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celestialprincesse · 27 days

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𝟏. 𝐀 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞

Part One of Foreigner's God King Simon Riley X F! Faerie Reader

WC: 2k

Sunlight fractures through the leaves of age old oaks and ancient pines, dappling against your back, weaving through long strands of untamed hair to brush a kiss against your thinly clothed shoulders, spiders silk and gauze just barely fluttering on a phantom breeze stirred by the muted clopping of horse hooves on the forest floor. The mare beneath you holds tension in her withers, matching the unpleasant knotting of the muscle between your shoulder blades. She knows what’s coming just as well as you do.

It’s been a long time since you’ve felt anxiety this way. It’s the kind of gnawing, unsettling feeling at the pit of your stomach that comes only from venturing away from the safety of the trees and caves, brooks and hollow roots you call home. Your people call home. You force yourself to swallow down the fear - remind yourself that you’re doing this for them. Without this sacrifice, your sacrifice, the woods and forests which serve as sanctuary for your entire species, would be gone. The sick feeling in your stomach refuses to be soothed.

In an attempt to calm yourself, to tear your mind away from the images you’ve conjured of what may await you on the forest edge, you focus intently on every slow stride of your companion. You draw your thoughts to counting every rhythmic movement of her shoulders, the way they gently jostle your hips as you follow each motion of hers with one of your own. A push and pull of a gentle tide. She and you melt into one being, acting and reacting in such effortless synchrony, such enviable elegance. An innate ability for which your kind are revered.

Humans long lost touch with nature - shunned it in favor of such rapid growth, such vast power. They burned the trees to make room for their sprawling palaces, dug up the earth and all of her riches to build their roads, to grow their crops, never once wondering what she could provide had they simply respected her instead. Your people had never done such a thing, and for that, you’d been blessed. She’d provided you with everything you could ever have needed, and all you’d ever had to do was provide for her in turn. That balance, that equilibrium, is what humans have long since forgotten. Compromise, to them, is an impossible thing. To you and your kind, it’s an intrinsic part of life.

At this moment, you feel that perhaps you know compromise better than any.

The journey so far has been painstakingly long. On the one hand, it’s something you feel grateful for, that you’ve time to prepare yourself for the life that lies beyond the treeline. On the other, however, it’s excruciating. To ride through the forest, down the path away from the only life you’ve ever known, to mourn something you’ve not yet even lost. Every blazing orange dusk is another grain of sand dripping through the fingers of time, and every golden lighted dawn a death knell. You wonder if your sisters miss you the way you miss them. Your mother, too. Maybe they sit in quiet solitude, wondering what you’re doing at any given moment, or maybe they cry tears of frustration and anger at the fact that it could’ve been anyone else. Anyone but you.

The days before had been spent in a resigned sort of mourning. You’d saved your tears for the first days of your voyage.

You still so vividly remember sitting with your mother as she twisted up your hair, pinning it with flowers as she reminisced upon the girl taken by the last king. She’d been only as old as your youngest sister, Ophelia, when it had happened. Once every generation, every two, if you were at all lucky. You, unfortunately, were not. She’d spoken of how silent everything fell when the girl had been sent away - the strange, pained feeling that had settled over your people as they’d watched her go resigned into the trees. She’d never come back, of course, a fate that you too share. The small hope flickering like a fading ember at the bottom of your heart sings songs of longing. Such a foolish thing it is, holding out that perhaps the man who waits beyond the woods will love you, guide you to him with coaxing words and the gentlest of touches. You feel pathetic even thinking of it.

You never had quite outgrown your childish fantasies of love, and in turn, had given the humans holed up behind their cold stone walls another innocent heart to break.

When the sun shrinks back to nothing but a hazy golden glow, like that of a dying fire or burning star, you realize that more for your horse’s sake than your own, that it’s time to stop, to rest before you carry on with your journey. A day or two more and you’ll have reached the place where the canopy dwindles and the roots which cover the forest floor grow sparse, travel under the earth as though to hide from the human feet which march upon them. You hope for at least one more blissful sleep under the stars, moss under your head and night creatures watching your rest with vigilant, unseeing eyes.

Settling aside the small pond where your horse bends at her withers to drink, you lay up against the gnarled stump of a fallen tree, which yields to accommodate your body, just one of the many perks of being so connected with nature. You’ve no need to set up a campsite when the forest welcomes and provides for you with such ease. It’s not easy to forget the fact that the forest probably recognises the way you’re feeling - sympathizes with your predicament.

As you drift off into a fitful sleep, under the comforting twinkle of the stars, A king is waking. Behind the fortified stone walls of the palace, the revelry celebrating the lead up to King Simon’s wedding has lasted for days. To most, it’s an opportunity to celebrate. Their cold, reclusive king finally taking a wife. When the betrothal had been announced, the sigh of relief collectively exhaled by the nation had been palpable. He hadn’t wanted to do it - marry some wild forest thing and rut her full of little fat wailing babies. Johnny had been the unfortunate soul tasked with convincing him - reminding him that since Tommy passed, so did the soul heir to the Riley line. With enemies poised in the south, ready to exploit any weakness they could find, Simon hadn’t exactly had much choice. His being backed into a corner, however, hasn’t made him the most pleasant to deal with during the preamble to his rapidly inbound nuptials. For not only his sake, but also everyone else’s, he hopes that his bride-to-be is at least reasonably tame. With his luck? Highly doubtful.

