband in this, mentions of pregnancy, domestic bliss.

word count: 4k

author's note: Hello! I had this fic in my drafts for sooo long. I was kind of ashamed to post this since it's not my usual type of content but !!! fuck it !! Ovulation goes brrr. I hope you all like it!I had an older Leon in mind but I used a re6 leon pic for funsies. (And please... don't judge the lack of creativity in my title... I didn't know what to write.)

MY MASTERLIST

City life was no longer fitting for a man like him. Job was not the same and he was afraid he might not get up from one of his falls one day. Joints no longer worked like they used to, a painful reminder of how his age was getting to him.

That's why he chose to retire, rather early for the average citizen. But he believes his position as a federal agent has aged him to the point where he could easily describe himself as an 80 years old man who needed help crouching down.

With that in mind, he wasted no time buying a home away from civilization. Money was no problem and owning a ranch now sounded like the best idea he could come up with. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years. Time seemed to flow faster as he settled down in a peaceful lifestyle.

Solitude was very much welcomed. The sounds of blood dripping and ragged screams were replaced by the soft pitty patter of the rain and the usual rooster’s crow each morning, announcing a new day.

But, as much as he has grown to love and appreciate his simplistic routine, the monotonous daily work and the lack of companionship were hitting him hard. When night came and his thoughts clouded his rational side, he yearned for a change in his life. He was never the romantic type, never been. His previous job as an agent cut off any possibilities of having a partner and settling down like any normal person would. But years made him a sappy man, it seemed.

Life works in mysterious ways, though. He wouldn’t have thought that farm life would bring him a sweet thing like you. It all started with your car breaking down a few meters away from his farm. You wanted to thank him for his help, there was no way you would simply express your gratitude through words, not after his assistance.

So, your first visit consisted of a home-baked pie which he reluctantly accepted. Not because he didn’t want to but it had been a while since he was last gifted something. That first meeting soon turned into a couple until you were basically there every day.

“Stay with me,” shifted into a “Be my girlfriend” and therefore the “Marry me?” finally came.

You were the best thing that has ever happened in his life, a peaceful life away from any danger the city may bring and a beautiful wife by his side? God granted him the most perfect miracle ever.

He followed the milestones of your relationship to a T. Even though the lack of knowledge was sometimes obvious, he knew the basics of how to keep a girl—his girl— happy. It was in his nature to provide, and living with you meant no exception.

He always strived to do better, to be better. Your needs were always met and he took pride in knowing he was your husband. No one else but him.

However, he felt selfish when none of that actually fulfilled him. He was happy with you, don’t get him wrong. Nothing was like before when he thought he would die alone with no one who cared about him. But something in the back of his mind kept bothering him.

And ever since he realized something was missing, he couldn't help but try to find out what it was.

For days and weeks, he tried picturing the change both of you needed. More pets? You had enough with the dog you both have. Vacations? He had already taken you to the beach. More space in your home? The house at the farm was alright… Maybe a little too big for just the two of you.

Oh.

Oh…

The problem was the two of you. Or rather, being just the two of you on this big ranch.

He had come to realize that he could, in fact, dream bigger. A few years ago, he would have thought that being married was a faraway dream, unachievable and stupid. But now he’s a husband and maybe if he tries hard enough, he can get to be a family man.

However, nobody has taught him how to face these types of situations. Even when he asked you to be his wife, he needed months of preparation. How was he going to explain this desire to put a baby in you?

On one peaceful night, he was spooning you as always. It was his favorite activity after taking care of his chores at the farm (and even doing some of yours just so you could relax more). But even when there was nothing but a comforting silence, his thoughts wouldn’t stop flooding his mind.

He let one of his hands rest on your abdomen, caressing the skin there with circular motions. He tried closing his eyes to prevent more of those thoughts from coming to his mind yet it was useless. His imagination was running wild when he pictured you carrying a life in your belly, swollen and round, the perfect scenario.

He imagined taking care of you. Of course, his pretty wife won’t do anything if she’s next to him. There was no way he wouldn’t take that opportunity to show her how much of a man, a good man he was.

Pressing a kiss to your cheek as he rested behind you, he spoke before even thinking what he was supposed to say.

“You would be a good mom, you know?” It slipped out of his mouth, he should’ve used a more discreet way of speaking his mind. Now it was too late to draw back.

“What?” You chuckled as you turned your head to look at Leon. “I’d look great as a mom?”

“Yeah.” He whispered, finally admitting his desire to have a family. “What do you think?”

He wouldn’t push the matter if you don’t feel the same. As much as he loved the idea of having mini versions of both of you, there was no way he would force you to do it.

“Mhm… I think you’d also be a great dad.” Your voice was as soft as his, indulging in this little moment of intimacy and raw honesty.

The word dad rings in his mind. His life before having his ranch was violence-filled, then years of solitude surrounded by nothing but nature cornered him to think that being alone was his destiny. Now, you brought him a newfound desire to come back home and finding you and your child. A family.

“You think so?”

“Absolutely.”

Leon had a silly smile formed on his face. His dreams were actually achievable and domesticity and tranquility were now his everyday life.

“We can try if you want.” You added, feeling how Leon continued drawing shapes on your stomach. “How many would you like?”

Leon didn’t think he would get this far.

“Want me to be honest?” Leon’s lips curled into a mischievous smile. “I wouldn’t mind having an entire football team with you.” He joked, hearing how you gasped in response.

“Leon!” You slapped his hand out of your abdomen. “I’m the one having them!”

Both of you laughed as the night embraced both of you like a blanket. Confessions have never been so much welcomed as tonight’s.

“I love you.” He murmured as his eyes closed. It was a reassurance that whatever life had in store for both of you, he would gladly accept it.

“I love you more.” You replied with the same fondness as always. Drifting off to sleep was easier than ever.

Days passed and the conversation wasn’t forgotten. Nonetheless, you let the flow of time and life decide for both of you.

Daily chores needed to be completed no matter what. So, he’s now washing his hands after feeding the horses. You’re holding the garden hose which makes a wet mess given the force of the water.

“Didn’t know it was raining.” Leon jokes as the water soaks his shirt and pants.

“Shit, sorry.” You turn off the garden hose as you giggle watching how drenched Leon looks.

And while you are genuinely sorry since Leon still has things to do on the farm, you can’t help but appreciate the image your husband is offering. White shirt now see-through, giving you the perfect view of his soft abdomen clinging to the fabric.

When you first met Leon, he had told you what an amazing body he had. With so much pride, he once showed you pictures of his past self. Images of a toned torso and strong arms would look appealing to your eyes. But each time Leon and you are intimate, you get to feel his slightly rounder belly pressed against you, his strong arms clinging to you. In those moments you can’t help but thank God for the gorgeous man you have.

“Enjoying the view?” Leon breaks the silence when he feels your eyes not leaving his body.

“Maybe…” You quietly whisper as you drop the hose and walk closer to him. “Can’t help it, my husband is so handsome.” You add, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. Inevitably, you inhaled the scent you have grown to love.

For a moment, you stay there, just drowning in the affection letting your hands rest on his sides unaware of how Leon could feel the slight friction of your breasts against his soaked shirt. The thin fabric of your dress does a poor job of preventing Leon’s hands from wandering around your body.

A pool of arousal starts setting in Leon as he reaches your ass and gives it a firm squeeze.

With one swift and smooth move, he lifts you off the ground. Your feet are no longer touching the floor as Leon walks away from the barn. And, as if on command, you wrap your legs around his torso, allowing him to walk easier to whatever destination he had in mind.

For once, Leon hates the fact that he owns a big ass farm. His place is a bit far away from the barn, so his decisions are fogged by the desire and neediness he is feeling at the moment. Years in solitude led him to think he was imponent but with the way his jeans seem to get tighter each time your lower half brushes against his, he knows it's not true.

He is a gentleman, don’t get him wrong. He’d have picked you up and carried you to his bedroom as usual, laid you on the bed, taken off your clothes, and fucked you gently (or rough) like he usually did. However, a newfound wish piqued his interest, and even though you're in a secluded area, he wishes everyone would know what pretty girl he got.

Without further thinking and no complaints made, he places you down on the grass. The sensation of the blades tickling your skin is, in a way, bothersome, but your brain is easily turned into mush every time Leon dares to touch you.

Leon, however, wouldn’t allow you to feel any discomfort. His sun-kissed skin would be exposed in swift motion as he takes off his wet shirt. Those antagonizing seconds of admiring him unbuttoning the fabric push you to press your thighs together, seeking any type of release or mere pleasure.

“Up,” And after those endless seconds of him taking off his shirt, his hand taps your hip, motioning you to lift the lower half of your body for him to lay his shirt there. Giving no second thoughts, you raise your rear, pathetically quick, and Leon notices. “So needy, have I been slacking off?”

And his tone gives him away. He is looking forward to letting nature be the witness of your lustful acts. The sun being your light and the grass your makeshift bed. His body embraces the position on top of you.

“Of course I have.” He cooes, bringing his face lower and lower before pressing his cheek against your inner thigh. His stubble resembles sandpaper with how it scratches your skin, but at this point, it brings more pleasure than annoyance. “Look at her, already crying for me.”

His breath tickles the middle area between your legs. The wet spot in your panties is obvious to Leon who wastes no time to bring up that fact. And you want to thank yourself for choosing a dress today because there is no way you could do anything besides laying on the grass and letting Leon treat you so nicely and tenderly.

“How could I?” He hums against the soaked patch of the fabric. “Been neglecting my pretty girl.” He presses a kiss on your clothed area, dragging down the anticipated pleasure you’re looking for.

“Mhm… please.” Your babbles gain a chuckle out of Leon’s lips. He is enjoying the whole setting, he wouldn’t have known he had a thing for outdoor sex but then again, he loves discovering new things with you.

Antagonistically, he lifts your dress until it reaches your abdomen and exposes your lower half.

And finally, his fingers hook around the sides of your panties, yanking down the fabric, allowing himself to admire the way he has made a mess of you already.

As always, he was ready for his favorite meal in the whole world.

Lying on his stomach, he props up on his elbows, his mouth dives into your pussy as his tongue laps at your clit. A moan escapes your lips as the sensation of being eaten out by Leon floods your mind and soul.

He feasts like a starved man, like he is eating his favorite dessert. He delves into your aching hole, his tongue tasting the sweet and well-known flavor of your juices. He brings your legs over his shoulders, propping you to raise your lower half and reach even deeper.

“Shit,” Your fingers tangle in his dirty blond hair, shoving his face into your cunt. His lips suck your clit, paying close attention to that part, drawing moans and whines out of you.

A plethora of names are being said as Leon continues being trapped between your thighs. He flicks his tongue while he feels how some of your slick drips to his stubble. And with the way your legs squeeze him even tighter, he can already guess you’re feeling so much pleasure from his tongue alone.

You arch your back, trying to bring him even closer to your core. The wet noises of his saliva and your slick mix with the outdoor ones. The soft rustling of the trees’ leaves and the birds chirping are a reminder of the scenario you both are in.

Whimpers leave your lips as Leon's tongue makes out with your cunt. Your fingers grip the shirt Leon placed as a makeshift blanket. Heat starts pooling in your belly as the antagonizing seconds of Leon eating you out bring you to the edge.

At last, your body jerks and comes undone in Leon’s grasp. He holds you in place, flattening his tongue to collect every drop of your slick. He could easily cum too just by the fact he was tasting your release.

“My sweet girl, always so perfect for me.” He finally disconnects from your pussy to crawl back to where your face is. He places some kisses on your neck which is glistening with a layer of sweat given how much pleasure you were previously feeling.

At last, his lips reach yours and he passionately kisses you. You could easily taste yourself in the kiss yet you don’t care at this very moment.

For a moment, he indulges in the tenderness of the kiss after bringing you to heaven with just his tongue alone. However, the easily noticeable restraint in his jeans was getting harder to control.

You feel him grind against you, seeking any type of friction to ease the aching feeling of his erection.

“Leon… I can’t….” Leon’s intentions are obvious as you feel his clothed dick humping your leg like a needy man yet, you are still tender from your ecstasy.

“You can…” He brings his face against the crook of your neck once again, placing wet kisses around your skin. “Just one more baby.”

He pleads, he begs, he needs to feel you wrapped around him. Those thoughts about leaving his mark, leaving his seed in you are still pretty much present. So at last, you nod. That’s when you can feel a smile forming on his lips which continue being pressed against your neck.

“Thank you, thank you.” Acting like he hasn’t touched for ages, you hear the rustle of fabric and his belt buckle falling to the ground. You see how his dick springs out of his boxers when he pulls them down, already leaking precum just from eating you out.

In less than a second, you feel him collecting your previous release, sliding his cock through your folds with such ease that it had you gripping air.

“Fuck…” He murmurs as he pushes himself painfully slowly, taking his time to feel how your walls tighten around his length. Pinned underneath him, you feel overwhelmed by the sensation of having his body so close to you.

“My pretty wife…” He whispers as he is finally all the way in. “Look at you, so pretty full of me.” He adds while one of his hands caresses your hair.

He starts gently rocking against your body, the pace is slow and comforting as if trying to remember the way your velvety walls clamp his dick, the stretch being something you’re accustomed to.

“I love you so much, you know that?” He says as he thrusts inside of you, this time a little more urgently. The hand that was previously running through your hair wraps around your waist and lifts it slightly.

“Mhm…yes.” You nod as your eyes lock with his, witnessing a newfound desire you haven’t seen before. Maybe it was the fact that both of you are outdoors, you don’t know.

The sounds of his skin slapping against yours mix with your heavy breaths. The perfect music for the perfect scenario. As soon as Leon hits that sweet spot of yours, you whimper his name like a mantra.

And then again, the thought of a family floods his mind. The mental image of your belly stretching out, making space for the baby is everything he longs for. And not only that, but he craves to take care of you, his pretty wife. You wouldn’t need to lift a finger for the nine months of pregnancy.

“Wanna fill you up.” He finally confesses in a moan. He isn’t a stranger to dirty talk, you know it well. The way his words come out like a promise and an already-made decision is proof of his not so hidden wish. “This farm is lonely with just the two of us…”

And as he presses his forehead against yours, you see in his eyes the devotion he has for you. The same man that promised you the world is now promising a life, a new life who is going to be the perfect combination of both you and him.

“What’chu mean?” You feign ignorance just for the sake of hearing those words coming out of his mouth again. And as you try to say some more teasing words, you can feel the way his thrusts get rougher as if trying to make a statement. The statement being that he wouldn’t stop until you get pregnant.

“You know what I mean…” He is huffing by now, letting out a grunt as he utters those words. “Wanna get you nice and full.”

Ultimately, your dreams are the same as his. So you allow him to transform this dream of his into his—your—reality now.

“Yeah?” You say through your teeth, trying not to whimper from the fact that his cock is reaching so deep into you.

“Yeah.” He groans, his sticky forehead never leaving yours as he looks into your eyes and your dazed-out expression. “You’re gonna look so goddamn beautiful as a momma.”

Out of desperation to fuck you even deeper, he brings your legs to his shoulders, just like he previously did when he was eating you out. But this time, it is an attempt to let his dick mark your womb.

It is his mission to one day see a positive test. It’s his mission to show his devotion to his princess and the now-future mother of his children. He’d never stop looking at the telltale of his seed making its home in your body.

He wouldn’t let you do anything besides resting and growing your little miracle. He’d cook, he’d clean, he’d feed you if you ask him to.

“Keep squeezing me like that, I’m gonna—fuck—cum…” He effortlessly bends your knees even more, bringing them closer to your chest. “Gonna fill you up until I’m so damn empty.”

He takes advantage of the vulnerable position you’re in to bring a hand to your clit. Rubbing it, he waits for the imminent climax of both of you.

“Cum for me, princess.” He presses his body on top of you, the position allowing him to let out an almost growl against your ear. The sense of purpose that Leon is showing prompts you to finally reach your climax. With a broken voice and your fingernails leaving crescent moons on his back, you coat his dick with your release. A gooey ring forms at the base of his cock every time he pulls in and out of you.

His actions don’t stop there, though. He was so close to spilling right inside you and making his dreams come true. He brings the hand that was previously teasing your clit to your face, brushing away some of your hair that has stuck to your forehead, he looks right into your eyes.

“Fucking love you so much.” He grunts, his deep sea eyes never leaving yours, as if trying to engrave this moment in his mind. To forever remember the time when he finally achieved his dream. “You’ll be the prettiest momma ever.”

Although his thrusts are too much for you to handle and the overstimulation turns into a slight discomfort, the way his hand is gently caressing your cheek—a juxtaposition of his determined attempt of marking you— makes you melt on the spot.

And especially since the cold feeling of his wedding ring reminds you of the amazing man you married.

“I'm cumming.” He warns you as his thrusts get sloppy and without rhythm. He's seeing stars at this moment, every time he plunges his dick into you he reaches the sky. And at last, with the way his breath gets laboured and heavy, it announces his high coming.

The head of his dick spurts rope after rope of cum into you, the angle you are in makes it easier for it not to drip out of you. He wouldn’t allow a drop of his seed to go to waste.

You feel the warm and thick liquid filling your insides, proof of Leon’s actions and therefore fulfilled wish. For a moment, you stay there letting his weight crush you and your bent legs.

After a while, he slowly slips out of you, carefully placing your legs on the ground. You feel the grass blades tickling your calves where Leon’s shirt doesn’t reach.

Leon rests his arm next to your head, admiring the dazed-out expression you have after letting him fill you.

“Hey…” He murmurs before letting out a soft chuckle.

“Hi you.” You respond with a smile amidst the exhaustion that is running through your veins. “We really just did that.”

“Yeah…” In his eyes, you can observe how much love he has for you and how eager he is to know if this one dream will be a reality.

With his free hand, he grabs yours and places soft pecks on your knuckles.

“Are you okay?” He once again speaks, now making sure you are alright.

“More than okay.”

He gives your knuckles one last kiss before he lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head while doing so.

“A penny for your thoughts?” You ask.

“Nothing…” He shakes his head once again. “It's just that… I may have some dad jokes already prepared.”

“Shut up, Leon.”

You couldn’t wait to know if your dreams were achieved by this act. You couldn’t wait to see if your life could get even better than this. And especially, you couldn’t wait to experience being a family.

💬 shadesoflsk: Comments, reblogs and likes are very much appreciated.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy fluff #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #resident evil

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historiaxvanserra · 4 months

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Whatever Our Souls Are Made Of

Pairing: SingleDad!Rhys x Reader

Summary: After his mate and the mother of his son abandons them, The High Lord and Nyx are left alone and wanting.

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: allusions to sexual assault, allusions to depression, abandonment, broken homes (y'know keeping it light, in all seriousness this is not all angst it's quite sweet actually).

The sky is painted in hues of lavender and mauve and the flowering ivory clouds shade Velaris in a perpetual state of dusk. The silvery light of the waxing moon seems to cast you in a gentle opal light as you approach the opulent manor. The High Lord’s townhouse is nestled in the heart of the city of starlight and wreathed in the colors of twilight; a slate facade that looks as though it is crowned in green, climbing ivy and night-blooming jasmine frame the large bay windows on the ground floor. From here you can see the large stained-glass window on the top floor, light refracts and it casts a myriad of dancing light onto the stone below-- dappled pinks and roses that fracture and give way to amethyst and indigo.

You spare a look to your aged companion as she breaches the threshold of the High Lord’s residence and, on unsteady feet, approaches the ornate wooden door and knocks thrice.

You remain for a moment a solitary figure at the entryway of the property, contemplating the series of events that led you here. Mother above, you chastise yourself. The thought occurs to you then, that perhaps you had made a mistake in coming here; that you should have given yourself more time, that you should have remained in the quiet solitude of the library where the world seems like a bitter memory.

“Come, girl.” Madja’s voice is tired and impatient as she beckons you closer with the wave of a crooked finger. “Don’t just stand there.”

You swallow thickly, bowing your head in obedience and you notice how her eyes soften as you approach the door tentatively.

“Nervous?” the old woman asks, you feel her eyes on you-- examining and critical.

“A little,” You admit, eyes downcast as you loose a shaky breath, “I haven’t left the library besides for training in quite some time.”

You stare down at the sleeves of your faded pewter robes as they billow in the evening breeze; the silver embroidery around the cuffs has begun to fray and the layers of fabric gather about your waist, the pleats have been poorly ironed and the heavy fabric falls over the curve of your hip haphazardly and pools to the floor in a swathe of heavy cotton. Shame pools in your stomach at the sight of your slippers as they peek out from the skirts of your robe.

It’s about time you asked Clotho for a new set of robes you think.

“You’ve met him before, no?” Madja’s voice breaks the tenuous peace you have found in those moments. You look up at her and a deep set frown graces her weathered face, “when you first came to Velaris?”

The visions fall on you like night; the Moonstone Palace saturated in onyx and jade, the reflections of your face in the marble of the throne room floor, the sentries as they dragged you before the High Council. The sounds of your screams and a sea of rubies and pearls as the bodice of your dress is torn away from your heaving chest-- all that red. Terrible and red.

Hewn City had always been cruel to you. You, a useless daughter to an ambitious man. The dreams are less vivid now but the sound of footsteps on marble still haunts you.

“Yes, it was him who brought me to Velaris-- after-afterwards,” You acquiesce to her questioning, eyes set on the light beyond the frosted glass panes of the onyx doorway, “though I doubt he remembers.”

Your avenging angel.

Madja looks at you carefully, taking account of you before she nods to you in silent acknowledgement.

The door to the High Lords townhouse opens with a flourish to reveal Morrigan. She’s more beautiful than you remember, radiant even as the dark shadows of sleep cling to her. Her golden hair hangs in loose waves over the delicate curve of her shoulder and though the deep umber of her eyes meets yours in a warm inviting stare as she utters your name.

She knows your name.

“Come on in from the cold.” she beckons you with the curve of a slender hand. You smile politely as you cross the threshold of the house. The wards fall away as you pass through into the foyer and the smell of mandarin and night blooming jasmine flood your senses.

The foyer to the townhouse is truly beautiful; a testament to the fine artistry and craftsmanship that seemed to define Velaris’ art district. The walls are paneled wood, painted in a shade of twilight that can only be found here, in The Night Court, and the burgundy carpet so rich in color that it reminds you of a blood moon, the oil paintings that hang on the walls seem to exude an air of majesty unlike anything you’ve ever seen.

In this room night reigns triumphant and you behold it all with a sense of wonder and awe. A careful deference to the love and care contained between these walls. It is a home that has been truly cherished by the people that live here.

“Did Madja tell you why you had been summoned here?” Morrigan’s voice is soft and sweet and the feeling of her hand on your robed arm pulls you from your thoughts.

“Sorry - I - uh” I stutter, glancing between her hand on my arm and the unyielding warmth of her gaze. “No she didn’t, only that there was a position in the High Lord’s household that Clotho recommended me for.”

“It was my recommendation actually,” Morrigan smiles proudly, letting her hand drop to her side idly. “Clotho just happened to agree.” The words leave her lips with the ghost of a smirk as she recalls the conversation between her and the High Priestess.

The last time you had spoken to Morrigan would have been in Hewn City, all those years ago. You abandon yourself to those days; when you had been the cursed daughter of a capricious Lord. The girl you were died under that mountain. The woman that stands in her place had been forged of blood, and splintered bone-- made strong by violence and tempered by time.

You nod solemnly and cast a glance to Madja who watches on in quiet curiosity.

“Rhys is upstairs,” Morrigan says softly to you both, gesturing up the staircase to the upper level of the house, “I’ll fetch him down”.

You notice then how troubled Mor looks. The rings around her eyes are pale purple and blue and her skin, once radiant, has become pale and sallow. She begins her ascent up the stairs with a small wave of her hand signaling Madja to follow. From here you can see a singular light that pierces through the blanket of the dark that shrouds the upper levels of the house.