His closest men had shared their theories and fantasies of some nymph-like creature, lovely and demure, happy to bend to Simon’s every whim, less wife, more well trained pet. Whilst he can appreciate a beautiful woman just as much as any man can, he keeps his expectations low - pleasant to be around and a decent conversationalist is enough for him.

He’s tried to expel the thoughts of marriage from his mind for as long as possible. He’s far too busy to be distracted with silly fantasies of rose petal decorated aisles and which rings he’ll select for his betrothed. Keeping a kingdom running and the vulture-like men that are his enemies at bay is no mindless thing. Simon barely has time enough to sleep, let alone celebrate a wedding he doesn’t want, nor to take the day-long trek to the agreed meeting place to collect his new wife. To collect his new wife. Parade her on horseback like some exotic acquisition to be flaunted, to grow bored with when the novelty inevitably wears off.

It’s impossible to ignore the way his knees creak as he rolls tiredly from his bed, the fathomless cold embedded in the very core of the flagstone floors seeping into his bare feet as he dresses himself. In spite of his status as King, Simon keeps his appearance reasonably simple, his tunics plain and armor scarcely decorated. Easier to dress. Simon Riley is a man of convenience, the bells and whistles of being monarch are nothing but a hindrance.

The celebrations have thankfully quieted, all of his courtiers and castle residents undoubtedly tired, hungover and sore from the days of singing, dancing and drinking - days which he’s mostly spent holed away in his study, playing chess with wooden carved soldiers on battle maps, giving the occasional go-ahead to wedding planners and burying his nose in any literature on strategy he can find. Today, unfortunately, his kingly duties outweigh his reclusiveness. He’ll only travel with Price to the meeting point - having originally wanted to go alone so as to make your initial meeting less intimidating, a point to which the head of his Kingsguard had made his disagreement abundantly clear. Yes, Price knows that Simon is fully capable of looking out for himself, but he sure as hell isn’t giving him any chance of proving that. He’s also desperate to get out of the castle and away from the mothers attempting to shove their daughters at his feet. So, with huffed complaints about the weather, and the threat of oncoming rain, signaled by the gritty gray clouds blotting out the starlight, the two men set off. Hooves beat thunderously across stone, dirt and grass as they make their way past the walls of the city, through the dwindling suburbs of thatched roofs and smoking chimneys and out into the vast plains of the countryside. The fresh air is a welcome reprieve from the smoke and burning metal of forges, the grassy hills and fields stretching for miles a refreshing break from the towering monoliths of stone that make up the palace. He can see why people would like it out here, away from the banal chatter of gossip and the unrelenting noise, left to grow stagnant within the confines of winding alleys or houses packed so closely together. Simon hasn’t even met you, and yet he already finds himself sympathizing for the adjustment you’ll have to make.

You, meanwhile, feel surprisingly more grounded following your nap, having allowed both yourself and your horse to rest for a while before continuing your journey. The gnawing anxiety in your stomach is soothed by the handful of blackberries you’d found and snacked on as you continued through the slowly more sparse woodland, and although you’re still wallowing, at least you’re not wallowing on an empty stomach and no sleep.

The sun slowly inches west behind the cloud cover, which quickly replaces the forest canopy you’ve always known, and tells you that in your mental absence, another day has nearly come and gone, and with that, the mileage covered which draws you closer to your inevitable fate. The birdsong has long since gone quiet, and there’s no longer movement indicative of life in the shrubbery. Just you, and the parapet on which you seem to endlessly walk.

Until the forest seems to stop entirely. The trees halt their growth at some invisible boundary, wildflowers cease their spread with an unnatural abruptness and your stomach goes lurching. Like you’ve jumped from a cliff. You’ve jumped from a cliff, you’re about to hit the ground, and everything in you is screaming for time to stop, for fate to twist, for the inevitable to be somehow avoided.

You could turn back. You could still turn back, and the forest would welcome you home with open arms. You could go home to your sisters, to your mother and the magic woven into everything you’ve ever known.

You could turn back - but in turning back, you’d only shatter the fragile peace forged so weakly between your own people, and those who’ve come to take you away.

“Looks petrified.” Price observes from where he and Simon stand proud upon the hill, watching as a faerie on a white horse comes emerging tentatively from the treeline. You do, you poor, delicate thing, Simon thinks to himself as he, Price, and their imposing black friesians make their way to greet you.

Happy Foreigner's God day to those who celebrate 1.8k and 2k are basically the same so pls enjoy the 1st chapter 💕

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dollfacefantasy · 27 days

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Synced Up

pairing: satoru gojo x fem!reader

summary: after your boyfriend has been cursed with bluetooth abilities, sleeping next to him becomes more difficult. luckily has a solution for your frustration.

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, oral sex (f receiving), fingering

word count: 2.2k

a/n: comm for @nexysworld <3

Everything around you felt spacey and far away as Satoru brushed the pads of his fingers over your clit and down toward your entrance. A long whine pours from your lips into the dreamy atmosphere of the bedroom as he slips them inside you. You hear a chuckle from between your legs and feel a warm kiss against your inner thigh.

“That feel good, baby? That what you been aching for all day?” he asks.

“Mhm,” you whimper before gasping.

His long digits slide back and forth between your walls effortlessly. They curl against that sweet spot inside of you that makes your legs tense and your hips buck. Your breaths come out in pants as you reach down and thread your fingers between the soft tufts of his white hair.

“Fuck… Satoru,” you whine “Need more.”

“Then look down at me, pretty girl,” he coos, fingers pumping in and out the whole time.

You follow his instructions and tilt your head up to gaze into the eyes you fell in love with. They’re bright as ever, crystal blue. Your pupils dilate with admiration as they connect with his in a stare. His fingers probe deeper and move a little faster. He opens his mouth to speak again, to egg you on, spur you closer to your release.

But all that comes out is “Bluetooth disconnected. Pairing…”

You look at him, confused at first, but then his eyes flicker, flashing blue at you. You groan as your head falls back against the pillow and you wake up.

To your dismay, all the pleasure you’d felt had been merely a dream. However, the blinking eyes and monotone voice were reality. Next to you, your poor, sleeping boyfriend's eyelids lit up rhythmically as the alert emanated from his parted lips.

You lazily reach for your phone that lay next to your pillow and fumble with the command center to reconnect him.

Your sweet Satoru. As much as this process annoyed you, you knew he couldn’t help it. This curse wasn’t his choice. There was nothing to do about it now. Ever since that one battle when infinite void failed him, he’d struggled with this, having a bluetooth connection implanted into his brain somewhere. Typically, it was easy enough to deal with. You’d pair him to your phone and go about your day. It had some benefits too. You could hear all your favorite songs coming from your favorite person’s mouth and nose. If he was really feeling freaky, you might hear the voice of your favorite artist coming from his ass. The sound was a little muffled sometimes, but it still worked for you. He also could hear the other side of his phone calls in his head now. You didn’t have to be bothered with hearing his work colleagues ramble on about boring nonsense. Sure, sometimes it sounded like he was talking to himself, but you got used to it. You chose to look at the bright side of this situation. It wasn’t all bad.

But other times like tonight, when he was stressed or dealing with a lot, the connection got spotty. His mind would be so clouded with problems from work or with his students, that it was hard for the two things to pair.

You sigh and watch the loading icon spin until the word connected pops up. As soon as you hear that little chime of success from him, you sigh in relief. The flashing behind his eyelids has gone away and the 10 hour youtube video of rain sounds resumes. You turn around in bed and brush away some strands of hair from his face. You plant a tender kiss on his forehead and then tuck yourself to his chest to cuddle. Even in his sleep, he reciprocates the touch, tightening his arms around you.

A smile spreads on your lips and you shut your eyes, ready to drift off into another dream starring you and the man you’re tangled up with. You’re relaxing with ease and almost there when suddenly blue light blasts through the room again.

“Bluetooth disconnected. Pairing…”

Your eyes snap open as your expression hardens a little. You remind yourself that it’s not his fault as you roll over and grab the phone. You reconnect the two and then return to your embrace with him to fall asleep. But it happens again. And again. And again.

You’re ready to snap by this point. The next time you tap that switch to reconnect you settle on your side of the bed, facing away from him. If it happens again, you decide to just ignore it and sleep in spite of it.

But it does happen again and you can’t. You can’t tune out that fucking voice repeating the same message every minute. You can’t sleep through the bedroom wall lighting up blue every five seconds.

You lie there, ruminating over a possible solution. What really irks you about all this though is that he’s still asleep. He sleeps through all of this. The disconnect doesn’t even rouse him. While you don’t want him to be plagued by exhaustion, you were also sick of suffering alone.

Rolling onto your back, you whine and gently slap his chest.

“Satoru, quit it!” you whimper and rub your eyes.

He jolts awake, gasping and sitting up with a “huh?” His eyes glow brighter now that there’s no eyelid to shield the illumination. You squint and haphazardly cover your face. He calms down slightly upon seeing you weren’t in any real trouble and just suffering some discomfort.

“What is it, babe? Something wrong?” he asks and scoots closer. He leans down, trying to placate you with some kisses on your cheek and neck.

You try to word your complaints with as much tact as you can muster, but when you’re this tired and agitated, it’s a bit difficult. And then that stupid ass voice lets you know he’s not connected again which really just wipes that concern from your mind.

“You keep disconnecting and flashing at me, and it’s been going on all night, and I’m so tired and I can’t sleep,” you rush out, so frustrated from your exhaustion.

There’s a pause, and at first, you worry you’ve hurt his feelings, but then you hear that familiar chuckle, just like the one in your dream.

“Oh, I see. You’re all cranky cause you’re losing sleep, hm? My poor baby can’t have anything less than her eight hours, right?” he teases.

“It’s not funny!” you huff and jab your elbow back against his ribs, “You get to sleep the whole night, and I have to go back and forth, back and forth.”

You then take a few deep breaths to calm yourself down. It’s not his fault. You sigh and shake your head before grumbling. “Plus, I feel bad knowing you’re all stressed out and stuff…” you say and turn to look at him despite the flashing blue lights.

He grins at you and gives you a real kiss, pulling you close again. He rubs your back just how you like to soothe your emotions and overtiredness.