Mor regards you once more as Madja passes her on the stairs and points towards the ornate door that leads to the antechamber at the heart of the house. “Go on in, we won’t be a moment.” In a flourish of golden blonde hair and crimson Morrigan winnows away and leaves you to linger in the foyer for a quiet moment.

The smell of cherries and marigold shades the air in her absence.

Voices, disembodied and distant from the upper levels of the house draw you into the heart of the house.

The antechamber of the High Lords townhouse is a beautiful living room, plunged into near darkness spare the slivers of jade light that dapple the dark walls from the emerald chandelier, even in the darkness you can make out the dark marble of the hearth that is draped with moonflowers and ivy. The low backed chairs are elegant and worn from use and there are books strewn about the room and a small library contained neatly in the alcove.

Your eyes find the painting hung above the hearth; immortalized on oil and canvas the High Lord of Night and his Lady. The High Lord is painted in a deep navy tunic and the silver paint mimics the delicate embroidery favored by the Velarian tailors in The Rainbow. His violet eyes shine bright against the dark.

He is a thing of dark beauty, you think.

In this light, his High Lady looks as though she is wreathed in starlight as smiles down on the antechamber from her place above the hearth. You observe the pointed curve of her nose and the upturn of her cerulean eyes and something aching and jealous festers in you at the sight of her beauty.

Otherworldly and ethereal.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” The low tenor of a man calls out from the darkness of the room, the voice is measured and devoid of any emotion as it permeates the dark. The male cuts an intimidating figure in the low light and all thought and sound eddies from your mind. You’re sure the sound of your heart like an echoing war drum is loud enough to shake the mountains as he takes a step towards you.

“High Lord?” you question. He steps further into the light and you regard him pensively; his skin is pallid and his eyes are ringed with dark circles of amethyst that trouble you. His onyx hair is left tousled and the ends have grown long enough to curl away from the harsh lines of his face. The sharp junction of his jaw has become obscured by the smatterings of coarse, black hair that grow there.

Even still, even in the unforgiving jade light, he is the most beautiful male you have ever seen. He smells of night blooming jasmine and violets undercut with something inherently masculine. Pine and whiskey perhaps.

His presence is something truly captivating; dark and intoxicating. When he looks at you there is only dark in those violet eyes.

The High Lord sinks into the worn armchair by the hearth with a deep sigh and for a moment he allows his eyes to flutter closed as he breathes deeply and all you can do is surrender yourself to that dark magnetism. The dying fire in the hearth warms him and in this light you notice the golden hues of his skin and the dark inky trails tattooed across the planes of his chest where his shirt opens.

“You’re staring--” The High Lord’s violet eyes falls onto you. In those liminal spaces between the seconds, when he is looking at you, all ceases to be. You tilt your chin downwards, hoping to avert his gaze, as you offer him a courteous bow.

“My apologies High L-” the apology is cut off by the High Lords gentle protests. None of that, Love.

You pray to the mother that he doesn’t notice the flush along the tops of your cheeks or the wild fluttering of your heart at the pet name.

“Sit down,” The High Lord gestures simply to the seat across from him by the hearth and his whole demeanor is somehow softer when you deign to look at him again. Wordlessly you comply with his request, a careful hand runs down the length of your robes to smooth out the lazy pleats in the skirt as they fan out around you in the low backed chair and while you don’t dare to meet his eyes directly you can feel him looking at you.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he apologizes though his voice is distant, despondent even and his eyes find the painting that looms over the hearth. “The portrait-- It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” He muses, tipping the rim of his whiskey glass towards the portrait.

“Very beautiful, High Lord.” you agree, smoothing the heavy material of your robes again. He watches you then with a curious glint in his eyes and he takes a few moments to assess you.

“Just Rhysand will do,” He smiles lightly, though there's a sense of apprehension as he regards you playing with the threads of your sleeves for the third time in so many moments, “there’s no need for such formalities when it’s just the two of us.”

“No of course not,” You agree and look at him through thick lashes and offer him a small smile in return, “forgive me, I’m--” you extend a hand to him over the small end table between the arm chairs and he takes it in earnest shaking it lightly. A calloused pad of his thumb rubs an absentminded circle into the skin of your hand before he brings your hand, trembling and slender, to the sulk of his lips and places a chaste kiss against the knuckles.

“I know who you are, Priestess,” he says lightly-- playfully. You offer him a polite laugh in return and nod your head again.

Something dark burns in his eyes in those moments; silver and violet. Like the darkness between the stars. He smiles to himself then, a soft beautiful thing. A secret shared between him and the dying light in the hearth as he picks at an errant threat on the stitching of his shirt.

“Why am I here, Rhysand?” You ask, inhaling deeply, hoping that his answer might assuage the anxiety that has been coiling in your stomach all afternoon. The door to the antechamber opens then and light, golden and radiant spills into the room all at once. The radiant light reveals the room to you fully, you observe the emerald velvet chairs and the dark wood furnishings, the landscapes hung on the walls and the rare manuscripts and novels bound all in black that line the walls.

This house is something truly breathtaking.

It feels like a home you realize.

“There you are!” Morrigan's velvet voice smothers the morose tension in the room as she comes into view. She’s since shed the tiredness that plagued her before and you notice the way her hair frames her face like a halo of gold in the soft ochre light. In her arms, swaddled in sapphire spider silk, is the High Lord’s son.

“We were beginning to wonder where you had gone.” Mor coos at the bundle in her arms as she approaches Rhysand who takes the babe in his strong arms.

As if he could get any more beautiful-- the man looks as though he was carved by The Mother.

It’s wrong, you know. He is your High Lord and you are…

The cursed daughter of a capricious Lord, you remind yourself.

Rhysand glances at me hesitantly and I meet his eyes briefly before focusing on the babe in his arms. He’s since broken loose from the swaddling and his chubby fist clutches at his fathers shirt. I can just see the top of his little head, it's all tufts of curly blue-black hair and pointed pink ears. You smile fondly to yourself as he continues to wriggle in his father’s grasp.

Gods, it’s been so long since you had smiled that wide without the feeling of guilt that usually attends it.

“You used to be a governess, didn’t you?” Mor says by way of explanation for your summons. To her credit her smile never falters even as your demeanor hardens against her, “Clotho said you had talked about it a few times.”

“Yes. I was,” You admit swallowing thickly, your voice comes out strained like the words themselves pain you to speak, “that was a long time ago though.”

That had been long before him.

You must have only been a youngling yourself. You had been happy-- that much you remember. Those were the happy recollections of your old life; summers spent under the opal lights of The Moonstone place, children’s laughter like birdsong that breaks apart in the humid air as you danced and sang long into the nights. Of dark autumns and smoky air, a bonfire and a small hand that holds your own with such gentle reverence.

“Clotho said you wanted to leave the Library?” Rhysand questions you, his eyes are dark and filled with a thinly veiled darkness that draws you into their depths as you speak to him without pretense.

“I do,” You answer him honestly, your voice wavering only a little, “I don’t want to spend my days rotting in the depths of that House.”

Rhysand considers it carefully and his face twists into a pained expression that almost breaks your resolve. You hadn’t meant to hurt him-- never. But you’re done hiding in the dark.

The world is a cruel place and full of cruel men. It always had been and it always will be. There is nought you can do to change that. So why should you cower from the world any longer?

You want to live.

The whining of the restless babe in Rhys’ arms rouses your attention and something akin to longing gathers in your chest as you regard him. You pull a lip between your teeth as he fusses and Rhysand struggles to soothe him. The babe looses a cry that comes out as a pitiful howl and you can feel a small ripple of power permeate the air.

“May I hold him?” The words take everyone in the room by surprise and the High Lord only nods easily and stands to pass the babe into your arms.

“I’m grateful,” You continue as Rhysand stands before you and transfers his son’s weight into the crook of your arm, “To you and your court for providing me, and girls like me with somewhere to heal but--”

“But you weren’t meant to cower in the darkness of the library forever.” Rhysand’s words come out as little more than a whisper and the feeling of his warm breath on your skin is something entirely perverse.

You shake your head, mouthing an inaudible ‘no’ before lowering yourself back into the chair by the hearth, hoping to hide the rosy blush that spreads across your cheeks. Rhys doesn’t retreat back into his armchair like you had thought he might and instead sinks to his knees before you and allows one of his son's fists to wrap around his ring finger. The babe seems to quieten then in your arms as he nuzzles against your chest, one balled first clinging to his father and the other pulling at the neckline of your robes and he smiles sleepily in your arms.

Looking at him now you are overcome with the realization of the absence that had stained this family’s happiness. Rhysand had given himself completely to a woman who had changed her mind. And their son-- their son; all cherub cheeked and big blue eyes framed with dark lashes-- had been abandoned by the woman who was supposed to love him without condition. Before the ghost of her had been an abstract thing. Something intangible and errant, a whisper or a memory, but now, as you look between the babe in your arms and the woman immortalized about the hearth you feel nothing but biting fury. A dangerous wrath only tempered by the stilling of the High Lord beside you.

It is Morrigan’s movement at the side of the room that rouses you from thought. “Then perhaps we can come to an arrangement?” The smile that graces her lips is brilliant and calculating and the sparkle in those umber eyes tells you she is genuine in his intentions.

“An arrangement?” You ask hesitantly, raising one arched brow to her.

“Yes.” The High Lord nods in agreement as Morrigan approaches you all casually, sauntering over to snatch a glass of wine from the decanter, “you’re free to leave the Library at any time but--”

“Help me take care of Nyx,” The High Lord beats you to it, his voice is soft and gentle and one of his fingers runs along the curve of Nyx’s ear as he begins to doze in your arms.

“High Lor-” You start, and you’re torn between declining outright and trying to dissuade them altogether, “Mor, I haven’t cared for a babe in well over 60 years.”

“Listen to me,” Rhysand’s violet gaze is unyielding and when you can no longer avert his gaze he takes on of your hands in his own and all but pleads with you, “take care of Nyx, for one year-- just until I get used to doing it on my own-- just until he starts his pre-schooling.”

The thought of him raising his son all alone pains you, a physical, bone deep ache that settles over you. You mourn for him then, for the love he thought he had, for all that he lost and then you mourn for the babe in your arms. For the son who will grow up without knowing his mother’s love. The High Lord looks at you through dark lashes and you note the tiredness in his eyes and the desperate sadness that seems to radiate from him these days and yet, he smile softly at you. As one might smile at something lovely and precious.

“And in return?” You ask peering down at him with sympathetic eyes when his whole body goes lax.

“I’ll help you get set up somewhere-- anywhere you want.” The words come quickly and if you were a cruel woman you would see what more he would offer you. But when he’s looking at you like you might just be his last hope you can’t find it in you to do anything but allow yourself to be persuaded by him.

You see a home; a cottage maybe, made of ancient stone and covered with climing ivy and jasmine. On the outskirts of Velaris, away from the artisans and market stalls of the main square, but close enough that you never feel truly alone. A home and it smells of mandarin and moonflowers, the sound of children laughing, and a garden blooming with violets in the garden in the leonine yellow heat of high summer. You smile wistfully and you swear you feel the gentle caress of a hand in your mind's eye.

“You can live here with us in the meantime” Rhysand continues gesturing to the house around you.

It’s warm and inviting and your body sings in response to the prospect.

“I don’t think that's a good--”

“Just until you find somewhere of your own.” He assures you standing to his full height before you. He casts a morose glance to the portrait that hangs about the hearth and you can see the moment his violet eyes meet painted cerulean.

“Rhys--” You warn gently.

“Please,” He turns to you again and the desperation in his tone has you yielding to him further, a gentle sweep over your face before settling on the sleeping babe in your arms, “please.” He repeats it once more and you swear your heart breaks just a little bit for him.

He had saved you once, you think. You had only been a girl then but you remember looking at him in that light; he looked like the shadow of some dark winged God-- avenging and angelic.

Perhaps this time the girl can save the God.

“A bargain then.” You muse lightly holding out a pinky finger to him.

Rhysand huffs out a laugh and curls his finger around your own. Nyx’s hand seems to flex in response, his own tiny pinky finger outstretched in agreement.

“A bargain.” With the simple confirmation you feel the gentle burn of a promise as it kisses its way up your wrist, and you see Rhysand’s own inky sigil as it glows faintly on the skin of his outstretched arm.

#acotar #acotar x reader #rhysand x reader #rhys x reader #rhys x you #rhys x y/n #rhysand x you #rhysand x y/n #rhysand acotar #rhysand imagine #rhys acotar #rhys fanfic #rhysand headcanons

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msgexymunson · 9 months

Text

Forbidden Fruit

Description: The newest object of your affections happens to be Eddie; your father's closest friend!

A/N: this is just smut personified and I ain't even sorry. Enjoy it with caution, hells saving a mighty fine warm spot for you ;).

Warnings: age gap, Eddie's in his forties, reader implied 20s. Voyeurism, fingering, p in v unprotected sex (wrap the thingy, trust me I'm old)

5k words

Masterlist Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Delicate fingers are slipping under the waistband of your sleep shorts. You stroke at your soft skin, running in teasing patterns. Your body begins to react to your secret touches, downy hairs starting to stand on end as your skin prickles with sensation. Then your hand drifts lower, lower, until it meets your pubic hair. Massaging your breast with your other hand you try to relax and empty your mind, just focus on the feeling. Not that it works. All you see when you close your eyes is Eddie.

This is wrong. So fucking wrong. He was at least 20 years your senior. Hell, he was one of your father's closest friends. It may as well be forbidden. He probably thinks of you more like a daughter than a lover.

You couldn't help it though. Recently he was just looking so damn fine. You're not sure if it was just him getting better with age, or you growing up and appreciating the man in front of you. Either way, woof.

Your fingers find your clit as you think back to earlier today; the events of which hadn't been much help in quenching your mounting feelings. It had been a lovely day, the sun was beating down and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Eddie and your father had teamed up to do some of the yard work. Eddie was always on hand to help with any manual labour, or to fix things. He was really very good with those hands.

Well, it was a beautiful day, so sunbathing seemed perfectly acceptable behaviour, and not an excuse to be in the yard at all. Nuh uh. You'd headed outside in your skimpy red bikini, book in hand, and laid on a lounger keeping one eye on Eddie.

God, he'd looked particularly good today. His hair was grasped in a messy bun with a shock of grey and white visible through it. His stubble looked a few days old, peppering his chin and sharp jaw. Those eyes of his sparkled, a deep chocolate brown you wanted to dive into. Jeans clung to his muscular thighs, only wearing an old wife beater on top, showing off his tattoos and chiselled arms. There was a brief moment when he'd lifted up his vest to use it to wipe the sweat from his brow. Abs had gleamed in the midday sun, flexing and taunting you on purpose, or at least it had felt that way.

When your father had gone inside to grab them both a beer, Eddie had sauntered over to you and crouched right by your lounger. You had done everything you could to keep your face neutral, even though your head was screaming and flinging its metaphorical hands in the air.

"Hey sweetheart."

The gravel in his voice sent shivers down your spine.

"Hey Mr Munson." You responded, trying to keep your eyes on your book.

"How many times I gotta tell ya? Call me Eddie."

You glanced over and saw a slow grin creeping across his face, as he eyed you up and down. Is he checking me out?

Tearing his eyes away, he spoke again.

"So, where's the little boyfriend today?"

"What? Oh, him. We broke up. He was… selfish" you reminded yourself of all those disappointing encounters, flicking through your mind like a magazine of the mundane.

His grin widened at that.

"Oh, that's such a shame."

He sounded so sincere, but that smile of his was certainly telling a different story. You found yourself looking at the way his eyes crinkled when he grinned. Probably thought he wasn't good enough for me, just like father said.

It was like he'd read your mind.

"He wasn't good enough for you anyway."

"You think?"

He'd leaned into you, as if telling a secret. You could smell him, lingering sweat, aftershave and cigarettes. Drawn to him, you'd sat up and moved a little closer. His words were a whisper in your ear, his hot breath on your neck making your heart beat just a little too fast.

"What you need is a real man."

Mouth falling open, you snapped your head to face him. A quick wink and he was back on his feet, smiling at your father who had just returned from the kitchen. He had walked off without a glance back.

You press your clit harder at the memory of his words, your other hand snaking its way into your top to tease at your hardened nipple. A real man.

Was he talking about himself? Or had he just been teasing you for your taste in boys? Either way, his words had made you wet, your thighs clinging together in supplication.

Fuck it. If he was on your mind you may as well lean into it. Your thoughts wandered, making up scenarios in your head, thinking of those thick fingers replacing yours. Your speed on your clit doubles, thighs squeezing together. It still wasn't enough. There wasn't enough pressure.

Pulling your hand away in a huff, your eyes land on a cushion on your bed. Hmm, now that just might do.

Clambering to your bare knees, you straddle it, positioning the seam to sit just where you needed it.

Now, this was better. You could almost imagine him underneath you as you humped at his impressive length. You assume he had a huge cock. Well, he did in your fantasies anyway. Pulling your top off and away, you tease at your sensitive nipples, one hand keeping the cushion in place.

So close, you were so close. The warm feeling was pooling in your belly, your clit humming with desire. Scrunching your eyes shut and whimpering, a particularly good rub had you moaning out "Eddie!"

Unfortunately, you had failed to hear the approaching footsteps.

"Yeah sweetheart?"

Frozen, you can only watch in abject horror as your bedroom door swings open and the object of your fantasies is standing in the door frame.

"Oh shit, I thought- did you just say my name?" He seems split between looking away and getting an eyeful.

Grasping the bed sheet you quickly cover up your bare chest, cheeks burning scarlet.

"Sorry." He adds, looking you up and down one last time, and finally swings the door shut.

Well that's it, now I need to move to a different state. Fuck fuck fuck.

"Hey, honey, come hear a sec!" Your mother's voice, ringing up the stairs. Trying to get the blood to diffuse from your cheeks with sheer force of will, you hastily scramble to put your top back on.

"Coming!" You shout back. Well, you nearly had. So fucking close.

Making your way downstairs past the bathroom you see your parents arm in arm, Eddie spread out on one of the bar stools in the kitchen. Practically feeling his grin from here, you focus on your parents.

"We're going out to dinner hon. Mr Munson here, well he was going to have a look at the cable. I can't get the damn thing to work. Sure you don't mind Eddie? Ain't you got somewhere else to be?" Your father looks towards Eddie with his question.

"Nope. Completely free. I'm sure I can fix it."

"Thanks buddy, you're a lifesaver. Hon, can you look after him? Make sure to give Mr Munson anything he needs."

Cheeks flaring again with heat, you mumble out your agreement.

"Thanks sweetie!" Your mother adds, planting a peck on your cheek. Then, they leave. It's just you and Eddie.

He begins to walk towards you. The walls suddenly seem too close, your skin itchy, hairs standing on end. He stops in front of you, too close for comfort. A rough hand reaches to you and you flinch. He quickly pulls it away.

"Well, better fix the cable." He smiles at you, and turns on his heel to the TV room, leaving you staring at his retreating ass as he leaves.

Maybe he's not going to mention it?

The thought seems too good to be true. You turn to leave, back the way you came, but a strange force is pulling at your gut. Pretty soon you're standing in the door frame of the TV room, staring at Eddie's ass as he bends to look at the cable box.

Fuck, that perfect ass.

He must have changed from earlier. Maybe he'd had a shower? He certainly smelled good. Staring at his back you notice his hair looked damp.

OK, so, ignore what happened. Eddie seemed to be. Act natural. Be a good host.

"Eddie, do you want a beer?"

He doesn't bother looking back, but you hear his deep voice say, "sure thing sweetheart."

Making your way back to the kitchen, you grab a beer for him and one for yourself, to steady your nerves.

Placing it on the coffee table, you let him know it's behind him, as you swig your own.

"Could you come down here sweetheart? I need a hand."

You fall to your knees beside him.

"Show me your hands?"

Confused, you hold your palms up.

"Perfect, tiny hands. Here." And he grasps one, swallowing it up in his large palm. The skin on skin contact is a shock to your system.

He pulls your arm gently.

"There's a cable right there, can you reach that?"

Sticking your tongue out of the corner of your mouth, you extend your arm, reaching into the gap he couldn't quite hit.

"Got it."

"That's it. Good girl." You suck in a sudden breath at his words, warmth simmering in your core. Eddie doesn't seem to notice.

He's adjusting some other cable, moving the network box to a better position as you stare at the veins in his neck.

"So, did you finish?"

"Huh?" Confusion floods your face as you scrunch your eyes at his words.

"Earlier, when I walked in. Did you finish?"

Your mouth hangs open. He mentioned it so nonchalantly, not even gaining eye contact. You're so shocked that you answer him without thinking about it.

"N-no."

"Shame."

What sort of alternative reality is this?

"OK, can you feel my hand? Give me that cable."

You pass it to him wordlessly, fingers brushing his ever so slightly.

"There. Should be fine now. Try the remote."

Turning the TV on, it does indeed work. You switch it off as Eddie sits back on his heels.

"It just wasn't wired correctly. Easy mistake to make. So, you need a hand?"

"Huh?" You sound out doltishly as he swigs his beer.

"Seemed like you could do with some help earlier is all."

Swallowing hard at his words, you feel your thighs clench and your heart race.

"Eddie, what are you saying, exactly?" Words spilling out a lot calmer than you felt.

"All I'm saying is, you looked like you could use some help. I reckon I could help you out. A lot more than a cushion, anyway." He says, a slow smile spreading over his face making your knees want to melt.

You stare and stare, momentarily lost for words.

"Come on sweetheart, there's a reason why you were moaning my name. We need to get whatever this is out of our system. "

You will your legs to move, to flee. They don't. They have their own agenda it seems, taking a shaky step towards him, and another. He's still kneeling on the floor, a slight smirk pulling at his face as if he has all the time in the world.

Your knees do buckle then, under the weight of his words, as you mirror his position. There's a slight gap between you, but you're closer than you think you ever have been. The air between you seems to hum with desire, an electric current buzzing back and forth.

Reaching out with hesitant fingers, you finally close the distance, resting your hand softly on his knee.

"I'm- I'm sorry that I, erm, said your name, it's so damn embarrassing-"

"Don't be sorry," he responds, his giant hand coming to rest over yours sending your pulse into overdrive, "that was the hottest thing I've ever seen."

"Really?" You can't help the disbelief dripping all over your tone.

"You're kidding right? I've been fuckin' hard for the last hour, I'm sure it's not healthy."

You giggle into your hand at his confession and move to look down, but his hand is on your jaw then, pulling your chin up.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do, you know. We can just forget all this and I'll leave."

His stare is firm and sincere, but there's an undercurrent of need behind those eyes, one that's making the pulse between your legs hammer out a tattoo on your insides.

Before it even registers in your head, you're the one pushing toward him, drawn in by that stare. Your lips are crushing against his when you realise you had taken the leap and kissed him. Eddie's hand presses into the small of your back, pushing you bodily against him, the other snaking into your hair. Opening your mouth to deepen the kiss his tongue begins to slide against yours. Never had a kiss felt so good, so sordid. You wrap your arms around his middle to steady yourself as he explores your mouth greedily.

A slam of a car door snaps you back to reality; pushing your body off him hurriedly you look around with wild eyes.

"Hey, sweetheart, it's OK. It's not them, it's too early for that."

You stop and listen, and realise he's right.

"Sorry."

"Hey, it's OK." He smiles, flooding your tummy with warmth.

"You wanna go and get comfortable, sweets? We can, well, just this once."

You nod and stand up wordlessly, leading him to your bedroom. Your pace is slow and measured as you walk up the stairs, belying the running commentary in your head.

Oh fuck, I can't believe this is happening. This is Mr Munson for fucks sake. Dad would absolutely freak. Oh fuck.

As you're closing the door, he's kicking his shoes off and sitting up on your bed. His rough demeanour and chiselled physique look so out of place, juxtaposed by the sweet pink bedclothes.

"Come here sweetheart, right here." He says, patting his lap. You move over to him, trying to work out exactly where he wants you.

"Knees either side, come on baby, I know you know how to straddle." His smile is dipped in sin, biting his lower lip slightly and flashing his teeth. You take a shaky breath and mount him, your thin sleep shorts barely covering your expectant pussy.

"Can you, um, take your jeans off?" You ask hesitantly, "I wanna feel you."

"Whatever you want baby, I'm here to help."

You sit awkwardly to one side as he wiggles his jeans off those perfect hips, giving you a teasing sliver of his lower abdomen to gawp at before he's gripping your hips forcefully and pushing your core down against his solid bulge.

"Hmm, nearly perfect," he says, giving you an appraising look.

"What's not right?" You feel your cheeks blush, waiting for him to point out some flaws you have.

"Well, I'm sure when I walked in earlier with you in this position you were topless."

An impossible amount of blood flushes your face, chest, neck. Eddie's thumbs trace calming circles into the flesh of your hips, catching the hem of your top and slipping just beneath.

Lifting your top up hesitantly, you move your arms up and away, discarding the clothing on the floor of your room.

Eddie's eyes are fixated on your nude breasts, letting out a slow breath. He holds your hips harder, fingers bruising into you.

"There. Perfect. You are perfect sweetheart. Such a good girl for me."

It's deeply pathetic, the noise that escapes your lips at his praise, but it serves to break the spell Eddie is under and forces him to look at your rosy cheeks and pouting lips.

"Fuck, you like that sweetheart?" He asks, large hands clinging to your hips, starting to grind you back and forth. His breathing is laboured, as if he's trying to hold himself together.

"Yeah." You say back, voice small, hiding under his studious gaze.

"Don't go all shy on me now baby. This good, yeah?"

You nod, mewling at the sensation. He's rock hard, and just the feel of his solid dick rubbing back and forth, hitting your swollen clit with each pass has your head spinning. Just two layers, two layers of flimsy fabric lay between him and you. Between him entering you.

"Talk to me sweetheart. What do you need?"

His eyes are searching yours, so eager to make you happy.

"Please, please play with my nipples."

A rough hum rumbles from his throat, hands creeping up to your chest.

"So polite. Whatever you need sweetheart."

Taking over grinding over his member, you feel your skin thrumming, heat bubbling in your gut as his hands begin to trace over your curves. His thumbs graze the underside of your tits with confident movements. Expecting him to start pinching at your nipples, it takes you entirely by surprise when he leans forward and takes one in his mouth, sucking hard.

Whimpering quietly, you grip his shoulders, willing yourself to be quiet. It's like Eddie can read your fucking mind. Unlatching from your nipple, he grabs your chin firmly between his thumb and forefinger, forcing your eyes to meet his.

"I told you. Don't be shy. It's just you and me here. I want to hear you. Every whimper, every fucking moan. I'm committing this to memory, so make it a good one."

A watery grin unfurls over your face, eyes tearing up unexpectedly.

"OK Eddie."

"Good fucking girl."

"Oh God-"

Before you're done moaning at his words, his lips are immersing your nipple again, wet and warm and rough; as he pinches the other with hardened skin fingertips. A thick tongue darts out, flicking back and forth over the hardened nub.

"Oh Eddie, oh fuck!" Your moans are loud and unashamed, your hips frantically humping over his turgid cock, clit swollen, nearing on sore.

His breath diffuses over the sensitive skin of your breast.

"See that's it baby, I know, I know. Keep going, use me."

Chasing your release your movements become almost violent, hands grasping onto his wavy locks and tugging hard. He groans at that, almost a growl. Teeth scraping your aching nipple, he unlatches with a wet pop and instead bites into the joining spot between your neck and shoulder harder than anyone had done before. The act was bordering on feral. An animalistic gesture, sucking on your flesh as if he was sucking the orgasm out of you.

It was working. The low simmering in your gut had bubbled over, threatening to pull you under into the deep depths of pleasure. You let it, screaming out his name as you lost breath, quickly losing yourself in the gaping depths of your release.

Slowing your frantic rocking movements, you finally slow to a halt.

"Feel better sweetheart?"

You hum, fingers tracing over the muscles of his toned arms. Your pussy hasn't gotten the message however, clenching around nothing. Your walls are pulsing, wanting to clench onto something, anything.

"Yeah I'm good."

"Don't lie to me."

Gasping at his hard words, you look into his eyes.

"If you're done I'll leave-"

"No!" You shout, gripping him harshly,

fingernails embedding into his skin. This can't be over, not yet.

"See?" He laughs, almost mocking you, "if you need more, say so. I want to help you. What do you need?"

"I-" fuck why is this so difficult? "I need, I need something inside me."

"See? Was that so hard? You want my fingers baby? I'll make you come, as many times as you need."

You nod enthusiastically, slipping off his lap. He turns you to the side suddenly so your legs are draped over his. Firm, smooth strokes rub up, up, up your thighs making you quiver.

"Take these shorts off. I need to see that pretty pussy of yours."

Wiggling out of them, they land on the floor in a heap.

"Fuck. Spread your legs a little."

It isn't in you not to comply. Your knees fall open, entirely exposed.

"Well, look at you. Fucking perfect." A rough hand slots between your legs, two fingers rubbing the length of your pussy.

Leaning back on your hands, your back arches into his touch, hips moving upwards to meet each stroke.

"You really want this? You want me to fuck you with my fingers?" His movements are tantalising and slow. Your body begs for more, more.

Nodding at him, you soon see it's not enough.

"Use your words sweetheart." Fingers whisper across forbidden skin, circling around but never touching your clit.

"Oh God please, please I need you, please fill me up!" All modesty forgotten.

"Fuck, yeah that's it, hmm" you feel his fingers swipe your wet lips, about to go deeper. Leaning forward, he angles his head towards your cunt, and spits, hard.

Holy fucking fuck.

That act had you clenching all over again, rocking into nothing.

"Oh she likes that! Dirty girl."

He smiles his approval and gathers your combined wetness, two fingers diving deep inside you. It's aggressive and rough and entirely what you've been craving.

"This what you wanted baby? My fingers filling you up? Fucking into your cunt?"

His words are filthy, switching something inside your head you weren't aware of until just now.

"Yeah, fuck please, stretch me out, I fucking need you baby, please please please!"

Your tiny hands are gripping onto him, desperately seeking him, digging into skin and flesh.

"Oh you are so hot. Keep begging, I like it." His salacious grin pours over his features, fingers working you roughly, nestling into a spot inside that had your toes curling. Your breathing is heavy and ragged, as his other hand slaps harshly against your thigh.

"I said beg."

His ministrations start to slow.

"No, don't stop! Please, oh fuck please, I need to fucking come Eddie!" Your eyes seeking his with a desperate gleam, toying with your features.

"Yeah, that's it sweetheart, fuck," and his hand lands a hard smack against the side of your ass making you shriek.

"You're a dirty girl, aren't you?" His fingers continue, setting a brutal pace, each stroke reaching your g spot pathetically easily.

"Yeah, oh yes, for you I am."

A thick tongue runs up the side of your neck, pushing his fingers harder, deeper.

"Oh Eddie I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come, don't stop!"

"Not stopping, not even if you paid me. Come for me sweetheart."

Your hips betray you, rubbing against his fingers as hard as they can, desperately seeking your second release.

They don't have long to look. Suddenly it bursts around you, popping in your head like a firecracker of feeling, pulsing out of you in waves. Your fingers wind into his hair once again as your orgasm floods your system, hands almost frightened of being swept away.

You knew he was good with his hands but fuck, his words were something else.

"Oh my God that was incredible." You stutter out, legs still trembling.

"I aim to please. You good now baby?" His fingers whispering over your arm, catching your nerves, making quivers run over and over you.

If I'm good, he's gonna leave, and that will be it. Fuck, just don't want it to be over.

"No. I need you to fuck me. Just this once. Please. I- I need you to cum inside me."

"Shit sweetheart, you want my fuckin' cock? How could I refuse such a sweet good girl."

Laying you down against your many pillows, he stands, ridding himself of his shirt and pants.

Oh fuck, just look at his cock.

It's swollen, throbbing against his slickened pubic hair, wetted by your own juices. Licking your lips impulsively, you spread your legs wide, wanting to guide his hips between yours.

"Fuck that's a pretty dick. So fucking big."

He looks at you, quirking an eyebrow.

Oh fuck you just said that out loud.

"Yeah? You want it? You want me?"

He's smiling, stroking at his throbbing length, making an emotion akin to jealousness bloom in your chest.

"I need you Eddie."

He climbs between your thighs again, letting another glob of spit fly from those perfect lips of his.

"Oh!" You moan eagerly, writhing beneath him.

"You are perfect, aren't you? Fucking filthy and ready for me." The head of his swollen member nudges your soft opening.

"I'm on birth control, please just fill me up."

"Oh fuck you're gonna make me bust if you keep on like that." The words are admonishing, but he sounds impressed.

His weight dips onto the mattress between your legs, making it sink dramatically. You grab his relatively narrow hips, your slender fingers forcing his body between yours. You need him inside you, now.

The fat, leaking head of his cock rubs against your intumescent lips.

"Fuck me Eddie, I need you, please fuck me!" You blabber, fingers flexing hard against his hard muscles.

The mushroom head of his turgid cock pushes against your sodden opening. It breaches you then, forcing its way into your soaking lips.

Pushing harder and harder into your deepest depths, you whimper, walls quivering around his fat length.

"Eddie, oh God Eddie!" Your moans are unrestrained and throaty, him rubbing against the spot that makes you wobble inside.

"You wanna come again? So fucking greedy sweetheart." You expect those words to have bite to them, but he's grinning, forehead nearly touching yours as he hikes your legs around his middle.

You hump at him recklessly, hips thrusting against his waist as hard as you can.

"Oh my fucking God, fuck!!"

You release hard, wetness squirting over Eddie's imposing length as you moan hard and loud.

"Hey honey, we're home!"

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.

Your eyes flick wildly to Eddie. It doesn't help that he seems amused, chuckling a silent laugh into your skin.

"I've, I've gone to bed, see you in the morning!" You cry out desperately, hoping to heaven, or hell, that they listen.

"Eddie fix the cable?" You hear your mom call out up the stairway.

"Yeah he's, he's really good with his hands!" You shout back, Eddie's body shaking with silent laughter over you, the arms caging your head trembling with barely contained amusement.

"Great news, night honey!"

You grip Eddie's shoulders as hard as you can as you listen for the minute changes in air. There it is, mother and father both going to bed.

"Fuck that was close." You huff, releasing your titanesque grip on his shoulders.

"But I'm not done sweetheart."

He thrusts hard and deep against you, his impressive member rubbing against that sweet spot yet again.

"Eddie, you can't, fuck-"

"Oh I can. You just need to shut up." He grins quietly, holding your body close to his.

"Oh Eddie, oh-"

"Shhh, fuck sweetheart, shut the fuck up." He whispers urgently into the skin of your neck. Your mouth forms a perfect 'o', wiggling against him ardently.

He releases his cum into you with a hard, shuddering thrust, throbbing and throbbing out of him. It pumps inside you, pushing you to the edge of coming yet again.

Eddie knows.

Grinning wickedly, he latches his teeth to your nipple again and sucks hard. Moments later you feel your release explode from your core, dampening your bed sheets in the process.

Thrumming against him, sweaty skin against sweaty skin, you manage to coax your breathing to a normal level.

"I hope that's everything you wanted sweetheart, 'cause it aint happening again."

Before you can protest, Eddie is leaving the warmth between your thighs and aiming for the window, so no one suspects what just happened between you two. A few sure movements and he disappears, however reluctantly, into the night. Leaving you huffing, and panting, and wanting.

@eddiemunsons-missingnipple @eddiethefreakkmunson @munson-blurbs @roanniom @eddiemunsonfuxks @eddiesprincess86 @corrodedhawkins @eddiethefreakkmunson @indouloureux @icallhimjoey

#ms gexy writes #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie x you #eddie x reader #eddie munson fluff #older!eddie #eddiemunsonsmut #eddie munson older #older eddie munson #eddie older #stranger things x reader #stranger things #stanger things #stranger things smut

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greg-montgomery · 3 months

Note

hi! i’m not sure if you’re still taking requests, but i love your writing and your page!

i have a nsfw request and you can totally say no or not do it, but i rly just wanna see someone write it!

so like y/n is super sweet and kind at work at the bau, and everyone expects her to be super innocent since she’s almost the youngest out of all of them, but one night she ends up at hitch’s hotel room during a case because she’s stressed and her and hotch kind of have something between them (like they both rly want each other but won’t say anything, the whole team knows)

anyways, they like get down to it (idfk 😭), and she’s the complete opposite of what he expects, and it kind of surprises him because she seems so innocent and it rly turns him on (that sounds weird idk but YOU GET IT 😭😭).

anyways, i rly hope u write it but don’t feel obligated to if you don’t want to, love! also i think it would be rly funny if she’s caught rly early in the morning sneaking out of his room and a few ppl from the team catch her sneaking out!

maybe like softdom!hotch? idk 😭 SORRY IVE NEVER MADE A REQUEST

ANYWAYS. i love your writing so much! hope you have an amazing day love!

- 🎃

hii!! i hope you have an amazing day too <3 i love you!

nsfw - 18+ minors dni!!!

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

“And I was screaming at him. If I hadn’t woken up the next second, I would have probably attacked him physically.”

Hotch chuckled at your words as he took a seat right next to you on the edge of his bed.

“Don’t laugh! This is serious, am I going crazy?”

“No, you aren’t,” he said, and gently placed his hand on your thigh in an attempt to calm you down. “I’ve also had dreams about unsubs, it’s normal. You were probably affected because you had talked to the victim just a few hours before he killed her.”

He knew you were worried, but he couldn’t help but notice that you were biting your bottom lip that same way that always drove him crazy. It was so hard being around you; in his hotel room, all alone, with the scent of your perfume clouding his judgment.

“Okay. Maybe I’m overthinking it,” you said, and he caught you staring at his hand on you. If there was any indication of you being uncomfortable he would have never put it there in the first place. But he could see the look on your face; you liked it.

So he kept it there.

Your eyes travelled from his hand to his eyes. God, you were so beautiful, all he wanted to do was lay you down on that bed and take you until you were screaming his name.

The way you were staring at him made him wonder if you could read his thoughts. You were a profiler after all.

“Thanks for the advice,” you said. “You’re a wise old man.”

“That’s David.”

Nothing gave him the same level of satisfaction making you laugh did. During those moments you were almost his.

“Right, sorry,” you giggled.

There was that same look again. You were biting your lips, bit this time it wasn’t out of nervousness; you were trying to contain your laughter.

Hotch didn’t know where he found the courage, but he removed his hand from your thigh and brought it to your face, running his thumb over your mouth. “I love it when you play with your lips.”

You silently blinked at him for a moment, and for that moment Aaron forgot how to breathe. He only obtained the ability to breathe again for a second, before you took it away by opening your mouth and licking the pad of his finger.

The sight and the feeling of your tongue on him made his dick twitch.

You sucked on it slowly, your eyes never leaving his. It wasn’t hard for him to imagine your mouth was on a different part of his body, as you swirled your tongue around his fingertip.

Who would have thought?

He removed his finger from your mouth and while it was still wet from your saliva, he grabbed your face and dragged you close to him.

“What kind of behavior is this? And in front of your boss? I thought you were a good girl,” he said, his nose touching yours.

“I am.”

He could argue, but he’d rather kiss you instead. So he did.

Your little sighs in the middle of the kiss were already driving him insane - he couldn’t even imagine how you’d sound when his hand would find its way between your thighs.

Soon you were on his lap, straddling him, and he pulled away to take your top off. You were eager for another kiss, but he had to take a moment to admire the way your breasts looked covered in that beautiful black lace.

He pulled the left side of your bra down just enough to release your nipple. He played with it with his fingers, making it hard and once it was ready he replaced his hand with his mouth.

The pretty moans that were coming out of your mouth made him even more eager, so he grabbed you by the hips and pushed you down to grind on his cock even harder. You were the most angelic thing he had ever seen, but all he wanted to do was destroy you.

Before he had the chance to think of his next move, you got off his lap with a grin and took of your shoes and jeans.

“Lie down,” you said.

“Who am I to say no to you?”

You crawled on the bed, but didn’t come up to him like he expected. Instead you kneeled between his legs and started unbuckling his belt.

He was painfully hard already and he was counting down the minutes he would finally be in your hands.

Your smirk when you saw his released cock went straight to his ego. And he couldn’t wait to see you full of it.

The way you positioned yourself in all fours, and licked his length while making eye contact with him, looked like it came out of a porno movie.

Your ass looked delicious; the fabric of your panties almost non-existent making him wish he could reach it and give you a few spanks.

“Fuck…”

It was sloppy; one moment you were licking his dick from bottom to top, and the other your hand was wrapped around it while your tongue was swirling around the tip. And it was perfect.

“Fuck, it’s so good. You’re so good at it, baby, you’re so good,” he said, his hand pushing the back of your head so you could suck him deeper.

You cupped his balls and smirked at the way he moaned. You were enjoying it, maybe as much as he was.

“You like it, baby?”

You nodded, and closed your eyes moving your tongue in a torturous pace.

“You know what I like?”

At his question your eyes opened again, and you shook your head.

Aaron signaled you to go up to him for a moment, and grabbed your chin with two of his fingers to maintain the eye contact.

“I like that you’re all shy,” he said and paused to give you a kiss. “Quiet.” Another kiss. “Innocent, in front of others. But with me…you show me what a little slut you are. Just for me.”

Your smile would be the end of him.

“Just for you,” you repeated his words and kissed him before moving between his legs again.

“Spit on it,” he said. “Make it messy, baby, I wanna see you drool.”

You did as he said. He didn’t know where to focus, at your ass, the way your tits were hanging, or your mouth that was doing devilishly things to him.

Finally, he wasn’t looking at anything at all, with his eyes closed, cumming right into your mouth.

#aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner #hotch #ask #hotch 🪐#🎃 anon #nsfw.

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yandere-romanticaa · 4 months

Text

It's 8 PM. I am listening to Frank Sinatra. And Jing Yuan makes me emotional therefore, I need to write some shit down. When will I ever write for any other HSR character that's not him???

Jing Yuan, a long living species, who falls for a regular human. A short living species.

He is a man who is able to play the waiting game, he is that kind of person who can and is willing to analyze every single possible move his enemy, or ally, can and is willing to make. Centuries of long and hard battles have desensitized him to certain brutality. Now, he is not some beast who is not capable of compassion but when you've lost so much, it's only natural for your heart to harden.

That is why the realization that he cannot play the waiting game with you dawns on him.

You may stand by his side now but where will you be in the next 10 years? The next 50 years? A century means nothing to him. It will all go away in the blink of an eye, forgotten and unnecessary.

His heart sinks at the thought of you not being with him. The way in which you coo after him, it gives him a reason to actually enter his office and leave it with a smile on his face. Who will be there for that cheeky little Cloud Knight of his when he's feeling pouty? Who will be there to smack Jing Yuan back to his senses as he takes yet another unnecessary nap?

One day, you will grow old and he will stay the same as he is. He will hold you in his arms and weep as he watches the life leave your eyes for good. Jing Yuan will be forced to watch the final piece of his heart be ripped away from him, stolen by cruel destiny. He could already taste the blood in his mouth as he bites back a scream of pain.

Curse the Abundance. Curse the entire Universe for taking you away from him. Curse your silly mortality, curse the fact that you were so perfect to begin with.

That is precisely why right now, he must have you. He takes you away and locks you in some private estate, where you can be safe. The thought of making you a long living species is tempting but he is not sure if he's willing to play that card.

You scream sometimes. You weep and cry to please let you go, that you love him but that this is not alright. And Jing Yuan can do nothing but to kiss your forehead and mumble sweet nothings in your ear.

He may perhaps even marry you in secret. If he does, his wedding ring would never come off his finger, not even after your passing. This sparks so many rumors on the Lofu but Jing Yuan does not acknowledge them. He is the only one who needs to know the true meaning of the ring.

Jing Yuan is not ready for your death. He may try to prepare but really, who is ever ready for something so painful?

He sits quietly next to you, the sheets beneath you all silk and perfection. The room reeks of medicine and flowers but it is missing the bright sound of your laughter. You are gone. Jing Yuan bites the inside of his cheek as he thinks of funeral arrangements.

But it's so hard to concentrate if his vision is filled with black spots.

Jing Yuan stands up, his feet shaky, his soul shattered. His heart is either dead or dying because you took it with you, wherever you may be. The General can feel the walls around him tightening, the air in his lungs knocked out as the floor is suddenly covered in golden leaves.

Ah, they look pretty. You would have liked those indeed. Jing Yuan reaches towards them, a long, ink black talon gently picks it off the marble floor as his long white hair covers his face.

Odd, he thinks to himself. His hands never looked so black before.

A nearby caw of a raven breaks him out of his trance as Jing Yuan looks to his left, where a massive mirror hangs. He is greeted with something that should horrify him, something that should make him weep but he has no tears left to shed.

The Mara is taking over him. It is too late to fix him.

Maybe, just maybe, the General of the Lofu does not want to be fixed. Perhaps he can be slain in battle and be reunited with you in the afterlife. Would you be happy to see him? Would you hold him in your arms, play with his hair and sing him songs in the quiet evening?

Perhaps you wouldn't show him such kindness. After all, he has hurt you in so many ways. He does not deserve your love. But he can't help but to reach out for it.

A final tear cascades down his pale cheek as Jing Yuan smiles at his reflection. A maid opens the door behind him and lets out a loud scream, her eyes shaking in fear as she witnesses the General transforming into the same kind monster he swore he would keep in check. Jing Yuan sighs as he feels his heart beat, for the final time.

He was coming to see you. He was going to see you again. He was ready to grovel and beg as much as necessary, if it meant that you would be by his side. Yes, that truly was a pleasant thought. You and him, together as the sun sets. He can still see the faint glimmer of the golden ring on his finger, his eternal promise to you. It shines like a lonely star in a massive galaxy, with no way to protect itself.

However, not even stars can live forever.

And just like that, the world goes dark.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere x you #yancore #yanderecore #yandere aesthetic #yandere male #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan #yandere jing yuan #honkai star rail #honkai jing yuan #hsr x reader #hsr x you #hsr x y/n #yandere hsr

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crystalflygeo · 5 months

Note

two long dragon tongues down your throat is better than one <3

So I was going to answer this like a normal ask just fangirling and screaming yes but then it kinda reminded me of this abandoned wip I had sitting in my docs and IT WAS TOO GOOD TO LET IT PASS.

So sorry this sat on my inbox so long csvajckwxbhaj I promise I am not ignoring :c <3 work is just killing me and also this got out of hand HAHA WHAT A SURPRISE

it was written before 4.2 dropped (maybe before 4.1 even I can't recall) so there are some little things here and there that are technically not canon anymore//hit

Neuvillette is absolutely fascinated.

The chief Justice of Fontaine has lived for many many years, seen, learned and experienced a lot of what the world has to offer, at least within the confines of his beloved hydro nation. Always a diligent man, carrying out his role and job at the court to perfection. Yet there was something he’d always… disregard.

Some more basic instincts pertaining to his true draconic nature.

He’d had enough in his plate as it was, practically managing the nation, keeping lady Furina both entertained and out of trouble, taking care of the Melusine, and a myriad of other duties in between. Truth be told, he was a tired old dragon not having much time or interest in the pursuit of a romantic companion.

So how did he end up here? Having a sample of the most sacred and valuable treasure of another dragon. Their mate.

Neuvillette is mesmerized at how your body reacts, jerking and trembling in unadulterated pleasure. Entranced a how your lips part with labored puffs and cute little sounds he didn’t know humans were capable of. High pitched whines, long drawn-out moans. Hypnotized by your eyes, usually so alert, so smart and playful… now glazed over, clouded with euphoria yet so raw and sincere in their emotions, begging him not to stop.