“That’s very sweet of you, but you don’t have to worry. It’s just work stuff like usual. Nothing I wanna bother you with,” he says and nuzzles the side of your head.

“Yeah, but it clearly bothers you,” you say as your hand rubs the top of his head, smoothing out his hair.

“Not enough that you need to worry your pretty little head about it,” he says before another kiss. He pulls back and holds your chin. “I’m fine, ok? I’m sorry for waking you up, but there’s nothing for you to get all wound up about.”

Reluctantly, you nod, looking into his sparkling eyes. You feel your pent up annoyance fading away.

“Good girl,” he praises though it comes out like a taunt. He reaches over to your phone and taps through a few things to put on something that always makes you feel better. You giggle as you hear Weezer coming from where his head rested above yours.

He smiles wider as you curl up closer to him. You felt yourself relaxing without the repetitive bluetooth alerts and blinking lights. Petting your head in affectionate strokes, he gives you a few minutes of peace to listen to your songs before whispering again.

“Y’know, I think I have a solution for you being so tired,” he teases.

“Hmm? And what would that be?” you ask knowingly.

“Think I should just show you,” he purrs, “It’s a win-win. It’ll knock you out for the night and give me some stress relief.”

You tilt your head upwards, but before you can say anything else, he kisses you. It’s deep, a bit sloppy and lazy. Your tongues caress each other as he pushes down his boxers and pulls out his cock which was already half hard.

Covering his fingers with yours, you both give it a few strokes. His breath hitches against your lips as his length stiffens and flushes at your touch. You continue working on him, and he starts working on you. He yanks your panties down with practiced ease and slips his hand between your legs, feeling how wet you still were from your earlier dream.

“Already so needy, baby. I’m starting to think you like getting so worked up and frustrated because you know that I’m gonna end up making it better,” he coos.

“Shut up,” you whimper and tug on his cock with a little extra force.

A strained whine comes from his lips in response. He reaches down to your leg, digging his fingers into the softness of your thigh. His hand cups around the back of it and hikes your leg up to rest against his hip. You bring your hands back up and focus on kissing him while he slides deep inside of you.

You both groan, and you can feel his smirk blooming against your lips. He rocks himself back and forth, easing himself all the way in. All the while Rivers Cuomo serenades the both of you about coming undone.

“Satoru…” you whine for real this time.

“That’s my baby. So fucking tight for me,” he grunts.

His hips pump into you, his thrusts slow and soothing. You squeeze around him in a pattern similar to the one he’s moving to. It’s easy for both of you to become wrapped up in each other, totally content now that you were truly connected.

“I know this is just what you needed, sweet girl. This is what you always need, huh?” he asks as a moan rumbles in his chest.

You nod languidly. Each stroke sends you back into a sticky sweet state of mind. Everything’s Satoru right now, and that’s just how you like it. More whimpers drip from your lips, and you wrap your leg tighter around him.

“Such a good girl,” he coos thoughtlessly.

His own eyes flutter shut as his lips part again similar to how he looked when he was asleep, making the music a little louder. As much as you loved the song, it was a little distracting in the moment. Your fingers float up the back of his head through his white locks and push his head forward, muffling the sound with another passionate kiss. You could feel the vibrations of the music reverberating between the two of you, which kinda turned you on in a way you weren’t going to think about deeper.

Your lips move against his and his hand comes up to your breasts, groping at them through the thin t-shirt you wore. Instinctively, you arch into the touch, whining into your make out. His fingers squeeze a bit more before tweaking your nipple. Your hips buck in response and jolt you towards the edge.

“Oh fuck,” you cry, “Satoru… I’m gonna cum, baby.”

“Go ahead, dollface. I’m right behind you,” he pants.

Your face scrunches up as the base of your head touches the top of your back. You jerk in his hold, tightening up and cumming for him. Your nails dig into his bicep and pull on his hair, eliciting a groan from him. He speeds up his thrusts a bit. Not too fast, but as fast as he needed to get that satisfaction you were currently experiencing.

A breathy groan seeps from his lips as he squeezes you impossibly tight and sputters against you, emptying himself between your walls. You were already nearly knocked out. You always got so sleepy after you came. All coherent thoughts leaked out your ears and an instinctual desire to curl up to him took over.

And he knew that of course. He’s already rubbing your back as he comes down, letting you melt into the warmth of his chest. Music still floats to your ears from him, lulling you further into your drowsy haze.

“That’s my girl. All tuckered out,” he whispers, soft and patronizing.

You nod sleepily as you sink deeper into him. You don’t even register the feeling of him pulling out and readjusting the two of you.

“Sweet dreams, baby,” he says. The last words you hear before falling asleep, and the last words he says before following not soon after. The music plays consistently throughout the rest of the night, the connection between the two of you absolutely secure.

#satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x y/n #satoru gojo imagine #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #jjk smut #satoru gojo smut

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kometqh · 22 days

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𝓓𝓮𝓪𝓻 𝓓𝓲𝓪𝓻𝔂..

Pt2. Captain Rex x F!Reader x Fives What happens when two of the men you admire suddenly begin to show just how interested they are in you, days after your secret diary goes missing? Word Count: 3514 Warnings: Edited but most likely has some grammar mistakes, reader is scared of water. A/N: Ugh this took my poor little brain too long to write but it's here now and I'm very proud <33

The rhythmic buzzing of cicadas paired with the summer heat and sunbathing on the beach was the perfect situation to find yourself in. The negotiations had gone smoothly, and your squad was permitted a spontaneous shore leave.