And your scent… oh, the most decadent sinful scent he’d ever sensed. His pupils dilating and turning back to slits as his stare focused on your drooling pussy. His mouth dry, his fangs aching. He wanted to drown all of his senses in you.

Darkened fingers slide across your folds, a little colder than normal for a human which is why he’d always wore gloves, but you mewl appreciatively and gladly accept them. Clenching warm and wet around the digits.

And his breath catches.

“Hmmm… you’re doing so well, baobei.”

The Iudex’s eyes flicker momentarily at the other man, or should he say, other dragon. The former Geo Archon Morax, quite literally a mythical figure exuding an aura of power far greater than his current own. He is older, wiser, stronger, a deity once involved in the likes of the Archon war and the Cataclysm. In this little… exchange, Morax is certainly the dominant dragon, simply letting Neuvillette please you.

Morax holds you close to his chest, purring contently in a display of affection towards you and confidence towards the other male, as if he needed not to worry about another taking what is his. Neuvillette knows if he were to even remotely try something funny, he’d likely face the infamous wrath of the rock. Under normal circumstances, he’d find it a little insulting to be treated like this. If he had his full authority…

But these are far from normal circumstances.

And he’s currently rather… ah… enchanted by you.

“Curl your fingers towards you and pump slowly… she likes that.” Morax explains, voice deep and rich like syrup. His hands roam your shoulders and chest, massaging softly at your exposed skin while he plants kisses at your neck, occasionally nibbling of a few past marks from his own fangs.

Neuvillette does as said, experimentally, and is rewarded by a sultry moan and a buck of your hips towards him when you feel those fingers wiggle and rub at a spot deep inside you.

“Oh? Got it on your first try Chief Justice, why you may be a natural.” Morax chuckles.

The younger dragon appreciates the praise underneath the teasing lilt.

“Now, you may use your thumb to rub at that little pearl, it’s just begging for attention.” Your mate nuzzles against your cheek, his own thumbs rolling over your perked nipples. “Slowly, careful… she is very sensitive.” He adds with amusement.

He does so again, the pad of his cool finger brushing over your puffy little nub, the spark of pleasure is immediate and you toss your head back and squeal.

“Please please please…” You gasp out, breath shuddering, body trembling.

Tears gather at your eyes and roll down your cheeks, it’s so much it feels so good.

The younger dragon stops and blinks at you, his demeanor shifting suddenly. His hands slip over your thighs to you hips, as if trying to cradle you, hold you closer.

Morax’s eyes narrow if only a bit, curious but wary of Neuvillette’s sudden… protectiveness over you.

“You’re crying… have I hurt you? Are you ok?” He asks softly, attention solely on you.

Your heart could melt at that, who knew the ever serious and imposing Iudex could be so gentle? He truly reminds you of your mate sometimes.

You nod, catching your breath a moment. “I-I’m good. Feels good.” You mumble, cheeks heating up with the confession. Your body already lays bare and presented for him, in it’s most vulnerable. But to open up your feelings too… “People… cry when they’re happy too, you know?”

He seems to consider it for a moment, you can practically se the cogs turning in his head, it’s rather endearing, his brow twitches the same way Morax’s does when he’s pensive, perhaps it’s a dragon thing? “I have observed that before, yes, but why-”

“Emotions are powerful. When y-you feel… so much… you need a let out. Be it angry, sad, even happy… our tears leak out, like emotions overflowing.” You smile and shift a little, hiding your face towards the crook of your mate’s neck. “Weren’t you the one who said waters carry emotions?” You nuzzle there and Morax responds accordingly, his hands once again massaging and roaming your body, knowing you’re still pent up and the sudden stop was probably a little frustrating.

Golden fingers slide over your folds and sink in carefully, thumb circling your clit once more and you whimper. “That’s it, my love… I want you to feel good. We want you to enjoy, isn’t that right?”

Neuvillette straightens up a little to meet Morax’s gaze. Not challenging (not yet) but there is something.

“Indeed.” He leans in to nuzzle at the other side of your neck, the soft skin there unmarked. Morax tenses his hold on you, a slight growl coming out from deep within his chest.

“Careful Chief Justice. Remember our agreement.”

“Of course. No kisses, no marks, no claiming. No strings attached.” His lavender eyes a dark purple now as he follows the soft slope of your jaw. “I wouldn’t dare break a contract with the deity that presides over them.” He chuckles. “I just want to test…”

Or rather taste. His draconic tongue laps up softly at your tears, his hands tease your nipples as if trying to get more reactions out of you and you whine, arching towards him as Morax’s hand keeps working at your core.

It’s so… intense. They are both so clear about their desires, slow and reverent, kind in their methods, but so assured in their dominance that they will get what they want.

And oh, to be desired by two dragons truly is something…

“Interesting…” He mumbles pulling back. “So sweet.”

Morax nips at your mating mark then and tilts your head to press your lips together, your mouth happily parts for him and you let out a muffled moan as that long split tongue slides down your throat. Your feet kick and your fingers claw at whatever is closer.

Half-lidded golden eyes stare down at you with satisfaction, blown with lust. A third finger sinking in on your sweet pussy, faster, your juices gushing obscenely around them.

That tongue teases and chokes you and more tears come out of your glazed eyes, eagerly caught by another one. Bodies pressed together, hands roaming, Morax’s tail curled around your ankle keeping you open, Neuvillette’s swaying after him with excitement, cool fingers pinching your nipples, massaging your breasts…

“Mmphff…!” You squeak, high pitched and tense as the pleasure tips you over the edge and your body locks up in a delicious powerful orgasm. You sob and whimper as they work you through it. Shuddering. You see stars. Can’t think only feel.

Once it settles Morax pulls back and you melt against him, chest heaving, legs weak, muscles aching just a little, they continue to pamper you with affection and attention.

Your mate’s fingers retreat with an embarrassingly wet noise and much to your further mortification he brings them up to his face and that sinful slip tongue once again comes out this time to lick them clean.

Neuvillette stares transfixed.

You groan quietly, it’s obvious what he wants…

Morax on his part only lets out a short laugh, possessive instincts seemingly more at ease now. “Oh? Want to have a taste too? I can assure you will not be disappointed.”

Archons, the way those sharp eyes shift to you.

“O-okay…” Your voice is barely a whisper. “P-please be gentle though I j-just…”

Your breath catches in anticipation as Neuvillette’s hands rest on your inner thighs.

And then your dear mate pulls you back into a kiss.

#I started writting Morax and then just rolled with it #GOD I NEED THESE TWO TO RUIN AND DEVOUR ME THANKS #XIANGSHENG MONSIEUR PLS FUCK ME BREED ME DSVJVBHSDVKSJL #ok I gotta go to work now //sobs #crys answers #bjahfler #crys writes #zhongli smut #neuvillette smut #zhongli x reader #neuvillette x reader #fem!reader

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toms-cherry-trees · 7 months

Text

Not Worthy Of You || Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: An unexpected visitor at night brings some clarity to the last months

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: Mention of B&C and Storm's End. No beta reading

Author's note: This was supposed to be short. This was supposed to be 1k words. But I got carried away. Enjoy!

The candles had long died out, and only dying embers remained in the smouldering fireplace, too feeble to give the room any light. Piercing darkness entered through the gaps in the drapes, the moonless night shrouding the Red Keep in a thick, ponderous veil of black. Not a sound disturbed the quietness of the Holdfast, nor the peace of those sleeping in it.

You stirred in the bed, the sheets rustling and a pleasant tingle spreading through your body as you stretched your limbs lazily. You felt well rested, perhaps for the first time in many moons. It had been a long time since you last woke up naturally, instead of being forcefully taken from your slumber by aches, cramps, and most recently, little cries throughout the night. At that thought your eyebrows furrowed, and still partially asleep you rolled over in the bed, your hand searching in the darkness for the little wooden cradle by your side.

Your fingers only found emptiness, the abandoned blankets still holding your newborn’s warmth.

Whatever drowsiness lingered in your mind soon dissipated as worry crept upon you, settling like a heavy weight atop your chest. You sat upright with such haste you felt faint, having to hold onto your head until the bright lights vanished from your vision. Fright quickly overcame your senses. You double checked the crib, pulling blankets out and looking under your bed, as if somehow the babe, barely a fortnight old, could have climbed out and hidden somewhere without you noticing.

Desperation clouded your thoughts, your heartbeat quickening and your breath coming in shallow pants. You scrambled from bed, barely having half a mind to grab a robe; the parky night air covered your skin in gooseflesh. You headed for the door, the call for help ready to sprout from your lips, when the smallest, softest of coos drew your attention to the opposite side of the chamber.

Now that your eyes had adjusted a bit, you could vaguely make out the shape of a person sitting in front of the large windows in a sturdy rocking chair your family had gifted you when they received the news of your impending motherhood. Slightly hunched forward, gently swaying back and forth, the rockers barely made noise against the thick carpet they laid upon. At first you believed it to be the wetnurse, who usually sat there to feed the baby, but you had specifically requested to have no servants in your chambers at night, wishing to carry the bulk of the childcare yourself. Hoping that that way you would feel more connected to your child, instead of staring at it like a foreign being that had been dropped on your lap by the Mother. Lovely, yes, and so dearly loved, but foreign nonetheless.

Soon it became obvious, however, that it was not the wetnurse, nor a maid, the one who sat in the chair. The dark figure sat tall, shoulders muscular and long legs stretched out, rocking the chair with a lazy sway of heavy boots. Oppressive panic stole the breath from your lungs at the vision of the unknown man, his arms positioned in a way that could only mean he currently held the infant in his embrace. The memory of what had recently happened to Helaena and her sweet child remained fresh in your mind.

You considered screaming for help, but not even a choked cry managed to come forth. Or maybe it did, and you just couldn’t hear it above the frantic hammering of your heart, rumbling in your ears like menacing war drums. Blindly you sought a weapon, any means of protection you could grasp to defend yourself and your child. Your trembling fingers gripped tightly the handle of an ornate letter opener you so happened to have left in the nightstand. You tried to swallow, but found your mouth to be as dry as the Dornish deserts.

Your feet barely made a sound in the flagstone as you carefully approached the intruder. Your mind overflowed with horrifying images of what had occurred to sweet Helaena. Even though you had not been witness to the act, the whispers reached you nonetheless, despite the Dowager Queen having carefully instructed the servants to not mention the crime near you, for fear of upsetting your mood and spoiling your health, right in the middle of your seventh moon of pregnancy. Despite the efforts, the nightmares lasted for weeks, fuelled by the clamour of your good sister’s wails as she escaped her chambers at night and wandered the halls calling for her lost son.

Slowly, as if wading through mud, you approached the chair. But it seemed the distance lengthened with each step, or perhaps your imagination had fooled you and you remained rooted in the spot. Your brain overflowed with horrific scenarios, a million outcomes to the situation, and the hopeless need to cry out, even if your mouth refused to open. As your eyes finally adjusted to the pitch darkness, however, you noticed silvery white tresses covering the person’s shoulders, and a thin dark strap wound around the head. The arm carrying the weapon lowered slowly, and the letter opener slid from your sweaty grasp onto the floor. Although weightless, in the silence of the night, the little piece of metal resonated like thunder.

The man didn’t flinch nor move to seek the source of such scandal; his smooth voice echoed in the chamber, a careful murmur to be heard without waking the baby.

“Abrazȳrys”

The familiar term of endearment should have calmed your nerves, but the word spoken so abruptly made you jump in your spot, hand coming to your bosom as your heart raced, as if ready to escape from the confines of your chest and make a run to safety.

“Seven hells, husband. You scared me half to death” You protested, pressing your cool palms against your heated cheeks and taking slow breaths. An immense wave of relief washed over you, mixed with an overpowering sense of weakness; all your energy had been consumed in the eternal moments you thought yourself and your child in danger, and now it took all you had not to collapse on your knees.

“My sincerest apologies, wife” He replied with a tone of propriety so usual in him, as if he merely apologised for bumping on you in the hallway, instead of scaring the living daylights out of you. His violet eye met yours as you moved within line of vision, taking seat in a low cushioned bench against the wall.

The bundle of blankets wrapping their firstborn appeared small and radiant against the dark planes of Aemond’s chest; the child tightly tucked in shades of green and trimmings of gold, chubby cheek snuggled against the warmth of her father’s body as she slept soundly. It amused you how easily the girl cozied up to Aemond, considering that, as far as you knew, they had not met before.

Fifteen nights and fourteen days had passed since their daughter Daenys came into their arms, letting her powerful cries be heard throughout the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast as the hour of the bat reached its peak of darkness. The child stunned those who helped bring her forth into the world, having been born with her eyes open, the right one violet like a Targaryen, and the left one with her mother’s colouring. A full head of silvery hair mixed with stray wisps of darker hues, giving her a colour no one could quite describe.

The day of her birth, her father shone in his absence. He evaded the Holdfast as if it were a cursed place. First he escaped towards the sparring yard, demanding to be taught the usage of a bastard sword, and turning a deaf ear to Cole’s comments that he should be with his wife. When the pestering became unbearable he tried to see his sister instead, but his wife’s screams echoed through every hall, making it impossible to ignore. Defeated and overwhelmed, he turned towards his dragon, far away from everyone. The smallfolk saw the massive shadow of a winged beast soar the skies, framed by the last rays of the setting sun as if engulfed in a fireball. Sight of him was lost with nightfall, but the dragon’s cries could still be heard, hidden behind clouds.

Aemond would have remained airborne until sunrise, had not young Daeron been sent out to pursue him and inform him that his wife had brought forth a most precious healthy girl. But not even such joyous news managed to lure the Prince back to the Red Keep. He flew again, towards unknown destination, not to be seen until the following day, well after the sun had begun its journey across the sky. Yet instead of rushing towards his family, he locked himself in the library, buried between books and scrolls until past dinner.

His attitude puzzled many around the court. Even if he perhaps found disappointment in the gender of his firstborn, his commitment to avoid his wife and child surpassed all levels of understanding; whispers began to spread of all sorts, most showing support to the beloved lady than to him. Some even said it was for the best; who would want a kinslayer to come near a newborn anyway?

No one could come even close to understand the why of his actions..

He had not been the same since Storm’s End. After his return, while his brother rejoiced and his elders frowned in worry, Aemond found himself numb, cold even, as if the icy winds and gelid rain that accompanied his flight that night had seeped into his bones. He only recalled broken fragments of what had occurred after he flew in pursuit of his nephew; the rattling of the saddle chains against the wind, Valyrian words shouted into the storm he did not remember pronouncing; a feeble, pathetic little fireball blown into Vhagar’s eyes, not doing more harm than a pebble would against the mountain. The horrific crunch of Arrax’s bones under ferocious jaws, as whatever remained of him and his rider floated down towards the restless sea.

The horrifying knowledge that his actions had caused the death of not one, but two boys.

After that, he shut himself more, if possible. He refused to see anyone, spending days and nights alone in his chambers, permitting only the presence of a servant to bring him his meals and news from the outside, isolated like a common prisoner. He abandoned his marital chamber, moving instead to the ones once meant for his wife; connected by a door he kept permanently locked and blocked.

His mother attempted to coax him out with gentle words and his grandsire with stern reproaches. You knocked on his door at nights, softly whispering his name, almost like a plea. He saw your shadow under the door, pacing or sitting on the floor against it, waiting for something to happen, to at least receive a word of acknowledgement; but night after night your hopes crumbled into dust, and soon you gave up. There’s no helping someone who doesn’t want to be helped

Yet a flicker remained, that the ice would melt with the fire of newborn life. That the cries of their so awaited child would break the trance Aemond had submerged into and return him to his senses.

He opened his door that day, yes, but only with the intention to flee.

And now, without warning or explanation, he showed up in the dead of the night, hidden by darkness like a lowly criminal, pushed by some unknown force to finally hold the being that had changed his status from man to father.

You sat with your hands on your lap, patiently awaiting for an explanation. Yet Aemond didn’t move, nor spared you a second glance; his whole focus on Daenys. His eye fixed on her soft features, arms protectively around her, holding her with dexterity you did not yet possess, but he had acquired with his little brother and his niece and nephews. One arm around the body, the other under, lithe finger cradling her head and gently caressing the silvery hair. Even in the dark, you could see the enthrallment in his gaze. The fearsome warrior Prince, wrapped around Daenys’ minuscule finger

“Husband?” You called out softly, trying to attract his attention

“I heard her cry” He replied, his thumb brushing across Daenys’ cheek “Whenever she cries I hear her from my chamber. You always tend to her so quickly, almost as if you awake before she makes a sound” You blinked fast, perplexed. You never imagined he could hear from his chambers, but again, Daenys had a pair of lungs that could be heard from across the city if you wanted to.

“But she cried and cried tonight, and nothing happened. I thought you could not settle her, but I didn’t hear your voice like when you speak or sing to her. So I came”

You wanted to be embarrassed that he had heard that too, but instead focused more on the fact that if Aemond knew all of that, he lingered at the door whenever their daughter cried, wishing to know what was happening with her. For a moment you imagined him with his ear pressed to the wood, holding in his breath to not miss a sound.

“She kicks a lot when she cries” He commented “I thought she wanted to be fed, or was cold. But you were asleep and I didn’t want to wake you, and I-” He swallowed before continuing, His index traced the baby’s features, from the roundness of the cheeks to the sharpness of the nose, a perfect match of his own.

“I took her in my arms and she settled. I suppose she didn’t want to be alone”

His voice held amusement. As if he could not believe his daughter, his own blood, could find comfort in his embrace. He had expected her to kick and scream and alert the world that a monster had come for her. But she didn’t. She just snuggled close to him and drifted off to sleep, lulled by the safety of her dad’s arms.

You felt your heart ache for him, as you finally began to comprehend some things. The why of Aemond’s distance. He had killed a boy. His bastard nephew, and the object of his ire, but a boy nonetheless. Because of that, Jaehaerys had been lost. And now he feared something similar would find his girl, for it seemed that a path of tragedy and blood followed his every step and dragged those close to him into the same fate.

You stood, not without difficulty, and moved to stand behind him, one hand on his shoulder. He shifted position, holding Daenys on one arm and holding your hand with the other, thumb caressing your knuckles. They remained in silence, both staring at the fruit of their love with adoration only a first time parent can conjure.

“She’s beautiful” He whispered “Gevie hae se hūra”

You only understood ‘gevie’, and that sufficed to make you smile. You leaned down until your chin rested atop Aemond’s shoulder, cheeks pressed against each other “She’s perfect. And she looks so much like you”

“Only the good parts” He replied, almost a bit harshly, the mere notion of his daughter resembling him setting him off. But soon he relaxed as Daenys stirred, mouth open in a quiet yawn which left her tongue trapped between her lips.

“She will be the best of us” You commented, your arms coming under his own to hold her. To hold them both; Aemond needed your support as much as the babe did. Right there, maybe even more.

“I will hurt her” He whispered, barely audible, his grip on Daenys tightening as he leaned down, his forehead against hers as he closed his eye. “If something bad happens to her, it will be on me”

“You would never” You rushed to reply, a coil tightening in your throat. How could Aemond think such a thing? He could never. You knew it. You knew it from the moment you saw him with the child in his arms, that he would burn down the entire country to safekeep that little girl

“Directly or indirectly, but I am dangerous for her. I’m not worthy of her” Sorrow laced his words, a sentiment foreign to your husband, who always held his emotions carefully and kept them well hidden under a mask of serene indifference. Seeing his vulnerabilities surface felt wrong, as if you had witnessed something private, a crack in the surface of an indomitable mountain. But he had no privacies with you; you were his wife, and you were meant to know him whole.

You moved to crouch before him, hands cradling his face and forcing him to meet your firm gaze “You are her father. The Gods blessed us with this gift because they deemed us worthy of her. And I know you won’t let anyone touch a single hair in her head, because they will be ash and dust before they can even get close” This time, you flattened your forehead against his, never letting go of him “You are worthy of this. Of her. You are worthy of good things”

His eye closed and he leaned into you, your bodies together shielding Daenys, keeping her warm. You two remained there for who knows how long, in silence, holding each other again after so long apart. It was him who broke the spell, his hand coming to circle your waist

“Let’s put her to sleep” He replied in a soft whisper “And then I’d like to sleep in your bed, if my lady wife will have me tonight”

You smiled without meaning to, feeling his warmth spread over you

“Tonight and every night. All the nights you want”

#aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen one shot #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x wife #aemond one eye #aemond kinslayer #house of the dragon #aemond stannies #marsie writes

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 months

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Dirty Work 44

Joyous Walpurgisnacht: Part II

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

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

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: Please share your screams in my ask or a reblog!

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

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Laufeyson returns with a second drink. You still have your first, nursing it as you find your head spinning with the activity all around. As more guests stream through, raucous as they meet others they know, the stage hums and the speakers crackle to life.

Bragi begins his set, a brief tidings for the event before he strums into a tune. You wiggle your foot to the beat, peering over at the full band behind the lead. It's all so big and bright.

You turn back, reaching for your glass, as Laufeyson draws from his own. He watches you over the brim, eyes traveling down your body, focusing on the movement of your foot. You still it and uncross your legs, setting your soles flat.

He puts his drink down, half-finished. You sit back and fold your hands in your lap, peering around evasively. He probably saw you slouching or was annoyed by your fidgeting. You blow out between your lips as the party blooms around you.

Voices thrum in ripples beneath the steady rhythms of the stage, hollers go up now and then, piquing your interest as you look over to see a group cluster. They stand around smaller tables framed by two chairs each. You can barely see those sitting at them moving small pieces around the board.

“Hnefatafl!” The cry goes up as Thor stands and the pieces scatter on the table before him. You quickly look away as his head pops up above his audience.

“An old game,” Laufeyson explains, “rather dry for an event like this.”

You raise your brows curiously. You’re almost tempted to ask him more but think better of it. He hardly seems interested. Distant thunks bring another roar from a crowd further down. You twist in your chair to see across the field large round boards set up. A man with blond hair hurls an axe towards the wood, embedding it. You flinch and face the table again.

“Chaos,” Laufeyson mutters.

“Yes,” you agree, your toe tapping on the grass until you stop it again.

You sink into a silence which exists only between you and him. The furor of the party crackles around you, circling you in a whirlwind. There in the eye of the storm, there is no sound. It is deafeningly hollow.

“Ahem,” the clearing of a throat and tap on your shoulder brings you around. Laufeyson looks over your head, fixing his posture as you face Odin, “hiding in the corner?”

“Not exactly, father,” Laufeyson says, once more taking up his drink.

“There is much to enjoy. Your mother’s put in so much effort, I’d for her to see you glowering like this,” Odin reproaches.

“I do not glower,” his son snips.

“Mm, yes, well, you are more than welcome to wallow alone,” Odin replies flippantly, “but you needn’t cast a cloud over others…” he shifts to face you, opening a hand to you, “might I be so humbled as to request a dance from the lovely lady?”

You look up at him and your mouth falls open, “dance? I don’t know… how.”

“Well, then it is a good thing I must take it slow,” Odin insists, “it isn’t so hard to learn.”

Laufeyson sighs and drains the last of his whiskey. He stands abruptly, “I need to top up.”

Odin eyes him tensely but doesn’t remark. He looks back to you, “you don’t need to sit in his shadow all night. One dance, fair maiden of Walpurgisnacht, I see you can barely contain yourself.”

You look down as his gaze falls to your foot, once more wiggling. You still it and accept his hand. You hope Laufeyson isn’t too upset. It is only his father after all, he can’t be too put out.

“Thank you,” you stand and let him lead you away.

Odin brings you amid the other dancers, on a flat white floor laid out over the grass. He guides you to face him and helps you place your hands before he hooks an arm around you. He’s gentle but firm in leading you, counting with the rhythm between directing you how to move your feet.