Navy blue waves licked lazily at the sand; the water contrastingly cold to the desert-like temperatures of the beach. A cool breeze accompanied the waves, providing a semblance of comfort as it danced with tall, sparse strands of wild grass.

You were seated on a sunbed, just beneath the dark shadow of an umbrella, enjoying the distant echoes of laughter from your squad. It was extremely uncommon for them to enjoy anything but the popular bar, 79s, on their days off.

You had to bargain with the Jedi council for a solid half an hour before Master Windu had finally given you the nod of approval.

Now, Rex reaped the benefits of shore leave in the form of a nap in the sun. You had made sure to apply a kriff ton of sun cream onto his back and shoulders and neck before he had fallen asleep, a mumbled 'thank you' rolling off the tip of his tongue as his eyes became droopy.

He was severely sleep deprived; always being assigned to Skywalker's side rather than yours. It wasn't that he didn't like Master Skywalker, it's just his missions and plans were always reckless and exhausting, and they ended with a few too many casualties.

Of course, that was always inevitable, and Rex did his best not to linger on the fallen, but it didn't always come to him easily.

But with you, he could rest assured.

With you, he could relax under the warm sun, feel the burning sand, and enjoy the comfort of seaside waves.

His caring nature also ensured that everyone would be provided for whilst he was asleep. Bringing extra sun-cream, a cooler filled to the brim with water bottles and ice lollies, and extra towels as well as beach balls.

Where did he get the credits from?

Well, that was a code that nobody could decipher.

Nevertheless, there you were, relaxing with your beloved Captain. Fives had dragged most of the squad into the waves, insisting that they play volleyball. He had tried to take you too, but your reluctance and uncertainty deterred him.

He had waved you off with a 'Watch me, General' and a wink before he engaged in a series of games of clumsy water volleyball.

Since they'd undergone ARC Trooper training, it became more uncommon for Echo and Fives to join the 501st on longer campaigns.

Each time they were reunited, Fives would glance to Echo with a small smile. And now, he was busy wrestling with Hardcase in the shallow parts of the water, laughter escaping the two as Echo hit the ball into the air.

A series of hoorays and pats on the back erupted as the ball hit the water with a splash.

One score for Echo's team.

You were content with watching from the side lines, if you remained far from the water.

If you still had your diary on you, you'd probably busy yourself writing down the details of this day, so the memory could continue to live on long after the war was over.

But just a few days prior it went missing. You thought you misplaced it and ransacked your entire quarters for it. By the time Rex had knocked on your door, nothing was in its' correct spot. Crumpled bedsheets, swinging closet doors and a chair in the middle of the room as you had searched under your desk.

He wanted to question your panicked state, but as soon as the words 'Mission' and 'Jedi Council' were said, you had put a halt to your search mission.

Rex hadn't tried to ask since.

But now, forced to sit by idly, you were mesmerised by the beauty of none other than Fives himself. He was an ARC Trooper for a reason. His shoulders were broad, his waist slim and his thighs - thick and strong and defined from hours of battle and constant training. His tan skin was wet with salty sweat and even saltier water, and if one were to squint hard enough, they could see droplets running down the side of his neck.

You often found yourself feeling grateful to Jango Fett for having such fine genes.

As if reading your mind, Fives decided to stretch, and in the process flexed his biceps. How big were they?

Was it just you or did it get twenty degrees hotter?

His head slowly turned, and for a moment, you made eye contact. It was quick, but it was still enough to have your heart racing. A smirk stretched across his lips as he caught sight of your blooming blush.

The moment was cut short as Jesse splashed salty water right in his face. You didn't even get a chance to process the expression on his face, the water having wiped it away, as a surprised yelp escaped Fives.

His hand flew to his face, a guttural groan leaving his lips as he swore. His form was hunched over, his hand wiping at his eye.

Before you knew it, you were up and running towards the water, your sunbed abandoned and dusty in your wake.

"Fives?!"

His attention snapped to you at the sound of your voice.

A gasp left your lips.

His eye. The usually tawny skin surrounding his eye had now gained in darker colour, the area a faint red under the sunlight. Tiny, crimson vessels coated his sclera, reaching with thin, curly tendons towards his iris.

Just what was in that water? Surely it shouldn't be this bad.

Jesse was quick to utter apologies, his mouth cast into a downturned smile.

"Jesse it's fine," Fives insisted, "It's nothing." He continued, rubbing at his eye, the corners of his lips fighting an oncoming scowl. His attention quickly diverted from Jesse, focusing on you just as your feet reached the water.

Your body stuttered, your movements faltering as you glanced down at the waves.

Fives eyed you wearily, noticing the hesitation plastered all over your features.

But then in a flash, the water was already hitting your knees, lazily crashing against your waist as you progressed further. Goosebumps rose all over your body, visible under the blaring sun.

Your stomach twisted into a ball of thread, bile rising in your throat. You squeezed the water bottle and towel in your hands, then proceeded to raise your arms into the air like a cheering fan.

The water was now waist-deep, splashing against your torso and swaying your body back and forth.

Pieces of broken pebbles dug into the balls of your feet, and you had to supress the urge to scream when a floating piece of seaweed tickled at your ankles.

A small wheeze left your lips though, and as you reached Fives and looked up, you noticed the concerned expression on Jesse’s face. Was it for Fives or for you? You couldn’t quite tell.

"Let me see." You requested, placing your busy hands on top of Fives’ shoulders.

"General, I'm fine. It's just a bit of water." Fives winced as he attempted an eyeroll, his hands having wrapped around your wrists.

He failed to notice the brief flash of panic in your eyes or the tension in your jaw as the water splashed onto your chest.

"Just a bit of... Water?" You repeated, swallowing harshly. Tugging your hands from his hold, you looked back up at him. "You look like you’re on some hard spice, Trooper. We’ll get your eye rinsed; we don’t know just how safe the water is."

The men behind him had gone awfully quiet, Fives noted as he silently pleaded with you. His eyes searched yours, his head tilting just the slightest. He wasn't a fan of silence, at least not when it came from his squad mates. And he knew all to well that they were watching like hawks, supressing their laughter.

However, as you stood there looking up at him, he couldn’t help but allow his resolve to crumble just a tiny bit. Who could say no to those sweet puppy eyes? Maybe Echo. Most definitely not Fives.

"Alright, lead the way." He finally let up, heaving a sigh. His eye was stinging a bit too much and it’s not like he minded the extra attention from you.

A snicker left one of the men behind you, and Fives was quick to whip his head around, motioning for them to ‘zip it’.

"General?"

"Fives?" You pursed your lips as you looked up at him, though you didn't last long as your gaze faltered, focusing on your primary target, the sunbed. You wouldn’t be rinsing his eye on the sand; it was too hot, and it felt like walking on lava rocks.

“Is it that bad? Or did you just want me all for yourself?” He asked, nudging your side with his elbow.

Wordlessly, you pushed him onto your sunbed.

“Aggressive, I can work with that.”

“Shut it.” You laughed out, shaking your head.

By that point, Rex had slowly begun waking up, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.

A confused hum left his lips as he noticed the state of your clothes. They were wet. Soaking wet, in fact.

"General?" His voice was deeper than normal, more guttural as he was recovering from his nap. "Why are you...Wet?"

“No reason, Captain.” You shrugged your shoulders with a wink.

Rex looked to Fives, giving him a confused look. He sat up in his sunbed, crossing his legs and rubbing his face. “There’s a first time for everything, I guess.”

“First time? First time for what?”

“Oh? Didn’t you know? Our General- “

“Rex.” The way his name rolled off the tip of your tongue had shivers running down his spine. It carried authority and a warning, but the captain was feeling quite daring. His chest puffed up, his whole demeanour changing. This wasn’t your sweet Captain Rex, this was cheeky Cadet Rex, ready to tell the most embarrassing of stories to his brother.

He looked over to Fives, leaning back on his hands.

“Our General over here is terrified of water.” He mused, recalling a specific memory, “On one of our first missions together, we were sent to a swampy planet. The General had us all fooled at first,” He paused, snickering at the displeased expression on your face, “The second a frog swam by, she was screaming and jumping into my arms. Jesse almost blasted the poor thing to bits!”

“Rex!” You exclaimed, throwing the damp rug at him, “You promised not to tell anyone!”

Rex sputtered as the cloth hit him square in the face, launching it into the air in retaliation. “Fives isn’t just anyone! Am I right or am I right?”

Fives looked between the two of you, his brows raised in shock and his eye looking much better.

“General? I’m not just anyone, I’m your favourite ARC Trooper!” He shook his head, pressing a hand to his chest. “I can’t believe you!”

Before you could deny his words or assure him, Rex was already stood by you.

“See General? You hurt his feelings.”

“N- No I didn’t! Fives you are my favourite, just don’t tell anyone, alright?” You pleaded, attempting your best puppy eyes yet. Your attempts faltered as he shook his head, feigning a hurt look.

“I’m not sure, General. You’ll have to make it up to me somehow,” He paused, exchanging mysterious looks with Rex.

“How can I make it up to you?”

“Oh I don’t know.. I’ll have to get back to you on that.” He retorted, pouting at you. Sometimes you forgot just how childish the man could be. You clutched the empty water bottle in your hand, readying it as your next weapon for Rex.

Turning towards him, a fake scowl twisted your expression.

“Don’t look at me like that, General, it’s a waste of a pretty face.” He quickly said, shielding his face as you raised the water bottle. Before it could leave your hands voluntarily though, a pair of arms wrapped around your waist.

“H- Huh?” A gasp left your lips as your body was swiftly rotated and slung over Fives’ shoulder like a sack of rations. That man really harboured more strength in those biceps than you knew. “Fives? What are you doing?”

“I’m having you repay me! Starting now!” He exclaimed and began moving. Rex moved to his side, keeping in step with Fives. Your eyes widened as the sunbed slowly moved further and further, becoming a distant promise of safety and comfort as salty waves made contact with Fives’ feet.

“Fives! L- Let me go! Please!” Your voice was reaching new peaks, rising higher and higher as you began kicking your legs. “I- I can’t swim!” You continued, lightly hitting his back.

His steps began to slow. You held your breath, leaning your head as far from the water as possible.