“That’s it, dear, you’re a natural,” he praises as you let the music guide you, “and a beauty. That dress is very becoming, though it pales on you. You look immaculate…” he continues to sway with you, “my son is a fool not to say it himself.”

“Odin,” you look past him sheepishly.

“It is the truth. You are glowing and he is playing the troll, secreting you away from the light,” he tuts and shakes his head.

“It isn’t my party,” you utter.

“You belong here,” he insists, “don’t you think otherwise.”

“I am the house manager–” you rebuff.

“You aren’t,” he says, “my son didn’t get his senselessness from me. No, that is bred of mistrust. Fear, truly.”

“Odin, it’s true–”

“If he says it, it cannot be,” he counters, “when he looks at you, he is not looking at a house manager. He will claim I do not know him but he is my son. I see through him, it is only a pity he looks in the mirror and cannot do the same.”

You stare at the button of his vest. You don’t believe him. You don’t want to. You’re too afraid to think it could ever be true. Yet how can you tell him the truth? That would be humiliating. You are only half-right, your son wants more of me but only to sate his worst urges. It isn’t sentiment, it is convenience.

“Pardon,” a voice has you tripping over your own feet but Odin keeps you balanced, turning you as another figure stands close, “father, may I… take over?”

“Ah, but we are having such fun,” Odin taunts and twists you away from Laufeyson again.

“Yes, it seems so,” Laufeyson says thickly, “perhaps the next song…”

“Oh, don’t be so mopey,” Odin stops you as he chuckles, “I was only trying to pep you up, yes? It’s a party.” Odin raises your hand and kisses it gently, “thank you, dear, for humouring an old man.”

He stands straight and lets you go. He faces his son but you cannot see his expression, only the way Laufeyson’s eyes gleam back dangerously. Odin departs and Laufeyson’s attention flits onto you. He takes a step forward, once more looking you up and down.

The music ebbs and a new song begins. The soft plucking begins, then the reedy tone of a flute. Mr. Laufeyson offers his hand and you accept it, awkwardly coming closer as he sweeps his arm around you, his hand stretched over your lower back. He looks down to place his feet with yours before he begins. He is lithe and graceful, you feel otherwise.

“This is your song,” he says as the melody comes clearer.

You tweak an ear as you follow it, then lyrics begin.

“Moon River, wider than a mile…”

Your heart pulses in recognition. You smile towards the stage. You didn’t expect him to truly do it but it’s wonderful.

“I like it,” Laufeyson says, “it is very… whimsical.”

You turn your head straight, focusing on your footwork, careful not to trod his feet, “it is.”

He’s silent as you feel his gaze upon you, bearing down. He must be annoyed by how you follow his lead, uncertain in your body. How pathetic; never had a birthday cake, never had a dance. You look up and gulp shakily.

You almost stop dead in your heels as you see something less than agitated in his expression. He is fixated on you without a trace of chagrin. His hand shifts on your back, his other on your hip as you hold his shoulder and his upper arm. He is handsome in the dimming approach of the evening.

“When I said before that you look nice,” he begins, “I was remiss. You look… beyond anything I could ever put into words. You are magnificent, pet.”

“Mr. Laufeyson,” you stutter, “well, you look very handsome as well.”

“I am not looking for compliments,” he dismisses, “and I think I owe you more than that.”

You don’t know what to say. Is it an apology? You don’t know entirely what he means. He’s had three glasses of whiskey, just like that night, and in the morning, he was just the same as before. You won’t count on the kindness he finds at the bottom of a bottle.

A sudden flash makes you squeak. You look over as Yvonne smiles over the large lens. You give a nervous giggle and brace Laufeyson tighter. He sweeps you away from the camera.

“Tomorrow, we will talk,” he avows, “but we can enjoy tonight. It is Walpurgisnacht and it is a new beginning.”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson.”

He winces and exhales, “can I be Loki for tonight?”

“Loki,” you echo, “yes.”

As the song ends, the heat speckling in your skin licks to flames. You don’t know if it’s being so close or his constant gaze or the thought of tomorrow and whatever you might talk about. You’re sweating and you're uncomfortable and you need a breath.

“Excuse me, um, I need the bathroom,” you gently pull away.

He reluctantly lets you go, his hand lingering on your hip as he points, “there, in the tents, I believe mother had facilities put up.”

“Thanks,” you offer a weak grin and step away from his grasp.

“I’ll be here,” he promises as you go.

You try not to hurry. You don’t want him to see how desperate you are to be away. It isn’t him, it’s you. This is all too much for you. It isn’t you. You’re not one of these people but they treat you like one. You’re just a poor girl born of cigarette ash.

You find your way to the tent housing the stalls. You take your time and try to collect yourself. Your nerves are tingling in your fingertips and where he held you; just along your lower back and your hip. It’s that urge that worries you, the one that made you think of resting your head on his shoulder.

You emerge and use the outdoor sinks set up in front of the stalls. You dry off and measure your breaths. You can do this. You go back down towards the fervour and as the night sets in, the large lights come to life and light the crowd.

You search the clusters of bodies. Where is Mr. Laufeyson? As you inch along the threshold, a shadow shifts to your right. You glance over but the figure disappears. You shake off the eerie sensation creeping down your spine and march forward into the tide of people.

You weave around bodies and tables, dizzy from the flurry all around you. You stagger as you’re nearly stampeded by a rowdy group of guests and you spin around to face a table in the far corner. There you find a scene that makes your heart plummet into your stomach.

You can’t stop yourself as you near the pair. Laufeyson, Loki, sits in a chair, two drinks on the table; his whiskey and another bright purple concoction. But beside him is Sif. She leans forward, her wrist clutched in his grasp as she whispers through the curve in her delicate lips. He stares back at her, eyes fiery, jaw locked.

“Loki, we had something good…” you hear her slither as you get closer. Her blue eyes dance over to you and her lips curl, “I still love you.”

She looks at him again and smashes her lips into his. He winces and turns his head, his gaze finding you as you stop, paralysed as you watch helplessly. You blink and swallow, wetting your lips as you bring your hand up to your sickened stomach.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

You turn and race away on clacking heels. You don’t look back as you elbow through bodies, running without direction, without escape. You just need to be away from it. All of it.

You find the pathway into the garden, plunging into the brush as your heels wobble with each step. You stumble and grunt in frustration. You stop and bend to unbuckle the shoes, tossing them away before you hurry on.

You find the stone gazebo, lit only by moonlight, and throw yourself inside. You land on a stone bench and hang your head in the frame of an arched window. You deflate as you hunch over, trembling so much it hurts.

You won’t cry. Why would you do that? It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. Mr. Laufeyson only said you looked magnificent then turned around to kiss his ex-wife. And why wouldn’t she? She’s much more than you’ll ever be. She fits neatly into their puzzle.

“Ah, little maid,” the gazebo darkens as the moonlight disappears as if a clouds passed over the nocturnal guardian, “what is the matter?”

You sit up and shudder as Thor’s burly silhouette limns in silver. You brace the edge of the bench and stand.

“N-nothing, I was only… having a break, I should head back–”

“It is peaceful out here,” he says, unmoving as you gesture around him. He fills the entire doorway.

“Yeah, but er, I should–”

“How do you like Walpurgisnacht? Are you having fun?” He asks, propping and elbow against the stone.

“Sure, I guess.”

“And did you play any games?” he sneers.

You falter and lean back on one heel. You have a bad feeling. You wring your hands as the air breezes in, a shiver rattling you.

“No…”

“That is too bad. This is a day of fun! Games are fun, aren’t they?”

“Please, Thor, I have to get back–”

“Let’s play a game,” he ignores your protest and steps into the gazebo, “I know a special game.”

“Thor,” you croak as you glance towards the windows. You see the lights above the trees and hear the muted noise of the partygoers and Bragi’s tunes. You look back to him as he takes another step towards you.

“You can be the mouse…” he says, “and I shall be the cat.”

“No, please, I don’t want–”

“You best be nimble, mouse. for the cat is hungry,” he growls as he looms closer, “and ready to pounce!”

He lunges and you jump back. Your shoulder hits the wall and you cry out. You turn and feel around, nearly falling through the opposite doorway as your feet slip over the stone steps. You stumble at the bottom, slipping in the grass as twigs and stones poke into your bare soles.

You hear him behind you, laughing as he makes a steady but easy pursuit. You sprint across the small field towards the row of brush, skirt catching on bramble as you dive into the wilderness. You don’t know where you’re going, you just need to get away.

Your feet slip on moss as dirty sticks to your skin. You puff as you pump your arms, glancing back over your shoulder frantically. He isn’t running, but he is coming. You can hear him laughing.

You swerve around, towards the noise of the party. You just need to get back there. You need to find a path. You don’t know where you are, the further you go, the more lost you are. The noises fade further and further. Oh god, wrong way!

Suddenly, your toe hits something hard and you nosedive forward. You don’t have time to get your hands up as your face crunches into a thick trunk and you collapse to the ground. You roll over as you taste iron on your tongue. Ow.

You sit up and touch your throbbing nose. As you plant your feet to stand, you hear a rustle and suddenly, you’re pushed flat to your back. Thor snickers as he holds you down by your shoulders, straddling you beneath him as he huffs.

“Ah, I’ve caught you, mouse,” he taunts as you squirm and whimper, “now the cat must feast.”

#loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #maid au #dirty work #mcu #marvel #avengers #thor

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cuubism · 5 months

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Happenstance [5x Hob and Dream met between their regular meetings] - bonus epilogue

Hob’s not the smartest man, but usually he’s got his wits about him. When you spend a chunk of your life accosting people on the road, you learn to keep an eye out for other people trying to accost you on the road. Not this time, apparently. This time, Hob’s walking about with his head in the clouds like a loon, paying fuck all attention to his surroundings, because he’s thinking about Dream.

He’s been doing that for a while. It’s not been long since Dream returned to him, since Hob kissed him, since his lovely old stranger seemingly accepted his courtship, and left him with a promise to come back. Hob’s been thinking about it nonstop since. It’s better than drugs, and Hob’s tried a lot of drugs.

Hob has unlimited time. If he wants to spend several months of it just thinking about the way Dream felt in his lap, and against his lips, and fantasizing about more, that’s what he’s going to do. Who’s going to stop him?

Apparently, the answer to that is, some guy with a crowbar. Really, Hob has been so spacey he’s lucky he only got knocked out and kidnapped, and not fully run over by a bus.

It’s all Dream’s fucking fault, anyway. Hob will tell him that when he sees him. Whenever that is.

As things stand now, he’s chained to a wall in some guy’s basement, which doesn’t bode well for seeing Dream some time soon. No one’s really talked to him since he woke up, and he’s not certain if this is because he’s done a poor job of obscuring his immortality, or if it’s something to do with his association with Dream. He wouldn’t have thought anyone knew about that, but then, he hadn’t thought so in 1789, either, and then that Constantine woman had come after them.

Too many damn cameras around nowadays, he thinks. It’s only getting harder to stay under the radar.

He’s just glad it wasn’t Dream that they captured. Granted, Dream probably could have freed himself instantly from this. Hob’s almost gotten one of his hands out of the chains, no magic required for that, just a few centuries’ worth of experience getting into trouble. Still, he’s glad that it wasn’t Dream.

He keeps working on twisting one of his hands out of the bindings. It’s actually easier with his hands above his head as they are, he can leverage gravity that way, but he still can’t quite get it.

His adrenaline is running high, with no real outlet, and that’s not helping matters. He can’t die, but the situation is still making him nervous. They don’t usually try to drown witches these days. They don’t usually believe in witches these days. Usually. Somehow Hob thinks this lot might be of a different mindset.

He’s still working on wiggling his arm free when the room plunges into darkness.

Wind swirls around him. His cuffs make a shrieking sound and then snap, releasing his wrists and dropping him to the ground. Somewhere upstairs, he hears someone scream.

The lights flash, and then Dream is standing in front of him. He’s a void of darkness cut out of the fluorescents, his expression as dark as the knocked-out lights. Hob wonders if he’s been catching up on missed films. Very horror movie, that entrance.

“You were serious about that!” Hob exclaims, delighted. “About not leaving me there!” He’s practically forgotten about getting kidnapped and chained up already, he’s far too thrilled about Dream coming to rescue him.

Dream scowls. “I do not speak falsehoods,” he says. “These arrogant ‘magicians’ dare to act against us. I have made them see the error of their ways.”

Us. Hob could start singing.

Dream finally walks over to him and crouches in front of him. He studies Hob, head tilted. “Your concern about this matter, or rather lack thereof, is disturbing to me.”

“I was concerned until you showed up, love,” Hob tells him. “Very dramatic entrance, by the way.”

“I see that being unable to die has had a detrimental effect on your sense of self-preservation,” Dream says, but there’s a smile in his voice now.

“I’m great at self-preservation,” Hob protests. “You’ve no idea how many situations I’ve not gotten involved in. Don’t judge me on one—”

He breaks off as Dream cups his face in one hand, strokes his thumb over Hob’s cheek. His gentle, sure touch makes Hob go still.

“I am glad to find you unharmed,” Dream says. Will Hob ever get used to Dream looking at him like that, with that care? No. He doesn’t want to.

“I suspect those guys upstairs are feeling glad about it, too, right about now,” Hob says, but his voice is tight, too affected by Dream’s touch for real humor.

“Mmm. I may consider showing mercy,” Dream agrees. “Eventually.”

“It’s hot when you’re scary like that,” Hob tells him. He may still be a little loopy from getting whacked upside the head. That, or it’s just the high of Dream’s melodramatic rescue. “Help me up?”

Dream stands, taking Hob by the arm and pulling him smoothly to his feet. Hob sways, and braces himself on Dream’s arms. It’s far from the first time in his life he’s been hit in the head with a blunt object, but it never gets less shitty to deal with.

“Now you get to be the gallant rescuer,” he says. “What was this about, anyway? None of them even told me.”

Dream touches the back of his head, where there’s blood clotted in his hair, the gash just barely scabbed over. “You drew some attention to yourself in searching for me,” he says. “That is what I have gathered from their dreams. I suspect they wanted to question you about it.”

Hob gets a chill, but not because of his own endangerment. “Does that mean there were people out there who knew you were trapped the whole time? And didn’t do anything?”

Dream inclines his head. “Not many. But yes, there were a few who had encountered Roderick Burgess over the years, or who considered themselves a part of the deep occult underground.”

“Jesus Christ.” Hob’s perpetual tendency towards violence rears its head as he contemplates tracking those people down and letting them know what he thinks about it. He reminds himself that he’s going to have to fake his death after this already, and there’s no need to create more problems for himself.

He supposes he shouldn’t be offended at other people’s passivity, he himself has stayed out of things plenty of times when he could reasonably have taken action. But it’s easy to take offense, to take it personally, when it involves Dream.

“I would recommend against taking action on that,” says Dream, with a tiny smile as if he knows exactly what Hob is thinking about. “Though disappearing for a while may be advisable.”

“Might be time to explore a different country,” Hob agrees.

Dream holds out a hand. “Come. I will return you home.”

“This really is a gallant rescue,” Hob says. He’s still delighted about it. “One more thing, though.”

He takes Dream’s hand, then leans in to kiss him.

He thinks Dream might have made himself just a bit taller for the sake of this dramatic endeavor, because Hob has to lean up just slightly to kiss him. Dream’s lips are ever so slightly chilled, and he tastes charred, like the aftermath of a lightning strike. It’s addicting. The power of him.

Experiencing it makes him even more grateful that Dream let him see him in a more vulnerable state, too, when he came back to him after his imprisonment. He’s clearly more than capable of keeping up that all-powerful aspect, he didn’t need to show Hob anything. He did anyway.

“A kiss of thanks?” murmurs Dream, as they pull apart.

“A kiss of ‘I wanted to,’” Hob says, which draws a chuckle from him.

“Let us return, then, and perhaps we can do more of what you have wanted to.”

“You do know how to tempt a man,” Hob says. “Alright, darling.” He squeezes Dream’s hand. “Take me home.”

Traveling via Dream’s sand is extremely disconcerting, and Hob’s pretty sure that no human was ever meant to experience it. It’s rather like stepping into a tornado, but one whose winds manage to get inside his head instead of just buffeting him from without. He thinks they might travel through a couple different planes of existence, and a few of nonexistence to boot. He tries not to think about it too hard, he’s too concussed to deal with it.

Regardless, it does get them back to his flat, which is a relief. He half-wonders if Dream will leave, then, having seen him safely home, but he stays. Lingering just a bit awkwardly in the living room as Hob quickly showers and changes into clothes that aren’t covered in blood and grime.

It makes Hob smile to reemerge and find him perched on the edge of the couch, reading a book with an air of affected disinterest. But he looks up when Hob comes out.

“Sorry, love,” Hob says. “Didn’t mean to leave you alone out here.”

A smile tugs at Dream’s lips at the endearment, and he leans ever so slightly forward, as if he would chase it where it lingers on Hob’s lips. “It is no matter.”

“You hungry?” Hob asks.

Dream frowns. “Should you not be resting?”

“Those guys made me miss dinner and I’m starving,” Hob says. “I might be mildly concussed but I’m pretty sure I can still boil water. Come on.”

Dream follows him silently to the kitchen, making no further protest.

Hob makes them some food, just pasta and sauce. Dream leans against the counter, sipping wine, as he works. Hob doesn’t trust him to help. Kingly types never know their way around a kitchen.

“You know,” he says as he sits down at the table, puts a bowl of pasta in front of Dream and then starts eating his own probably faster than is truly advisable, “the rescue was extremely entertaining and all, but I would also love to see you in situations that don’t involve extreme peril.”

“I will try to visit more, then,” says Dream.

Hob blinks. It’s that easy now?

“I intended to return earlier, but I had more left to do than I anticipated,” Dream continues. “Is it not customary for lovers?”

Hob chokes on his food.

Lovers, now? Zero to one hundred in an instant with this one. Not that Hob is opposed. He’s always been greedy and he’ll glut himself on Dream if allowed. He just… didn’t think he would be allowed.

He takes Dream’s hand on the tabletop. Dream hasn’t eaten anything, not that Hob really expected him to.

“I guess it is,” he says, grinning.

Dream smiles, that small, true smile that Hob loves more each time he gets to see it.

“Is that what we are?” Hob continues, playing with Dream’s fingers on the table. “Lovers?” And, because he knows better now than to leave that sort of question in Dream’s hands, adds, “Because I’d like that. Don’t know precisely what that means to you, though.”

Lovers could be something all-consuming. It could also just mean that they meet every hundred years as they have done, but they get to have sex, too. Hob knows which one he’d rather.

“It means…” and here Dream does pause to think, as though the city he’d already built of them in his head is not proving so well-mapped in reality. Doesn’t Hob know the feeling.

Dream sighs. “I have frequently proven an insufficient lover,” he admits. “What it ‘means’ matters little, for that rarely seems to bear itself out.”

In all his recent loony mulling over Dream, Hob’s also been thinking about dreams. Bit hard to be in love with dreams sometimes. But now he thinks, also, that it must be terribly frustrating to be the king of all imagined possibility, and then have to contend with the limitations of reality.

“It matters to me,” Hob says. He squeezes Dream’s hand. “Tell me?”

Dream doesn’t speak again. He stands and comes around to Hob’s side of the table. Leans over him, wraps a hand around the back of Hob’s head, fingers tangling in his hair. His grip is gentler than Hob thinks it really wants to be, in deference to Hob’s head injury—if Dream had his way he would pull hard but he doesn’t, and that alone sends a rush of tender heat through Hob’s body.

He cranes his head back, lets Dream’s grip move him. Dream curls around him, as if to blanket Hob with his form, slots a leg between his, and kisses him. With tongue. With teeth. With that would-be-strength with which he’d grabbed Hob’s hair, ferocious possession held at bay by gentler care. God does Hob want to tell him to damn the injuries to hell, he’ll live—he wants to feel that in full.

Dream gentles the kiss. Nips at the corner of Hob’s mouth, then licks over where he’d bit. Nuzzles into Hob’s hair, tucks his nose by Hob’s ear. Hob wraps an arm around his waist, holding him tight, and Dream buries himself close to him in a way that reminds Hob of when he’d convinced him to stay, to sit with him and admit, even if just by implication, that everything was not quite all right.

“That’s what it means?” Hob says, still breathless from the kiss.

Dream’s somnolent voice rumbles through his body. “Yes.”

Hob smiles to himself, and tucks his face in against Dream’s shoulder. “Good.”

#dream: stop smiling. you were kidnapped #hob: yeah we should do it again some time :)#hob might have a little bit of a power kink when it comes to dream. just a LITTLE. just a TINY BIT #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #my writing #of course the fic had to open and end with hob getting mugged XD

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sophies-junkyard · 8 months

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NOBODY ASKED but… Obviously Simon’s arc in adventure time solidified the series as one of greatest of all time (and I’m so hyped for this ice king sadness renaissance) but now I’m thinking of OTHER Adventure Time moments that rewired my brain as a kid. In no particular order:

1. “Once the strong guys got it how they liked it they said ‘this is fair now. This is the law.’ Once they were winning they changed the rules”. They really had the cartoon dog say that on tv in 2014.

2. “People get built different. We don’t have to understand it, we just gotta respect it”

3. The entirety of All The Little People. That shit was absolutely nuts for a kids show but also like…. I can’t articulate the lesson I just know there was one and it haunted me. The danger of the human ego. Hubris. Irreverence. Don’t play god bro.

4. Lady and Peebles. When PB ripped Ricardio’s leg off and bashed his skull in with it. And it was so hardcore they edited it out of the episode. Bro. I remember watching that after school one day and how my jaw just DROPPED at a PRINCESS being so brutal. They let her be so fucking angry and that was a game changer.

5. [Finn, about a horrific memory] “that one’s going in the vault. Aaaaaaaaaandd. It’s gone.” I quote that CONSTANTLY. It’s a great way to bring levity to a bad situation, but also forces me to go “hey wait a sec that’s not gonna work forever”. Things don’t stay in the vault.

6. Puhoy. He lived an entire life in that pillow world. He had kids. And then it’s just gone like a dream.

7. The deer. It was probably my first real introduction to horror. The hand wiggle. You all know exactly what I’m referencing. Were the candy people stuck in that well for 6 months???

8. What Was Missing!! Obviously now because it foreshadowed (and confirmed past) Bubbline, but back then just because it was so good??? IMO, this is the episode that defined WHO our main cast was, and how their relationships needed to grow for them to be content. It set up the next 6 years of the show! Plus it gave us 2 absolute BANGERS. Ugh i rewatched that recording so many times it wasn’t even funny.

9. Ghost Princess. Really just for the line where he sounds like he’s gonna shit his pants remembering his death and then in a clear narrator voice he’s like “I was a broken man.”

10. The pajama war episode. Now I’m doing this from memory so I could be wrong, but I think this really marks the start of Finn growing up. “I’ve really enjoyed just… hanging out with you.” The ability to start over with someone you’ve got complicated history with. The kindness. The growth from both of them!! It’s a direct parallel of episode 1 but their tones couldn’t be more different and I love it.

11. The slow and horrifying realization that The Mushroom War was nuclear Armageddon. Mushroom clouds. That went so far over my head as a kid even though they reference it constantly. It finally clicked during “I remember you”. Which I am NOT gonna go into because holy fuck that’s like 18 posts on its own.

12. Goliad! A child mirroring EVERYTHING they see, for better or worse. Seeing Jake in a bad moment screaming at the kids and goliad absorbing that behavior. Seeing she can use fear to control people. Also PB was Fucking Crazy! Her line “I’m not gonna live forever… I would if I could” is even more unhinged when we learn (like years later) that she’s already 900 years old. But she does physically age so I guess there’s that. The Suitor also falls into this category of episodes.