“You can’t swim? Are you serious or are you bullshitting me, General?” He asked, looking towards Rex, who only gave him a shrug of his shoulders.

“I promise! Please, please, please don’t go any further.” You pleaded once more, looking over to Rex too. Your hands were clasped together, as if you were praying to the two men. He exchanged glances with Fives, wordlessly communicating.

Rex looked over to you, pursing his lips.

“What’s holding y’guys up?” Hardcase shouted, coming closer and closer. “And since when did the General go into water that isn’t a part of her refresher?” He asked, coming to a stop with the three of you.

“Hardcase! You know I can’t swim! Help me, please!” You began kicking your feet again, leaning your head to the side. Your hands pushed against Fives’ back, attempting to heave yourself off.

His grip on you only tightened, and a squeak was forced from your chest as his palm squeezed your thigh.

“The General is a worse swimmer than me! At her level she isn’t even a swimmer, she’s a sinker!” He exclaimed, pointing to himself, Fives’ shoulders shook as a small laugh escaped him. You could feel the blood rushing to your cheeks, setting your skin aflame.

“Fine, I’ll let you go, but only ‘cause I trust Hardcase.” His voice was gruff as he lifted your body, slowly placing you in the water. Goosebumps attacked your skin once more, but this time from the chilling cold that encased you. Looking up, Fives wore a grin that challenged that of the cheshire cat. “You should see yourself, General. You look like an angry loth cat.” He said, pinching your cheek with one hand as the other rested on your waist, his hold firm but gentle, his thumb caressing your waist in small, centred circles.

Swatting his hand away, you looked back down to the water. It rested just below your hips but would venture higher up as the waves moved back and forth.

“D’you wanna go further?” Fives asked, his voice much closer now. Looking around, you noticed that Rex and the others had moved further into the water, where it now reached their chests.

Shaking your head, you turned back to Fives. “I can’t swim, plus I don’t have the same height advantage as you,” You paused, pointing to the others, “I’d be under water where they are now.”

A soft chuckle escaped his lips, crows’ feet tugging at the outer corners of his eyes. Your hands rose to his chest, steadying yourself as a rogue wave lifted your feet off the ground.

“C’mon, you can sit on my shoulders? I’m sure the others would be more than happy to have you around.” He asked, giving your waist a faint squeeze.

You took a moment to think over his proposition. Sure, being on his shoulders would mean you get to, mostly, stay out of the water. But what if you fell off? You cringed at the thought of water invading your nose, burning your windpipe and choking you from the inside out.

“I- I don’t know…” You paused.

Slowly, you looked up, your breath hitching in your throat. He was already watching you, admiring the tiny expressions you made as you watched his brothers. There was this smitten look resting across his face, as if you were the prettiest little thing he’s ever seen.

His face was so close, his body slightly brushing against your own. His scent invaded your senses, so much so you could almost taste it on the tip of your tongue.

The sunlight reflected in his eyes, outlining the different shapes and shades as if you were looking into a kaleidoscope. His irises had this gorgeous colour of warm honey, and they sparkled like a pair of amber crystals under the soft sunrays.

His skin glowed under the warmth, the rich olive colour becoming tanner the longer he sat outside of his armour, making Fives look healthier and happier. All of the men, in fact. Though their armour kept them safe and sound, you couldn’t help but marvel at the sight of them. They were in their zone.

Fives’ hand moved up to your face, his eyes concentrated on a stray piece of hair. The soft smile kept playing at his lips, never fully going but never fully staying.

There was a tension in his jaw, however, as his fingers toyed with your hair. It was like he was holding something back.

He moved the strand away, gently tucking it behind your ear, as best as it would go anyway.

“You’re gorgeous, cyar’ika.” His words came out as a whispered prayer, his gaze so tender and loving as he caressed your cheek with his knuckles.

It was as if your brain short-circuited again; his words dropped on you like a heavy boulder, so sudden, and yet your heartbeat was now racing a thousand miles per hour. Your breath was caught in your throat, and your mouth suddenly felt dry. Was this normal? Were you panicking or were you blushing? Were you going crazy? What was happening?

“F- Fives…” You whispered, your grip on his chest tightening. You never expected those words to come from him, or anyone at all. They weren’t meant for you. But if so, why did they make you so happy? So ecstatic and why did he make you swoon so hard?

He leaned his face a tad closer, just enough for you to feel his breath fanning over your lips.

You could feel his warmth, it was comparable to the sun itself. It rode in your veins, it had your blood bubbling up in excitement the longer he looked at you. You were just a small planet orbiting his sun, being pulled in closer and closer until all you could feel was the heat and the burn of him.

His tongue darted out to lick at his bottom lip, ridding it of dryness and discomfort.

But that small action had you going wild, feral even.

In that split moment, your gaze flickered to his lips. For a man who spent the majority of his life on a battlefield, his lips sure looked plump and made just for kissing.

It was like you were gravitating towards him, like a comet curve-balling around his planet, entangling around his soul and burning brightly at each twist and pull. His hold on you had your legs melting, as if you were nothing but a shard of ice, being thawed away at by his warm touch and sweetly whispered nothings.

His hand tilted your jaw, just enough for your lips to rest an inch from his. Any closer, and you’d be kissing, melting into one another.