Ok getting into some of the more talked about moments

1. OK I LIED I have to talk about I remember you. I was 11 years old. I turned on the new adventure time episode like usual. 10 minutes later I was grappling with a grief I had never imagined before. Absolutely BAWLING not just for Simon and Marceline (the PLOT), but for what it showed me. The reality that every kid tries not to think about: your loved ones will leave you someday, even if they don’t want to. It’s an episode that becomes more powerful with every year I get older. To get a bit personal, dementia has completely taken my grandparents from me. I’ve seen sides of my grandfather that should never have existed, and I must constantly forgive him for what he does… now that he doesn’t remember me. And someday it’ll be my parents. That’s just the way of the world, ya know? Anyways, I remember my mom got home right as the credits were rolling and we had a long talk about keeping people alive with memory, mortality, and how the future was far away and we should decide on dinner lmao.

2. The Hall of Egress. I was almost 15. Life was changing. I was changing, and it was strange and frightening. That feeling where you know you’re losing your childhood but you just want to cling to it. Follow the same old familiar path, stick with what’s comfortable. But life doesn’t work that way. It took me years to really understand this episode and it’s symbolism. Honestly I still don’t think I could fully explain it. It’s like. How do I put this. I was so glad to be in the target age group in that moment. I was so glad that something I was growing up with was assuring me “you’re changing, but we’re changing too”. And isn’t that the theme of adventure time? Everything stays, but it still changes.

3. The absolute horror of Ferns existence. He’s Finn, but he’s wrong and warped. All those memories of the people he loves and they can’t stand to be in the same room as him.

4. Susan Strong. The introduction of a RUNNING PLOT. The show up to that point had really been so goofy and so monster of the week. I think the only really plot heavy episode before this one was It Came From the Nightosphere? And then suddenly they call into question the fact that Finn really is the ONLY HUMAN in all of OOO. And then… is he? It was SUCH a departure from the usual tone. Ending that episode with him reaching below her hat and gasping in shock, but never telling the audience what he found. And then she’s just gone. Which leads us to Islands!

5. Min and Marty. Second saddest episode in the entirety of adventure time, made worse because you know exactly how this family is gonna end up. There’s SO MUCH to dissect about Martins behavior in the series. A reformed con artist receives a traumatic brain injury while attempting to save his son. They’re both lost at sea, and he never looks for him. Was it the emotional trauma? Was it the physical damage? Meanwhile a mother loses her husband and her child in a single night and never EVER learns why. Nobody but Martin knows what happened that night. Also Finns fear of the ocean from season 1 is finally explained. 7 years of ignoring Finns origins and then they throw you THIS??? Watching it live was unreal.

Anyways I’m sure I’ll think of more. I might add on to this later for my own sake lmao, but I’d love to hear other peoples formative moments, quotes, episodes, etc. I really just needed to dump this information out of my brain so I can get on with my week.

#If you see this you’re obligated to comment an adventure time moment that lives rent free in your head #or don’t it’s your life babe #I have nobody in my life who has watched adventure time and therefore I must ramble here to myself #adventure time #princess bubblegum #marceline #ice king #finn the human #fern #Fionna and cake #this is my life #bubbline

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vctrvn-ls · 10 months

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|The Murder Mansion | |Niko|

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summary: you and Niko are at the fair and he persuades you to go to the haunted house

warnings: language, is kissing a warning(?)

word count: 3.4k

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"Uh-uh, no." You vigorously shook your head.

"Oh cmon." Niko nudges your shoulder with his arm, almost getting cotton candy in your hair, making you push him away with genuine annoyance.

"I'm not going in there. Those places are stupid. Shit costumes, shit props ect." You scoff and steal a piece of Niko's cotton candy.

"Hey," he laughs before sweetly giving you his cone, like the selfless man he was.

You pout at him, blinking "Thank you."

It was hard to piss him off when he was ready to do anything and everything for you.

"Cmon, when was the last time you went to a haunted house?" He put his arm around you, squeezing you in, while you were busy eating, not paying much attention to his attempts at persuading you.

"I dunno, like when I was a kid?" You shrugged, continuing to happily chew the cloud of sugar.

"Exactly!" He threw his arms up like he just proved something to you.

You raised an eyebrow and side-eyed him "So?"

"It'll be fun! It'll take you back to the old days."

"Why are you trying to make a haunted house sound so wholesome, Omilana?"

"Oh you absolute dred." Niko shook his head in defeat as you continued walking through the fair.

Children ran around the area which was lit by the fairy lights, that hung on lampposts and trees, the air smelt of popcorn and sweet churros, you could hear the faint screams of people who were riding the rollercoasters and the soft music that played in the speakers. It was already dark and the atmosphere was as romantic as ever, as Niko held you close while you pleasantly ate your, or more like Niko's, cotton candy that was now all over your fingers.

He glanced down at you and stifled a chuckle, noticing the empty cone and your sticky hand, which you were holding out in front of you so you didn't end up accidentally touching something.

You licked your lips and innocently looked up, seeing his amused expression and shrugging.

"That sucks." He commented, hiding his laugh.

You rolled your eyes "We need to go to the bathroom."

"You mean you need to go to the bathroom."

"Niko." You whined, stopping and pointing the other way "Or I'll wipe my hands on your brand new hoodie."

"Not the NDL," he laughed raising his eyebrows. You smiled at his comment, thinking that you had persuaded him.

"Oh hold on." He suddenly turned serious and furrowed his eyebrows, focusing on your face.

"What?" You quizzed "What is it?"

"Wait hold still." Niko held up his palms, telling you not to move. You raised a brow and froze in position, concerned by Niko's sudden change in mood.

He walked over, keeping his seriousness.

"You've got something here-" You felt his thumb on the corner of your mouth before his lips pressed against yours.

You almost gasped into him since you didn't expect that at all.

Your eyes fluttered shut as he slid his tongue from one corner of your mouth to the other, tasting the sugar on you while he moved his lips against yours.

He pulled away, straightening his back and going back to his tall self, while you were left below him in a cloud of fluster and heavy breathes.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks as you looked up into his dough eyes that glistened from the lamps around you.

"Alright mister smooth." You chuckle looking down at your feet, almost in embarrassment.

"Cmon let's go wash your hands." Niko's arm curled around your shoulders as he tried to hide his proud smile.

He had to give that one to himself, it really was smooth.

Fast forward to the pair of you standing in line for the haunted house. Yes, he had managed to persuade you, but he promised to buy you as many churros as you wanted after you were done, and you were totally planning on taking advantage of that offer.

"This line better be worth it," you groan leaning on the pillars.

"Yes," Niko laughs "We're almost there."

You hum in response, eyeing the five people that were still in front of you.

After 20 more minutes of you whining and Niko calming you down, the two of you finally get your tickets stamped and you both get sent to the first room.

The room was small and dark. The music playing in the background was more mysterious than actually scary, but nevertheless it definitely added some spice, complimenting the strange pictures on the walls.

"Oh look that guys missing a head." You point to a dimly lit painting that had a man in a suit without a head "Reminds me of you."

"Ha ha." Niko rolled his eyes, stepping away to observe another painting so he could come up with a comeback.

"Hey where are you going?" You instantly teleport to his side, despite him barely moving.

He laughs at your reaction, but willingly holds your hand "I thought you said these places were dumb?"

You swallow and furrow your eyebrows, nodding "They are."

"Well your grip on my hand is telling me otherwise." He titters, making you bravely let go of his hand.

"Fine." You step away, feeling your stomach drop in fear for anything that could happen next.

The "waiting" room had black walls and it was impossible to see any doors, if there even were any.

"I was kidding," Niko tried his best not to laugh as he turns to you.

"No, you know what I-"

BAM!

Next thing Niko knew was that his ears were ringing from the loud scream that just echoed through the room. Which came from you by the way. He looked down seeing you clinging onto him for dear life, eyes screwed shut and grasping his hoodie.

He sighs, looking around.

The room was now lit up blue and the walls were covered with white splats that glowed under the uv light, imitating blood splats.

"Baby it's fine," he pats your back "Look." He shakes you in attempt to make you look around.

But you're locked in position, not even thinking of letting go.

You could feel your throat still burning from the scream and heart beating in your ears. You shake your head in response, not daring to look up. Niko let's out a breathe before reading the blood-smudged words on the walls in monotone.

"Follow. The. Handprints." And straight away notices a door handle sticking out of the wall that was splattered with glowing handprints.

This was too easy for a genius like him.

While Niko fearlessly, or as you thought at that moment dumbly, looked around, you tried your best to recover from the almost gotten heart attack. After lots and lots of sweet words and an infinite amount of back rubs, you finally managed to move.

"Cold, cold." Niko said to himself, amused by the decor of the second room. It resembled a mansion, quite a nice one too. Again, lots of family paintings on the walls and a big red couch with a wooden chest beside it.

"Look there's an exit." You noticed a flickering green light behind some fake curtains with the words "exit" on it. But Niko was too busy reading a note on the table beside him.

"Aye it looks like this is something like an escape room." Niko finished reading the note which apparently had clues on how to proceed into getting to the next room.

"Did you hear what I said?" You tugged at his sleeve, hyperfixated on the suspicious chest that looked like it could probably fit a person in it.

"We have to find the murder weapon." Niko says, moving his hand off of yours and placing it over your shoulder before moving you in front of him and enveloping you in a hug from behind. You sunk under his warm touch, feeling safe and out of harms reach in his arms, for a second even forgetting in what position you were.

While you finally felt yourself calming down a little, Niko was observing the scene. The red fancy couch had a stain on it.

"Oh that's blood." He thought out loud and took a few steps forward, pushing you with him.

"I have a terrible feeling about that chest right there." You pointed. By now it was obvious that something was in there.

"Oh yeah we should check it out." And without a second thought he stepped towards the chest.

"NIKO!" You shrieked, squirming out of his embrace and jumping behind him.

"You idiot!" You slapped his back.

"It's fiiine," he said and reached for the lid.

"BOO!" At the last second Niko decided to jump up and grab you instead of actually opening the lid, earning a yell from you as you crouched down in absolute horror, while Niko burst into laughter.

You were sure that in a few hours you'd be laughing at this situation too, but as of right now you were not entertained in the slightest.

Your heart rate was through the roof as you covered your face with your hands, facing the floor and crouching down as low as you possibly could.

"I-I'm sorry-" Niko tried to contain himself and stop laughing as he kneeled down beside you.

"I'm sorry." He wiped his eyes, smile still evident through his words.

"Hey, I'm sorry," he poked your shoulder.

You looked up at him through your fingers.

"I fucking hate you." You say, voice muffled by your hands.

"I know, I know, I promise I won't do that again." He squeezed your shoulder but you swatted his hand away.

“Imbecile.”

“Woow,” he laughed “Such words.”

You furrow your eyebrows and get up.

You felt like crying.

"Open the fucking thing then." You motion to the chest, clearly pissed off.

Niko obeys without saying a word and slowly lifts up the heavy wooden lid.

"Oh." He says without further evaluating on what he was seeing. Curious, you step forward and from behind his back peek at the chest.

There was a small knife at the bottom that had crusty red pain on it.

You raise your eyebrows and laugh at how pathetic it looks. Niko turns around "See."

"Honestly I thought someone was going to jump out of there and scare us." You say, but then pause seeing his facial expression.

"The hell are you smiling at?"

"Promise not to scream yeah?"

"What?" You hastily turn around "Oh my god." You roll your eyes and let out a groan of relief.

Behind the table, where Niko read the note earlier, was an actor in a white dress and a black wig that was hanging over her, or maybe even his, face.

"What is that supposed to be? The thing from 'Lights out'?" You guessed.

"No," Niko shook his head "That's the mom." He pointed to one of the family paintings on the wall. "She was killed with that thing we found in the chest, look she's got red there."

"Oh." You said in surprise "You're smart."

"And you doubted me?"

"Actually yes." You stifle a laugh but you both get interrupted by a groan from the lady, which made you flinch and grab back onto Niko, not knowing what to do next.

"Do you have the key?" Niko asks casually and you instantly roll your eyes, what was the point of going to a haunted house if Niko was never afraid of anything.

You genuinely have never seen him scared before.

The thing lifted it's hand up, its fingers were scrunched up into a fist, and as she uncurled her palm you saw the key.

"Oh. That was easy." Niko reached for the key, but the woman closed her hand, instead lifting up a finger and shaking it, saying 'no'.

"What?" You exclaim, and to your question she points at you. You furrow your eyebrows, clutching onto Niko even harder.

"She wants you to take it." Niko states the obvious.

"Uh-uh, no." You shake your head.

"Oh cmon." Niko tried to push you forward but you yell at him.

"NIKO!"

"Babyyyyy," he cooed through the struggles of getting you in front of him, finding it pretty amusing at the same time.

You tried to get him off of you but he kept trying to get you closer to the woman, or actor, who was so over you at this point.

Skipping past the part where you ended up taking the key, but yelling at Niko for about ten minutes before opening the door to the next room.

"If you fucking try anything of that sort again I'm going to break up with you."

"Sorry." He apologized but through heavy laughter.

"Idiot." You push the door open, revealing another pitch black room. "No. I'm done. Let me out." You turned around, ready to go to that little green exit that you had spotted earlier.

"Hey, hey, heeeeyyy." Niko's arms caught you "We are going to finish, miss." He pressed you against his side, letting you wrap your hands around his waist and cling onto him again.

"We'll go in slowly." He took a step.

"No! We should run so whatever happens doesn't have enough time to scare us." You state and hide behind him. "You first." You give him a slight push forward, to which he simply shrugs and enters, passing through without a single noise.

"...Niko?" You whisper.

"It's another room!" You heard his voice, it was pretty muffled, meaning he was pretty far away. "Come on!"

You swallow and stare at the pitch black hole, nodding to pump yourself up.

"Ok I got this," you jump on the spot "I got this," you let out a sharp breathe and prepare to run.

"1...2...3..." you sprinted forward with your hands out in front of you, incase you hit a wall. Your eyes were shut and you only stopped running after crashing into something with your hands and almost falling back.

You opened your eyes as soon as you heard Niko's laughter. You sigh and slouch from how mentally exhausted you were.

"Ohh," Niko chuckled pulling you into a hug and placing an affectionate kiss on the top of your head "Don't worry I think we're almost done." He rubs your back and walks over to a small table that was in the corner of the new room.

You knit your eyebrows as you watch him read something to himself off the small blue table. This room looked like a kid's one. There were shelves stacked up with toys, some clearly modern and others looking like they had been standing there for decades.

You noticed a familiar painting on the wall, it was the same one as before, in the previous room, but this time the women, who was sitting on the chair, was missing a head, leaving only the faces of a child, that was on her lap, and a man who stood behind her.

"It says 'who killed my mommy?' And then below it says ‘who killed me?’." Niko gets up and heads to you, eyeing the room for any clues on what to do next. You, on the other hand, were busy with trying to find something in this room that could fit a person.

Words couldn't describe how terrified you were of someone randomly jumping out at you.

"I honestly don't know." After about five minutes of walking around the room neither of you found anything that could help you with the puzzle. Unlike Niko, you weren't even trying to solve anything, you just wanted to go home, back to your bed and hide under the sheets.

"I'm tired." You tell Niko, who seemed to be deep in thought. You roll your eyes in annoyance and tug at his hoodie "Ni-"

"Sshhh!" He put his finger up.

You blinked.

"Can you hear that?" He whispers.

You try to focus "No?"

"There!" He exclaims.

"Niko if you are messing with me agai-"

"No I'm not I swear!" His emotional eyebrows lifted up as his hand slipped around your shoulders. You heard a faint whirl from somewhere.

Now you were scared scared.

Even Niko froze.

"Hear that?" He turned to the door where the two of you had left from.

"Niko." You whisper "I'm fucking scared."

The rough buzzing sound got closer, making your heart drop to your feet.

"Maybe it's something from the fair?" Even you weren't convinced with the way you said that.

"Is it coming closer?" Niko thought aloud as the sound definitely was coming closer.

You only took a step back when it seemed that the swirling was right outside the room, not that it really helped since there was nowhere to go.

WHAM!

The door burst open, revealing someone in a white mask and an electric pole saw in their hand. The sound of the saw sounded so real that you totally forgot you were in a haunted house that was an attraction and not the real thing.

You couldn't even emit a small scream from how absolutely terrified you were, you just screwed your eyes shut and shoved your face into Niko's side so you didn't have to look.

His big arms wrapped around making you feel somewhat safe.

At least if someone was to die it'd be him first.

Good thing you didn't see his beaming face during all of this, he was enjoying every given second. He figured everything out, who killed whom. The guy with the saw was the dad and husband, he killed his family.

Niko stared at the actor, who was swaying his saw around, for a good five minutes, he was clearly done at this point because with his spare hand he pointed behind the two of you.

"Huh?" Niko looked behind him and saw an open door, which apparently you were supposed to run out of as soon as the murderer got into the room, but neither of you could do that since you were hanging onto Niko and he had you stuck onto his leg like a koala.

"Oh cold." He laughs to himself and nods, looking down at you, seeing only the top of your head as the rest of you was tightly pressed against him.

"Cmon let's go." He yelled over the top of the saw and tapped your shoulder.

In response he felt you shake your head, so all he could do was attempt to walk over.

The two of you shuffled towards the exit in the funniest way possible, hard to describe what was happening. Niko somewhat limped while holding you with one hand, and you took teeny tiny steps to not stray away from him.

"Peace." Niko grinned to the saw-man and closed the door, leaving the whirring noise behind.

One of the crew members walked over, smiling warmly "Did you enjoy The Murder Manor?"

"Clearly." He looked down at you and patted your back "Hey. We're out now, you can let go." He chuckled stroking your arm.

As slowly as humanely possible, you tear your face off of his hoodie and look around, seeing a hallway, at the end of which the fair peeped from.

You looked up at Niko seeing his clearly amused face.

He wasn't scared at all.

This guy had the audacity to pull you into this shit knowing damn well he wasn't going to be afraid at all and making you suffer instead.

"I fucking hate you." Your expression changes and you push him, heading towards the exit, shoving past the crew member and mumbling a quiet sorry to her as you stomped away.

"Baby!" Niko tried to hide the smile out of his voice "Yes we enjoyed it, thank you." He told the lady politely before running after you.

You took a fresh breathe of air as you finally left the enclosed area, wiping your sweaty palms against your jeans.

"I'm sorry," Niko caught up with you, still struggling to hold in his grin, thinking that you weren't actually mad mad.

You ignored him, walking away in search for a stand where you could get yourself some sweet corn and eat away the stress you had just endured.

"I'm sorryyy." He put a hand on your shoulder, turning you around to face him "I didn't know you were going to get so scared."

"I was scared from the beginning!"

"It wasn't that bad cmon."

"It was. I was really really scared, Niko."

"Okay, okay I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He put both of his hands on your shoulders "I'm sorry."

You looked up into his eyes.

He does seem sorry, you thought to yourself.

"I'll buy you churros. All of them." He pulled you into a comfy hug, making you roll your eyes and enjoy the moment because Niko's hugs were always the best, especially when he wholeheartedly meant them.

"Do you forgive me?" He whispers as he hears you sigh.

"Yeah whatever. You're a fucking loser, Omilana." You huff under your breathe. "Now I'm gonna make you buy all the churros. You might wanna film this for your YouTube channel."

————————★————————

#niko omilana #beta squad #youtube #fanfic #niko omilana x reader #hanutedhouse #NDL #betasquadfabfic #niko #nikoomilanafanfic #chunkz #aj shabeel #king kenny

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aka-indulgence · 6 months

Text

Something on the Graveyard Wall

Hey are you interested in kissing a Ravioli? Because I want to kiss a Ravioli. Here’s my version of a first meeting :b

(Ravioli x F!Reader No content warnings)

—————

It was a brisk night. You shuddered as you tucked your scarf back around you. The weather’s been steadily cooling over the past month, but it’s really started to bite you.

I wish I brought a hat with me… you thought, as the wind brushed your hair. You grip onto the bag and trudge forward.

Your lips twist when you approach the old graveyard. It was one of those graveyards that’s been around for hundreds of years. During the day you do feel the somber air, sometimes you’ve seen people with black umbrellas visiting on rainy days, but at night you just want to walk past it as fast as possible. The nice thing is, the Bad Vibes™ from it seem to deter most people from it, so strangely, its one of the safest ways home.

You’ve walked by countless times, but you always feel your hair stand whenever you walk past it, especially in front of the wrought iron gates that always seemed to creak whenever you weren’t looking. This night you were especially unsettled- the moon was full and high in the sky, the clouds obscured it, and there almost looked to be a mist in the graveyard.

You keep your eyes in front of you while you pass the gates, the graveyard now covered by a tall wall. You start to relax a bit when you find a strange shadow on the ground.

Your walk comes to a stop as you observe it, from a distance. It was a curved shape, long. That’s not normal. You don’t know why you have a strange sense of premonition when your eyes trail up to where it’s coming from and-

… What is that.

A man? Person? Creature? Was standing on top of the graveyard wall. Two bright, mismatched yellow eyes watched you from within its hoodie. It didn’t… look like there was a face obscured by the shadows, all you saw was darkness behind those eyes.

Something tells you this thing is probably not human! Hahaha!

Your eyes widened and your grip on your bag became deathly.

Its eyes were piercing you.

What is… what is that?! You ask again in your mind, doing your best not to scream. You think- you think your friends talked about different cryptids, but you didn’t like listening to them. You were spooked enough, living near the old graveyard, you didn’t need any stories living rent free in your head to whisper you threats that probably didn’t exist. Except this one, apparently.

You think you’ve heard of this creature, he was pretty popular with the townsfolk, you’ve heard of someone mentioning their grandpa of seeing it back in the 70s, you think. The “smiler”? “Mouth”? “The centipede”?

Inhumanely tall and lanky, jacket wearing… thing, with stitched sleeves and a completely void-black face, save for two eyes. Sounds about right.

Now you wished you had a list of all the cryptid “dos and donts” you’ve heard your friends talk about. What was it you’re supposed to do… don’t look at it? Or was it to nod your head at him and ask ‘how’s the weather, mr. jaws?’? No- wait, that’s for Mr. Jaws, obviously…

You were stuck in a staring contest with it. Your eyes feel dry. The ‘smiler’ blinks its eyes incongruously. You sweat, not knowing if this is making things worse.

You try to pretend that he’s just a weirdly shaped lamp post and start speed-walking, but then- were you supposed to stay still like a statue until it moves on? Or was that for another creature?

You almost start to a sprint when you see it move.

“E-EEeeee!!” you freeze. It comes down arms first, stretching down to the ground, its body sliding down the wall behind it. It falls into a heap on the ground for a few seconds… then its legs and arms together push it up back into standing, stretching and bending in ways that make it look like it didn't have joints. Or bones.

You tremble as it rises to its full height- must be more than twice of you! It looks like it doesn’t have much support to stand on, wobbling ever so slightly. It regards you with… curiosity?

It doesn’t react. Standing in your way from a peaceful, monster-free walk home.

Your mouth tastes sour. You can’t tell if you’re shivering because of the cold or him.

“H… hello?” You greet, hoarsely.

Were you supposed to talk to it? Or was this one of the monsters you should never try to speak with it?

The Smiler’s head rolls to the side like a ball, like something with no neck would be capable of. Its hands hang under him, close to the ground.

It makes a sound you can only describe as “???”

It lifts its hand towards you.

Nope nope nope nope, you stressed in your head as you stumbled back and away from it, but its other hand snatches you around your upper arm.

You squeak as you’re pulled under the towering creature, it’s long arms becoming liquid and stretching in various ways. It leans forwards, curling in a U-shape to be closer to your eye level; which means he’s twisted directly above your head, and you have to tilt your face up to look at him in the eyes.

Your throat tightens and your breath comes out in little puffs. Are you… supposed to scream now? Can you?

Its other hand reaches for your face. You want to smack it away, but your body is filled with cement, and you can’t move. You squeeze your eyes shut as it approaches and… pokes your cheek.

You blink an eye open. Its freed your arm now, and is starting to poke, prod… and pinch your cheeks. All the while its pupils grow in its eyes.

“... soft.”

“Uh… h-huh??”

Its eyes drift down to the bag pinched under your arm. And all of a sudden, both its too-long arms with too-sharp fingers are rummaging through your bag.

“What the- hey!”

It pulls out two things. One of them a little mint you got from work, and another your lipstick.

“Put that back!”

It blinks when you snatch the lipstick out of its hand (You’re not letting it play with your good lipstick!), but doesn’t seem to mind, instead turning its attention to the mint. You lean away as it tears the wrapping apart, and flings the candy into its hood.

You don’t… see a mouth… but you definitely hear him chewing.

Its eye widens, turning a softer, more orange yellow, curving into a happy shape.

“hee…… hehehe…”

Somehow, it both sounds like a young boy and an unfathomably ancient creature. Giggling playfully, but in a way that sounded like you were the toy.

It turns its eyes back towards you and leans closer. You grimace.

“U-um- do you want more? You can have more!” you chuckle nervously, reaching around for your second mint, presenting it to him. It stares at it for a moment, then takes it out of your hand with its long, spindly fingers. It brushes over your palm, and you do your best to hide your shudder. It looks at the mint like you’ve given it a precious treasure, then back at you.

You sidestep your way around it and bring your hands up in surrender. “W-well, I hope you like it, but I have to go home now, so- bye!”

You spun around and walked away, taking steps as big as you could possibly manage, all the while feeling those eyes bore a hole in your back. The ‘very normal walk’ turns into a sprint once you’ve turned a corner. You couldn’t get home any sooner.

… The creature stands where you left it, bent (more like curled) over, holding the mint in its hand. It turns away from the corner you left and back at the candy.

It pokes it, then rubs its fingers together, where it touched you. A smile emerges from the darkness of its face, and its eyes turn red.

“... pretty……”

#ravioli oc #i love him x2 #dont worry about him hes just a funny lamp post that wants to pinch your cheeks #very normal #aka writing

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astrangebird · 1 year

Text

"I haven't seen you in the Dreaming in some time." Hob startles at the sound of his voice, hunched over the counter scrubbing at what must be an immaculate surface.

"Oh, do come in," he chuckles, turning to face him, "Never have been fond of doors have you?"

He looks exhausted, bruise purple shadows under his eyes that still crinkle with his warm smile. "At this hour I doubt you would have answered for me."

"I always answer for you." His face stretches into a yawn that cracks his jaw as he returns to the counter to toss his sponge into the sink. "Can I make you some tea?"

"It's quite late." Dream says, sighs really. This isn't the first time that he's come to Hob's home at an unreasonable hour to find him cleaning or writing or some other mundane task that could wait until morning. This isn't the first cup he's been offered like tithing. Probably won't be the last either.

"Hasn't stopped you yet."

Dream catches his wrist as he reaches for his kettle. "It's quite late, Hob."

For a moment Hob squares his jaw as if Dream's word wasn't final. Though, he knows that Dream would only argue and not enforce. "Right, right. It is."

Dream lets go of his wrist and lingers as if too ensure that Hob will follow through and not pick up his sponge again. "Why don't you go to bed."

He knows that's technically meant to be a question, but here it's really a demand. Hob hasn't entered the Dreaming for more than a few fleeting moments in days, his sleep apparently fitful and restless. He doesn't make a habit to meddle in Hob's dreams, he figures it could make their relationship strained if Hob grew to expect him there, if his presence would be unwelcome. But he took note that Hob has been absent and that his brief dips have been unpleasant.

"I suppose I could try again." Hob concedes. Everything about him screams that he's exhausted and yet he pushes against the urge to sleep.

"Would you like me to help?" Dream offers. Again, he rarely offers these things. But many exceptions get made for Hob Gadling.

Hob sighs, like it's a chore to be looked after. "You'll make an old man think he's getting special treatment." He still manages to smile like a part in the clouds and even still, even with the heavy bags under his eyes it still warms him.

"You've always been getting special treatment." Dream smiles back at him. He always smiles back. It's easy here in this cluttered little home.

"You gonna tuck me in and everything?" Hob bumps his shoulder with a wink as he walks past towards his bedroom.

Dream follows him, watching his uneasy sway, "I could. Would it help?"

"It would just to make you stop worrying about me."

Before he's even crossed the threshold to his room he's wrangling his belt from his pants, balling it up to toss at his closet before awkwardly bending and tripping to get out of his pants. Dream has always found the ritual of bedtime an interesting thing, like it says something about the person whether or not they take their pants off before their shirts.

"I'll be right out." Hob murmurs, tossing his shirt in the vicinity of his hamper and stumbling into the bathroom.

Dream takes a moment to reacquaint himself with Hob's room. He swears his bed was against the other wall the last time he was here. He wonders if he moves his furniture often to force change into his long lived life. He turns the bed down and waits. He pretends that something terribly fond doesn't bubble in his stomach when Hob smiles softly at him.

"Aren't you sweet." Another non-question trailed across the back of Dream's hand as he walks past. His hands are always so warm.

Dream has grown to appreciate the little things about humans, Hob specifically he supposes. He makes the same groan every time his back hits the bed, wiggles into his blankets the same way, and now, looks over to him with the same sleepy expression. So Dream dutifully drapes the blanket over him, tucking it under his sides like a doting mother.

"You're becoming a hassle, Hob Gadling. I have to come all this way into the Waking world just for you." Dream chides with not a single ounce of malice.

"Forgive me oh merciful Lord Morpheus." He barely says around a yawn.

Lazily, Hob reaches out for him, clutching at his wrist with a gentle tug. Dream follows and sits on the edge of the bed. "I appreciate you." He mumbles, thumbing at the thin skin of Dream's wrist.

Dream's never quite sure how to respond to things like that, so he smiles and turns his hand in Hob's. "This is my purpose."

"And I appreciate you taking time from your purpose to tend to me alone." Hob grips his hand, taking to thumb the back of Dream's fingers. "I have my suspicions that you could deal with little ol' me from a distance."

"I could." Dream admits. "But I would rather come to see you."

"Now you're just being sweet on me." Oh the eyes, the crinkled eye smile.

"Perhaps."

Hob pulls on his hand, turns it over to press his knuckles to his lips like a sigh. "Gone soft on me."

Dream smiles, something terribly fond in his stomach. He wonders if he's as obvious now as he has been known to be. He wonders if Hob can feel the pitter-patter of his pulse beneath his fingertips. "Are you ready for bed?"

"If I'll see you there." Hob can hardly keep his eyes open, but they still search for him as his grip grows weaker.

"I'm always there."

#dreamling #dream x hob #dream of the endless #hob gadling #bird writes #there it took me so long but I did it #edited to add a readmore

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

Text

FINCH'S FRENZY (IV)

|| COV MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER V ||

PAIRING: Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 8.7k

WARNINGS: Angst, blood, guns & shootings, canon typical, death, vulgar language, gore, arguments, self-destructive behavior, PTSD, fluff at the end? Maybe?

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Vividly, you remember the first time your father brought you into the Museum. You’d only been little, then, no more than ten but old enough to form lasting memories that would stick with you. Key moments in the spanning woven tapestry that grew and spread like roots with colors named ‘Happy’ and ‘Sad.’ A memory bank of images that never leave the screen behind your eyes.

The statue had only been there because of the fire.

Made by men’s hands, it really wasn't the responsibility of a Museum of Natural History, but this was a special case. The other, sister, building to this one was far off into the city and had been completely ablaze not a week prior by unknown circumstances. Your father’s friend had burned, along with many priceless artifacts that were housed there. But not this.

The stone statue of the woman. Only here because it needed a place to rest before being sent out of state to a more… appropriate facility. They had flocked to her—marble scorched and covered in ash. Yet beautiful. Heavenly. Long arms reach up, a tiny bird held in the clutch of her stiff hands, presenting it to a far-off sky.

Cameras flash and eyes water.

“They’re calling her dīvīnā, Little One.” You had looked up at him, clutching onto your father’s shirt sleeve in wide innocence. He smiles softly.

“Di–” Your lips sputter and face heats, “Di-ven-a?” A small chuckle makes you huff, your expression souring. The man kneeled down, gripping under your pudgy chin and teasing.

“Not quite. Dee-veen-uh.”

“What does that mean?” You stubbornly shake your head, confused, “why are they calling her that?” A kiss is planted on the top of your head, your father standing back up and laughing, as you once more look at the statue with wonder. Your eyes glitter.

“It is Latin, my Little Love,” that stone bird in her lifeless hands has a broken wing, yet still she prompts it to fly; as if she knows it can even though it’s impossible. “Divine.”

To be loved like a woman in stone was a rare thing.

You’re not quite sure why you remember that when you turn a swift corner, slamming a shoulder into it as bitter tears track your cheeks. The bloody hand that steadies you leaves a trail of crimson behind as evidence. You don’t slow, not even when Gaz’s hat threatens to fly off your head at the break-neck pace you set yourself on.

“The park,” you breathe raggedly, frantic slams of your shoes bouncing off the corralling buildings at your side as you dart out of the tree line and into the city streets. If you had been focusing, you’d realize you have no idea where you are; utterly alone while the violent sounds of firing guns and screams continue to bounce off airwaves. Too close. Too loud. “Oh, God, the people.”

Cold couldn’t begin to describe your temperature. Frigid perhaps; shaking with frozen terror that makes you lose feeling in your limbs. Buggy eyes snap to shadows and trash in the alleyway like they were grabbing at you with phantom intentions.

You don’t know when you lost Kyle—when you’d taken a turn too fast and completely disappeared or something else along those lines. But in your chest, your stiff ribs almost welcomed the solitude. You had looked into his eyes. Stifling a loud sob, you increase the pace as the screams behind you loom over your head like a cloud.

Amber. Meadows. Deathly serious.

“No, no, no…” How had the attackers known you’d be out in the city? On campus? That white Sudan…How?

You miss the rapid calls of your name in the background, equally as desperate as your instincts. Loud and distinctly British. Separated by stone and mirky puddles. You increase your velocity; moving farther and farther away. Run, you just need to run. From everything. From everyone.

But when you rush one last corner, the large form that stands there isn’t a made-up phantom of the past. It isn’t a statue.

Skirting to an immediate stop, your legs quiver from the force and the dragging of your heels; your fingertips wrenching into your aggravated injury in retaliation. Gasping, your leaking eyes widen even farther at the covered face. The few feet of precious separation from the man that also surprised at the sudden arrival.

A dead second of slow-motion thoughts and nothingness that seems like a year ensues. Not a single atom bounces. Had he been waiting for you?

You slowly look down with white eyes to notice the assault rifle in his shifting hands; the nervousness of hips as they rotate weight into a form that would remind you of a football player if you bothered to engage with that thought. The air is stuck in your nose. Blood pressurizes itself forward. You swallow tersely, one shoe shifting to take a step back carefully. No words, no exchange of sentiments.

Only a target and a man holding a gun.

“I…” You trail, lips not responding as the rabid pulse in your ears threatens to drown you with blackness. At the click of a safety, you’re running like a rabbit again, darting back down the same way you came as bullets explode through the corner you rampage past.

“Gaz!” The call bounces to the sky, ringing off buildings. Was it possible to die from adrenaline? Everything burns a bright shade of red in the corner of your vision. Shouts ring from behind, a race of scarlet and duty now taking place with feral implications.

This was what being prey felt like, and you had thought you'd only have to experience that feeling once.

“Gaz!” You scream again, ripping vocal cords, and ducking as a round goes directly above your head, slapping your hands to the cap with gasping fear. How many were out there? Had they set a perimeter if you decided to run?

This was a level of professionalism you never expected from terrorists.

Sprinting past an open turn, a hand snags out, jerking you by the jacket collar as a second covers your mouth. Screaming, you bite down as your heart stops, mercilessly slashing out an elbow into hardened ribs. A sharp hiss meets your ear before the shadows of the inside of a doorway overhang swallow you.

Your back is slammed into the barrier, breath on your forehead as your hand snaps to the pen knife in your pocket like a whip. The shock of electricity down your spine is inconsequential to the hand that flies over your mouth. It tightens before your eyes can adjust properly through the tears; fingers flinching fast past layers of cotton canvas.

Lips dance over the shell of your ear. “Stop moving.”

The struggling of your limbs halts, eyebrows slightly losing the agonized furrow. Heat wafts from the body pressed into your own—great bouts of natural warmth that you hadn’t felt in years from another human being. Your heart skips for it; muscles lessen.

Goosebumps raise the hair on the back of your neck.

You blink rapidly, staring into the nose of Sergeant Garrick with a shuttering inhale behind his grip. Sensing your slowing pulse, his hand lowers, moving back immediately. Long fingers find his lips, signifying silence with nothing more than a tap and a frown. There’s still blood over his visage, splattering up his stubble and along his cheeks like paint as his jaw clenches with meaning.

Wheezing, you shake with both fear and a sliver of ease even as your back aches from the force that the Brit had exerted to drag you back. You swallow down saliva and nod a number of times; completely out of it.

You’re moved behind him with a firm push—a part of you flinches at the sudden chill that overtakes you once more—as the yelling gets closer from beyond your hidey-hole, a bulky thumping over the concrete ground like hail. You stare at Gaz’s neck as he grabs the pistol from his belt, leaning on the part of the wall that juts out with a single shoulder and barely peeking out.

He blinks slowly, not even looking at you as his lips thin. He looks merciless and loose at the same time.

The man sprints past, barely making it a few feet from where you watch with stilled breath before Kyle separates from the wall. One shot is all it takes, and the stranger doesn’t even scream before he hits the ground; a last round being driven between his skull plates to silence any sound.

It all falls silent after the reverberations cease—gunpowder in your nose and burning your throat. But it doesn’t even matter, because you’re already being forced along with a heavy hand on your shoulder before the blood can pool over the ground.

“C’mon.” He speaks blankly, whatever sly teasing and amusement from earlier today completely gone. “Exfil point is a block away—we need to move.”

You can’t do much more than follow, your head screaming at you.

“B-but what about…” Wanting to ask about the people who are back in the park, not quite understanding the horror yet.

Sensing this, Kyle knows it’s better to respond briefly.

“They’re dead.” You flinch at the truth, hearing the bitter reality settle in coupled with the man’s bluntness. Gaz sends a side-eye your way, looking down at you from his lashes.

While not willing to offer any comfort at the moment, he twitches his nose and simply states, “You need to stay focused,” while noticing the far-off look in your eyes; the rapid pulse under his grip.

Humming under his breath, he leads you on ever faster, knowledgeable of the quickly dwindling bullets in his mag. As you both speed walk, he speaks through his earpiece, telling Kit the streets before the far-away man replies with the correct route to the Exfil point.

“How’s the VIP?” Kit asks, and Kyle grunts, not giving anything more than a quick response.

“Alive. We’re nearly there.” He inhales slowly. “Multiple civilians down in the park.”

“Copy, 2-6. Keep en route.” Gaz scoffs under his breath, surveying his surroundings as the wails of sirens fly over buildings. This never should have happened.

This brought him back to Piccadilly Circus; the start of his entire counter with 141 and subsequent approval into their ranks. He’d seen many things over the course of his deployments to the Middle East—when he’d put a target on his back when disrupting Opium supply lines. He shouldn’t be here. He should be with his comrades.

Not with a girl that seems to want to put herself in every dangerous situation known to man.

Even with all the mental strain and uncomfortable scenarios he’d been in…watching innocent people die never got any easier.

He moves you along; muscles wound and gun in a tight grip. Gaz tries to tell himself that you couldn’t have possibly imagined this happening and with how you were acting that would be the truth with no doubt. He’d told you, though, hadn’t he? That’s what really gets his jaw stiff.

I told her. And she didn’t listen. Didn’t even try to think it over.

You shake under his grip, and a part of him feels pity, honestly, but right now the severity of the situation is more important.

“Take a left,” he utters, forcing you on with hardened brown eyes. You nod again, throat closed so tight you’re unsure if speaking is the right decision.

Everything is a mixture of hot and cold—fingers burning yet arms shaking from a lack of heat; teeth chattering.

The both of you were close now, only a few more winding turns left and the van should be waiting with the driver; authorities taking care of the shooters left in the park still searching for you. But these alleyways were like a rat’s maze.

“Keep close,” Kyle offers, “We don’t know who else is—”

“Right!” Your yell makes him turn sharply, knife barely grazing the flesh of his neck as he weaves. Brown eyes flair with anger, gun in his grip just as easily coming up to the armed assailant.

The covered face held no weapon besides a combat knife; another person intent on taking your life. How many were out here?

“What in the…?” Gaz grunts, but before he can bring the pistol up to pull the trigger, the man’s other hand is grabbing his wrist, twisting it to the side mercilessly and away.

The Brit hisses, throwing out his other arm to block the knife from once more coming down to settle in his neck. These people were many in number, but how was it that they were so rusty? Anyone with combat sense knew it was best to go low before going high when attacking with a knife. Before he can swipe the Bastard’s legs out from under him, locked in that familiar battle of wills, Gaz hopes in his head you don’t run off again.

Starting to gain the upper hand with gritted teeth and sparking eyes, there’s a swift thunking of metal meeting flesh moments later. Blinking wildly, Kyle’s face goes confused, slightly losing grip in that mere second of oddity.

Then he sees it.

“Bloody Christ.” Gaz gasps, gazing at his own reflection in the hilt of a small pen knife stuck in the eye of his attacker who subsequently begins screaming wildly, trying to back up until the Sergeant shakes out of his shock.

The gun levels with a chest, and it was done before the killer could rip the blade from his eye.

Only one bullet was fired until the small click of an empty barrel signaled that Kyle had used up his last round. The man falls into a heap and lays on the floor, a puddle of crimson leaking from his guts as he gasps and coughs.

Breathing heavily, there’s a pause in the air. Gaz looks back at you slowly, eyes wide with astonishment.

You stare back, right hand quivering and twice as bloody then it had been before. You had made a mirror slice on your palm by holding the blade and releasing it to hurdle forward loyally. Not that you knew that.

No words are exchanged as the gurgling from the body falls silent, only the air speaks in brushing breezes that ruffle your jacket.

“2-6,” Gaz’s earpiece speaks, but for a moment he’s stuck gazing into your eyes as you stare at the body, lips parted and jaw slackened. You’d just… “2-6, do you copy? Extraction is waiting for you.”

Brown eyes snap away, feet quickly shuffling to rip your penknife out from the socket and place it in his pants pocket. Later.

“On it, Actual. Keep ‘em ready—we’re coming in hot.”

“Rog. Laswell’s been informed, expect request for a full security unit comin’ the lady’s way.” Frowning, Kyle doesn’t respond, having to physically turn your body away from the scene and move you forward.

His X12 is slipped back into his belt, useless entirely.

“Love,” Gaz speaks to you, trying to see if you’d respond, but your eyes stay blankly ahead; tears frozen in time on your cheeks yet the hysteria is shown in the stumbling of your legs. The racing pulse under your skin makes the Brit concerned. A stiff sigh is released before a decision is made with creased eyes.

You’re being lifted with little warning, carried into a bridal hold as if you weighed no more than a piece of paper. You gasp briefly, sense coming back in a flash of a thrown knife and a wide brown gaze.

“H-hey!” The exclamation is met with a click of a tongue and increased footfalls, Kyle keeping you close to his chest with wind whipping past your ears. But you can’t think beyond the defining moments. The bodies in the park. The man you helped kill. Had killed.

You force down the bile in your throat as Gaz’s warm body encompasses you.

I didn’t…I didn’t do that, did I? You hadn’t thrown that blade. Couldn’t have. That would make you…

Your face tightens, brows creasing like tin foil.

The van was torn open with a loud bark of ‘get us the fuck out of here,’ and a dumping of you onto the back seat only three minutes later; you didn’t have the thought capacity along that short run to tell Gaz to keep his hands off of you, or to stop sending you those glances with his hidden thoughts. All you could do was try and keep back the flooding hysteria.

Kyle shoves himself into the car, slamming the door.

“Go!” He hits his fist on the back of the front seat and the driver peels out of the open alleyway with a screech of tires.

Breathing heavily, you blankly look outside to watch the rushing police cars and ambulances dart past in the opposite direction. The streets were so condensed with fleeing people that they were having a hard time getting through, the flickering flashes of red and blue lights trapped behind your eyelids even as you blink and shake your vision away.

Jesus, how many people are dead right now? How many were dying?

“Take us back to Base,” Gaz’s harsh accent drives a spike into your ribs. Focus on that. Focus on hating him. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about the knife.

You force out through a shaking diaphragm.

“Fuck no,” the air flips; driver sending a wide-eyed glance through the mirror as Kyle’s wound body stills like a flag on a stagnant day. You persuade a sneer to your lips.

Just make him angry. Make him yell at me—distract me. A vile form of self-destruction, sure, but you can’t start thinking about anything that just went down.

You know how it would go if you had time to process. How the first year went after your father met his fate. You’d…You’d…

The Sergeant’s tone comes out in a snarl, “What’s that?”

You’d never thought his file was true about that part. The hardheadedness and the opinionated side. When he was with you he always seemed level-headed; calm. Now though, it was like you didn’t have a grasp on his character like you thought you did.

In the driver’s seat, Private Clancy clears his throat and grips the wheel tighter, not sure where to go.

“You heard me,” he had, Gaz’s ears had twitched at the curse—vulgar language not common from your tongue. “Fuck. No.” Eyes hard on his knee, you glare through very obvious fear. Kyle stares with venom lacing his silver tongue, lungs inflating. “I’m going home.”

“Home?” The Sergeant asks immediately, the car taking a left turn quickly. “Oh, my apologies, then,” he shakes his head, “Do you mean the exact place you’d be ambushed? Perhaps giving yourself up would be more your speed, Ma’am. Private,” Gaz glares into the rearview mirror, “Base, now.”

“You do not get to dictate where I go, Garrick!” You scream, ripping his hat off your hair and pointing a finger with the same hand. A flash of amber replays in the back of your mind. Stop. Please, stop. “I am not going to the damn—!”

“People are dead!” Flinching, your shoulders hunch in faster than someone can blink, and brown eyes burn at you, jaw tight and teeth bared even as self-restraint tries to hold back a more poison-coated octave. The thin line between the two of you breaks. “Civilians!” You see Kyle take down a deep breath, his hands clenching. The next sentence is slow, but deep, “I don’t care what you bloody want because I’m not asking. I’m taking you in and getting a full Unit assigned.” Your heart freezes, lids going back in shock as sweat trails down your back. Gaz scoffs, turning away from you to run a hand over his hair. “Never should have agreed with Laswell and taken you on. I need to be with my team. You don’t listen!”

Opening and closing your mouth, you stutter for an answer.

“Take me home, Kyle,” your voice is breaking, but Gaz doesn’t even look in your direction; his lips firmly sealed as he glares at the headrest with his resting fist tapping periodically on his chin from the window-ledge. “Kyle.”

He shakes his head to himself, and in a fit of infectious rage, you chuck his cap directly at his skull with a strong arm.

“You fucking pathetic twat! I just goddamn killed someone trying to save your useless life!” You bare your teeth and feel your throat constrict, eyes red and holding back a weeping deluge. Kyle growls under his breath as the hard brim slaps his temple, snatching it back mid-air. But his snapping reply stills on his lips when he meets your gaze head-on. His breath halts for a brief moment, recognizing the dwindling sense of control. Your words give him pause, and he doesn’t think you realize you’re looking into his eyes again as you rage. “I should have let the bastard tear your throat open—at least he’d be getting to do what I’ve always wanted since the moment you put a fucking gun to my head! For leaving my family a mess of blood and pain! Do…do you expect me to be thankful? For what?! All of this is your fault! Don’t you dare try and put the blame on me.”

You’re sobbing, and the Sergeant watches silently, lips slightly parted as the driver gets more and more anxious. The car sputters along at a slow pace; everything relies on who wins this volatile battle. Brown eyes are stuck on the blatant brokenness of your gaze, for the first time able to study them without side-eyeing you or sneaking glances when you regard him by looking at his lips or nose.

He’d never seen eyes like yours.

Blame? He didn’t blame you. Not…not entirely. But he was angry at you.

“For the love of God, I will chuck myself out of this car and sprint home—I don’t give a shit if I get shot at, Garrick. You and your little Task Force can go and fuck yourselves. You left my father with a hole in his head; made my mother leave me in a decaying house all alone and expected me to be okay with seeing my dad slump dead and feeling his blood drip off my chin. That fucking house.” Hands weaving through your locks, you wrench your eyes shut and the connection is severed in an instant, Gaz blinking back to the car with an unsteady inhalation of breath. His body is as still as a stone statue, fingers twitching when you finish with, “Fuck!”

Foot stomping to the floor, you hunch forward, wailing in earnest as the blood on your hands makes you want to barf. Your head burns. Your throat aches. Everything felt like you were being rocked back and forth on a violent wave of self-loathing and hatred.

“Stop it,” you rest your head between your knees, mouth open with desperate pants of air, “Fuck, p-please just stop it.”

No one knows what you’re referring to.

The car had parked a while ago—sitting in the parking lot far away from the park. Once a moment has passed, the Private only taps the wheel in the strangled moment of relative silence, and asks above your wet sobs, “Sir, I…Where are we going?”

Kyle stares at you, opening his mouth to speak before it freezes and falls back shut. He swallows down the saliva in his throat before licking his lips, not looking at his cap before numbly putting it over his head with two hands.

“...Mansion.” The tires peel out slowly.

You don’t hear anything above the ringing in your ears; see above the red curtain settling. All you breathe down is death, and all you can think about is what went wrong.

“It is Latin, my Little Love,” that stone bird in her lifeless hands has a broken wing, yet still she prompts it to fly; as if she knows it can even though it’s impossible. “Divine.”

Your nails dig into your scalp harder, lips trying to strangle back sounds of a breaking mind. But you can feel his eyes on you as your face burns, digging deep when ruffling fabric makes you tense.

Everything is so loud—too bright. You can’t focus on calming down…you…you need to—

A bomber jacket settles over your head, the sides draping down to your ankles as you blink back with panic. You’re about to scream before you realize where you are.

Park. Car. Gaz.

The penknife.

Darkness surrounds you, and body heat suggests someone sits close. On the ground, you see a combat boot peak in from the makeshift shroud, shifting from time to time with unease and an inability to stay still. A blessing and a curse. Your bursting lungs begin to slow as you take count of the laces, studying the color and the shine. Letting the calming low-light seep right into your brain as your fingertips loosen.

A throat lightly clears, and they tense again.

“We…we’re nearly back, Ma’am.” You don’t answer. Gaz sighs quietly under his breath, pressing to the earpiece sitting in his canal. “Actual, change of plans. I need a full Unit to sweep the entire VIP’s property—we’re heading back now.”

“I don’t think Laswell will go for that, 2-6.” Kyle peeks at your hidden form—the way you shake so violently he was afraid you’d shatter like glass. He thinks about what you said, not able to peel his eyes away. Even as he tries to force it down, his heart hurts.

“Do it. I’m not takin’ her to Base.” The Sergeant tits his head down, hand clenched. “It’ll make this worse than it already is.”

“...Rog. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Copy, Mate. Keep me updated, yeah?”

Gaz thinks back to the alleyway and the penknife in his pocket feels heavier than stone. He hadn’t needed help. That wasn’t pride, that was just a fact. The Brit wasn’t as large as Soap—certainly not Ghost—though he was still well above average for what a regular workout would give you. Even if he did value integrity far better than brute strength he wasn’t like a dull blade.

He’d had it under control.

So why had you done that? Even you had expressed confusion over the action. For all intensive purposes, you should have wanted the terrorist to win. It seemed like you did.

“Hell,” Kyle whispers, bushing off the dried blood on his cheeks with the back of his hand as the city falls away to a slower-paced town. The adrenaline was wearing off, and the internal guilt was beginning to form.

He hadn’t meant to yell.

It had been a while since he’d worked Protection, had forgotten how much he should regulate his emotions. Gaz was used to strong bands of brothers—tight-knit groups that went in like a shadow and left with nothing but a whisper. That was One-Four-One; his brothers.

But…brown eyes slowly rove to stare. Listening to the struggling breath like an animal being choked by a collar.

You’d already gone through so much, and although he could grab you by the arm and shake with all his might, it wouldn’t change the fact that you didn’t know how this worked.

He needed to keep his gentle approach, not force you back into the hole you were intent on keeping in. Gaz needed to fix this. Tell you. Show you.

He’d do it tonight and if his honesty didn’t work even a smidge then he’d send in his offer for re-assignment. He’d made a mistake, and he was never one to let that stand.

By the time the van was pulling into the iron gate, held open by a black-clothed soldier, the property was already swept and cleared. Gaz opens his door and steps out, leaving it open on the off chance you would follow him. You didn’t, of course.

“Sergeant,” the man’s face was covered with a balaclava, large of shoulders and chest. A hand is presented, and Kyle takes it with a soft greeting.

“How’s it looking?”

“Everything’s in order, Sir. Laswell took the time to set us up back in town,” there’s a glance sent your way, and Kyle restrains himself from sidestepping and blocking the man’s view. His instincts were still rampant and he shifted his legs restlessly. “Figured the Lady wouldn’t be too keen on letting us stay here—can’t do anything without the inheritor's permission.”

Gaz blinks at that but only adds it to his databank. He knew you had control over who you allowed on the property, but hadn’t known you were the inheritor.

Why hadn’t the estate gone to the wife?

“Good to hear,” Kyle smiles slightly, tapping the side of his fist with the soldiers. “I can take it from here, yeah? See to it your men are comfortable and keep the radio up—we don’t know what else might be going on.”

“Copy, Sir.” When Gaz switches weight, looking into the interior of the car he’s already addressing you with a calm demeanor; ready to coax you out with a good chunk of his gut filled with apprehension.

“Love…can you—” The car was empty, and before Kyle could begin to snap to attention, the black of his bomber jacket slashes his wide vision. A deep sigh falls after a second of exasperation, sarcasm about to be called over the air. Hands rub over eyes before itching at his cheek with a muttered, “Keep it light, Garrick. Sky’s not falling just yet.”

He follows, concern growing steadily.

You had killed a man. Lived through your first shootout. How was he supposed to make this work? You already hated him…what could he say?

Gaz knew for a fact that it hadn’t fully hit you yet, and when it did, he was afraid you would break apart even more. But why was he so conflicted about staying or leaving?

Your feet carry you to the house quickly, head down and extra jacket over your shoulders that you don’t bother to flick off. Shoving past leaving soldiers that give you stiff looks as you pass makes your lungs hitch. You didn’t want them on your property—you didn’t know them.

“Love!” Kyle calls your name from behind, and you hear his jogging feet catching up as your fast-snapping eyes find the black void in the bushes.

The cat.

Green eyes brush against your, slitted pupils corralled by overgrown foliage. It blinks slowly, and you force your head forward once more; un-cut hand snapping to your mouth to keep down the frantic way your lungs jump.

Doors were of no obstacle to you, you shove through them with a hunched shoulder, letting it swing open and hit the wall with a defining bang of oak.

“Hey! Slow down, would you?” Ripping your shoes off, you speed across the foyer, heart distressed. Before long your body points you down the hallway.

Gaz rushes after, heart beating fast as your form disappears down a sharp corner that he grabs to swing himself past.

The black of his bomber jacket is a temporary sight before the barrier of a door slams shut, swallowing you whole.

“I need to…!” Kyle halts to a quick stop, arms at his sides as his button-up stays rolled up at his elbows. Brown eyes close tightly.

“...Apologize.” He places a hand on his head, tilting back his neck, “Shit.”

—

By the time you realized you weren't in your room, it had already been too late to turn back around.

You gradually come back into reality after a fitful anxiety-induced fatigue on your father’s office couch. Hours had passed, judging by the pitch darkness of the room; the temperature was already colder than you usually were used to.

Eyes stare at the ceiling for what seems like an eternity, and it’s sad to think the only time that everything in your head calms down is when you can listen to the pipes in the walls. Creaking wood. Forcing yourself up, you hiss sharply, lids wrenching shut at the zinging pain up your right arm.

Ripping your hand up, you blink rapidly through the achiness of your red eyes to stare down at the dried wounds. The twin gashes across your palm crack as you flex your fingers, crimson lines opening. Even as your sigh builds, you only watch them begin to bleed at the movement; not relaxing your muscles for the single purpose of not caring enough to.

The skin was agitated. Itchy as well.

I sent a knife into a man’s eye. You still, lips parted and numb. I watched people die one after the other because I went outside. This is…this is my fault.

Kyle had been right. You don’t listen. You’re stubborn, vengeful.

“But I can’t be anything else.” Whispers bounce off the walls; the coffee table ahead of you and the gargantuan desk behind where you’d play hide and seek in the gaps.

You’d run to your father's office to try and find comfort you know you’d find nowhere else. Pull it from memories considering it was all you had left.

But you can’t pull comfort for this. Part of you wants to put on the news—know the count of the dead. The other part says that would be worse.

“Because of me.” You mumble, standing on unsteady legs that threaten to buckle. Your body is sore from all the running; fleeing from bullets.

No, not because of you.

Sucking in a slow breath and listening to the creaking of the house, the ghosts, you clear your throat to dispel the mucus.

Because of your father. Mind racing, this event puts a hammer into the stained glass that was your family legacy. Before you could deny it—you could say it was Samson Row that was judge, jury, and executioner; while that was still true, what kind of people would fire on innocent bystanders to try and nail a single target?

Turning, you think back to Laswell as your tongue licks at the dryness of your lips and your eyes move to attempt and paint a picture. You stop to look at the desk.

“Your father had sensitive information that searches of his shipping lot and museum office didn’t offer any leads on. While you’re spending more time at your home, I want you to look for them. Anything that involves other dealers or a location to a hub.”

Taking down a slow breath, the walls were suddenly suffocating you. Your father didn’t…he…he couldn’t have.

Your right hand pulses mockingly.

Without knowing, your feet pad over the floor to his desk quietly, standing behind the chair and over the dust-hidden mahogany. The old lamp on the corner; the strewn papers that have faded ink and old script haunt you as you slide your vision over them.

Museum exhibits that never got installed, bank statements, and more important documents pertaining to his job. You skim over them, bloody fingers leaving streaks in their delirious acts.

Feeling the fiber under your flesh, you push them aside one by one.

Nothing of interest.

Your throat closes for no reason, skin goes slick with perspiration dribbling down your brow. Nothing, see.

Blood drops down to the table as you hold your hand over it, loose and limp at the wrist but violently quivering. You watch. And then you start to open the drawers with a heated fervor, wiping at your forehead and leaving streaks of crimson.

“There’s nothing.” You gasp. “Nothing. They’re dead because of nothing. I killed a man for nothing.”

Guns fire in your mind; people scream like you had when sitting in that chair in a basement. Gaz’s eyes boring into you. You’d looked into his eyes not once but twice—the second of your own volition.

“Nothing?!” Folders are grabbed and slammed to the desktop, exploding with a poof of dust that leaves you turning and sneezing violently before you stifle yourself.

You’re ripping them open one after the other, burning in the back of your nose. A knife keeps releasing from your hand. A shove on your shoulder as a bullet hits a trash can that was used for cover.

The black bomber jacket that had fallen off in your slumber and was now sitting in a heap on the floor.

Innocent people.

Fuck, they were screaming at you.

“There can’t be nothing.” You seethe, trepidation both your drug and your double-edged sword…what if you did find something? “There needs to—”

“Love…?” Air silences. “Are you alright in there?”

There’s a shadow under the door, barely discernible over the darkness as you shiver. How long had he been there? How…how long had you been in here?

Your fingers stop their aggressive tossing and you blink through the dizziness of your brain. Stumbling back a step or two, your hip bumps into the chair. Instantly, the large thing skids over the floor with its wooden legs as an ear-ringing screech as you grab onto the arm to stop from falling. Your skull pounded.

Quick, loud, knocking starts.

“Ma’am? Ma’am!” Breathing quickly, your body shakes at the noise, the sound so similar to the sounds in the park.

“S—,” your voice breaks, “Stop fucking knocking!”

It stops instantly, and you pause there for more than a few moments glaring at the floor; brows tight and teeth biting into your lip. The quiet sound of a hesitant voice echoes after a minute.

“Could you open the door for me?” Gaz clears his throat as you stare at the wooden barrier with glinting eyes. An attempt at a kind chuckle. “...Been getting cramps in my neck from leanin’ back against the wall all night. And I, uh,” you close your eyes, “I think we need to have a conversation, Love. A real one, if you follow me.”

You were tired, incomparably so, but even you knew he was right. What he had yelled at you in the car was true. All of this had gotten put into place with as much consideration as a mallet gives a nail.

And Kyle had known all along what would come of it. A sliver of guilt stabs you.

You didn’t have to like him—didn’t have to forgive him, because you probably never would—but you had to begin to listen. That didn’t mean stop pushing back, it just meant that his expertise was needed for the safety of the city as a whole.

The city with the museum that your father had loved dearly.

Feet shuffling, you move around the desk, side-eyeing the now bloody contents atop with a numb expression as you move to the door. You had locked it, apparently.

Not that you remember.

Hand stuttering above the handle, you stop and listen with straining ears. A shifting body calls to the Sergeant’s anxiousness at your non-visibility. The erratic behavior. Resting your forehead over the wood, you truly wonder if there would ever be a time you were used to someone else living in this house.

This house. Your house.

It didn’t feel right for anyone to live here.

“Are you there, Ma’am?” You open the door stiffly.

Kyle’s face is tense, you can tell just by looking at his chin; how he holds his shoulder back like that. There’s a split-second where you both study each other—you, noticing how he’s still just as dirty as you, and him, seeing the focal point of the streak of red blood on your forehead.

“What, Garrick,” you speak as he sees the ruffled nature of your clothes. Defeated muscles. “Here to tell me you were right?”

His legs cease their movements, mouth half-open with apologizing sentiments now snapping shut with a click of teeth. But not from anger. Concern. Why were you bleeding? Had he missed you being injured? Kyle had sworn you were alright—no shots had ever met their mark.

He’s touching you before he remembers to ask first.

You’re being swept back into the room and plopped down on the couch with no warning, and you don’t fight it. Warm hands grip your shoulders and squeeze quickly.

“Bloody hell,” Gaz rushes to the desk to flick on the lamp, “Why didn’t you tell me you were hit?!” Your eyes snap shut, blinking rapidly at the light.

Rays cascade over the room, the dust in the air being sent into dance classes with how they flew. Lids narrowed at the floor, your socked feet shift over the old rug, but you offered no answer over a soft shrug of your shoulders.

Kyle gawks at the back of your head, rushing back over to check you over as he bends on one knee. Hesitating for only a moment, he first looks at your head, tilting it back and forth with a hand under your chin and the other by your ear. You’re cold under his grip and that makes him even more nervous.

How much blood had you lost?

“I need you to tell me where it—”

“Hand.” He blinks, staring at you for a second with surprise. Gazing down he sees the spasming limb with a small inhalation of air.

You let him slowly move back, all digits moving to encompass the afflicted area. But he pauses.

Frowning, you rub the side of your face into your shoulder as you hear the man suck down a sigh. Confusion lingers in your heart, but you care little at the moment.

“May I?” In between the brief palpitations of your most important muscle, you forget for a second who’s in front of you. You forget the Sergeant. The Brit.

Your face softens.

When had someone last asked you that?

Your lids slide open and closed in surprise as Kyle waits, outwardly patient with an internal raging heart.

“You’re already here, aren’t you?” The room is bathed in warm light and quiet creaking. Two people who don’t know how to act around one another suddenly suffocated with too many words. So they say nothing.

Kyle grips your hand so softly that you have to hold your breath in order to keep sane. You want to rip it back from how warm he is.

“Christ, Love, you’re freezing.” It’s a low comment, passing more for a whisper as brown eyes snap up to you. But slowly he shifts your flesh with the dig of his firm fingers, running over the bone to check for internal damage until he flips it over entirely to see the real problem area.

He holds in a sharp gasp. Tries to keep his cool as you stare at his bobbing neck.

“That…this’ll need stitches.” You hum. Gaze sliding to his face you say what first comes to mind as you draw a comparison to his twin scratches. You end up wondering if you’re drunk again.

“We match.” you point casually to Kyle’s left cheek. His were smaller than yours, of course.

Gaz focuses on your eyes even as you choose not to look at him directly.

“Yes, Ma’am.” He attempts a weak chuckle, still holding your hands with the hope that you might take some of his heat for your own. Why were you so cold? “I suppose we do. Why don’t you come with me and I can get you all cared for, yeah?”

You weren’t acting right, and for an instant, the Sergeant misses your snarky attitude. Anything was better than that bitter nothingness living in your expression. He was shocked. The woman who he’d had this iron impression of was using a chisel on it every instant she could.

It only made him feel more and more like a prick.

Fucking hell, Garrick. This is a whole different game.

“How’d you get them, then?” You were in shock, speaking whatever came to mind with a far-off stare dunked in alarm. Kyle had seen it all before and it didn’t matter who it was plastered on. It was his duty to help.

“Tell you what, Ma’am,” he stands, helping you up by the arm and sending a soft smile your way. “We’ll get you all proper again, and I’ll tell you all about my days in the police force. I wager you’d like that. History and all.”

“I like old history,” leading you out the door with a hand over your back that rubs small circles, he traverses the darkness and leads you to the shining light of his room one step at a time.

He sends an amused glance, “That’s my old history. Pretty good, too, in my opinion.”

You shiver again, and Kyle draws you a little closer, frowning tight. Your eye bore into the ground with cold sweat on your temple. He moves for a second to wipe it away but stops himself with a tight closing of his lids.

“Why would I care about that?”

“You just asked me, Love.” He reminds softly, turning the corner slowly as the two of your feet make the floorboards scream. This house was never quiet was it?

“Humph,” your sound bounces off the walls when Gaz makes it to his chosen room, the door already open and the light on.

He moves you to the cleanly made bed and lets you sit down while he walks to one of his bags by the wardrobe. A medical kit is pulled out, yet he keeps sending looks behind him to stare at you.

Legs hanging off the bed, you can’t really tell if you’re here or if this is some strange point between delirium. For certain, though, you don’t feel good.

Bleeding like a stuck pig and trying to keep your vomit down. It was all a state of far off sea-water. A roaring of waves in the back of your head. But there was a realization as Gaz shifts in front of you once more, face creased.

It is the realization that no matter what you do or what you try and change, you will always just be this. Stuck; stationary. Left to waste like the mansion itself—breaking down year after year until all that’s left is rotting wood and shattered stone. Blades of grass in the cracks and termites with fat bellies. But what was even worse was that you didn’t know how to function without this decay in your skin. The quiet rage pulled down beams of sanity. The agony a network of scuffed floors and dented walls. Shut curtains. Abandoned rooms and memories that shutter with every gust of wind. Ghosts in the hallways.

Was it all real, or was it just a pigheaded attempt to find something to relate to? There was truth to it—there had to be.

This was home.

This was you.

This would always be you.

“You asked how I got my scars,” Kyle speaks and you notice his hand back in yours, skin tingling not from the medicated wipe he runs over your palm like a feather, but rather from the sensation of touch.

Warm. It was a blanket of pure silk. A stuffed animal set into the dryer. How had you ever forgotten what that felt like?

You hum an acknowledgment, flinching when the chemicals start to turn your hand numb. Gaz lightly shushes you, squeezing your wrist.

For some reason, your nose starts burning at the action.

“It’ll be okay, Sweetheart.” He stands, grabbing a chair from the corner table and bringing it over to place in front of your knees. The medical bag is placed beside you, various contents being taken out as elastic gloves are pulled over long fingers. “Where should I start then,” Kyle stares at your sad-tilted eyebrows. “The moment it happened or how I put myself into that bloody stupid situation?”

“Situation?” You utter, scoffing without venom, “Sounds pretty serious there, Sergeant.”

“Oh, trust me it was,” the way he places your hand in his lap is deeply intimate, disgustingly so, but even as you want to rage and shove him off, it hurts to think too deeply. “Terribly serious—I was undercover, y’know.”

His soft expression holds you as the first stitch pierces your flesh. Pressure, no more. You frown, rubbing your eyes with your free limb. He pauses and glances your way, finding no pain, he continues on with the second, deft hold creating perfect knots.

“Ever done that, then? All your snooping around, I wouldn’t be surprised.” A smirk comes and goes on your lips. “Certainly seem the type, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Can’t say I have.”

“Hm, well,” he chuckles. “Anyways, you see, it was a drug bust during my third year with the Blue. Opium. Sizable Mates running that whole operation. They found me out two bloody weeks in.” You blink to slight surprise, shoulders losing their hunch as you now have something else to draw your attention to. “Hoped to at least last a month, to be honest with you.”

“You’re insane.”

“Ah, probably, Ma’am.” Taking notice of the blood staining Gaz’s cap from earlier today when it was on your head, you bite your lip as the story continues. “I was held up in a shipping crate for a whole damn week, and this one fellow,” Kyle moves one hand up and your vision snaps to it, seeing him motion to his chin with a ‘U’ shaped hold, “proper beard on him, tells me I need to give up who I was.”

“...Did you?” Lip quirking, the Sergeant finishes off the first row of sutures, grabbing another wipe and cleaning the area. He was happy you were focusing, at least, but you were still too shaky for his liking.

“Hell no—Bastard sucker-punched me. Happened to have a nice ring on his finger. Can only pray for whoever was married to the bloke. Ripped my cheek open something nasty, enough to make it scar over.” Both of you are surprised by the huff of laughter that jerks your chest.

A pause as Kyle feels his chest go loose. That wasn’t a bad sound at all.

“Well, that’s it,” Gaz admits softly, halfway done with the second, smaller cut, “can’t say it’s all too amazing.”

“Because getting tortured by drug lords isn’t what you consider amazing, apparently.” You cough through your embarrassment, feeling slightly back to normal. Taking down a deep breath, you stare down at your palm as it gets sewn back together again. Hearing how the skin squelches.

“Well,” the Brit holds you delicately, a swelling of pride in his chest, “I’ve done a few bigger things than busting the likes of them. Stuff that meant a great deal more in the moment.”

The rest of the sutures and cleaning is done in total silence, and your lungs are suddenly able to work properly again. Kyle places a thick gauze pad atop the marks, holding it down while taking a roll of bandages; beginning to unravel them.

His thumb is holding the end down when he whispers.

“Why didn’t you want my help?” You ran from him in the park—hid away when you were injured. None of his teammates would do that.

She’s not them.

With a skip to your pulse, you hold your lips shut with an iron rod. That was the question, wasn’t it? You had run from the only person in the world that seemed to care whether you lived or died.

Peering at your palm, you speak the only truth you know, “Because then I’d have to admit something was wrong.”

There are more things you want to say to him—horrible things; pleas and nonsense—but in the end you just turn to stare at his neck with blood on your hand and stitches stuck in your flesh.

Kyle’s eyebrows peel up, holding your hand in his own and suddenly more in tune with you than he ever had been before.

“I…” He starts but doesn’t finish. Not for a long while. “I’m sorry, Love. For all of it. But you need to start listening to the things that I tell you—I’m here to keep you alive. It’s my first and my only priority. You need to be able to live with that.”

He wasn’t sure there was more he could say. Your lips pull in, pressure living in your chest like an infection.

“I hate you,” you say, eyes watering. Blood on your forehead.

“I know,” he responds, slowly, softly; wishing for a moment you’d look into his eyes again so you’d realize he’s finally starting to understand.

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