Before either of you could do more, say more, the distant voice of Hardcase called out to you.

“Are you two comin’ or what?!” He shouted, cupping his mouth with both hands.

You jolted in your spot, effectively snapping out of whatever spell the man before you had cast on you. Clearly, he had been put under a spell too as his hands retracted and his posture stiffened.

“We’re on our way!” He shouted back, waving Hardcase off. His attention quickly returned to you, but the spell was now gone.

A lump formed in your throat, and you swallowed it down with struggle.

Uncertainty and fear tugged at your heartstrings, and Fives knew exactly what that meant.

“G- General-“

“I need to go.” Your voice was meek and shallow as you retracted from his touch, as if he left your skin with painful burns and sears wherever his fingertips touched. “Alone.” You continued, placing a hesitant palm on his chest as Fives attempted to follow you.

This couldn’t be happening.

With your back turned to him and your figure disappearing into the distance, Fives couldn’t help but curse under his breath. His lips slightly agape, he stood in the same spot you left him in just moments ago.

How could he have ruined everything in such a short amount of time?

77 notes · View notes

sinnercore · 11 months

Text

⠀⠀𝐌𝐘 𝐃𝐑𝐔𝐆, 𝐌𝐘 𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ┊ 𝐉. 𝐊𝐑𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐑

༄ ┊CHARACTERS ; jack krauser x fem!reader (slight mentions of leon x reader but barely)

༄ ┊SYNOPSIS ; jack krauser meets you from a friend, leon kennedy, and he quickly became obsessed with you. now he’s decided to take that obsession a step further and take what he wants

༄ ┊WARNINGS ; 4.9K WORDS, STALKING, NON-CON, p in v smut, fingering, cunnilingus, he breaks into ur house, pet names (darlin’, baby), no aftercare, non-con “breeding”, general dark content, ┊ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

༄ ┊AUTHOR NOTES ; okay so this has been sat in my drafts since RE4RE came out so I had to get it posted !! I didn’t really finish writing it, so sorry it ends a little weird and abruptly, I just needed it gone !!! plus I NEED more krauser content oml — anyway not many people post for him so here’s a little something something

obsession

/əbˈsɛʃn/

noun

the state of being obsessed with someone or something.

"she cared for him with a devotion bordering on obsession"

an idea or thought that continually preoccupies or intrudes on a person's mind.

"he was in the grip of an obsession he was powerless to resist"

Krauser watched from his car as your bedroom curtains slid shut, soon after followed the light being turned off and the room becoming dark.

He twisted his wrist to check the time, 23:47. A nod to himself as he tapped a small button that protruded out of the side of the watch, starting an hour timer that he planned on letting run the entire way through — just enough time for you to get to sleep.

The street lamp flickered with a dim orange glow above his Jeep, barely enough to light up the area if it weren’t for the rain on the windows and the road distorting the light and bathing the entire street in an amber hue.

The pulsing of the light was strangely calming to Jack, it was slow and rhythmic and even attracted a couple of moths under its rays of light, plus it served as a great distraction to sooth his rapidly growing impatience.

Krauser closed his eyes and listened to the way the rain pit-a-patted on the roof, the sound echoing through the car as he waited for the time to pass, his mind being dragged back to when he first ever met you.

“Hey, Krauser,” Leon shouted over as he walked into the training area with you close by his side, “alright if my friend sits in just for today?”

“Yeah, sure.” Krauser replied after a moment of hesitation, but he still gave you a small smile as you came into his view.

Leon swiftly introduced you both to each other and you politely exchanged pleasantries, then you took a seat on the wooden crates that lined the metal containers off to the side of the training mats, making sure to stay out of the way of them both.

Krauser had to admit to himself that you were quite the distraction, he’d been caught off guard by your beauty, your demeanour, everything about you — you were completely breathtaking. Luckily he was still more skilled than Leon, easily beating him at every turn even when he liked to think he wasn’t trying to, a slight distraction wasn’t going to change anything.

An hour passed by quickly as you watched both of the men fight and train, getting far too caught up in it like you were watching some reality show, occasionally cheering them on before covering your mouth with your hand in embarrassment.

Neither of the men cared much that you did it, they found it rather endearing and played into it, giving stupid little commentaries and acting like they were in a cheesy movie’s badly scripted fight scene.

The training was only interrupted when Leon’s phone began ringing in his coat next to you, and it didn’t take him two seconds to run over and answer it — clearly it was an important call judging by the way he flashed you an apologetic smile and ducked out of the room with a wave.

“Hey, so you train with Leon, right?” Krauser walked over to you while taking a sip of his water, a towel hanging over his shoulder and the sweat still running down his forehead and bare chest.

“Uhh, yeah, I suppose you could call it that,” you smiled and put your phone down to be polite, “I wouldn’t really call it training, we just go to the gym together, he’s helping me get fit and stay that way — it’s really…nice”

“Yeah? What type of stuff do you do?”

“Mostly cardio and some weight training, I only started lifting weights recently so they’re still pretty light, but I’m hoping soon I can start lifting heavier and build up my strength.”

Krauser nodded and smiled, he was impressed with your dedication, knowing it wasn’t easy to get into a routine. You told him how you were mostly doing it for your mental well-being rather than physical effects, and he told you he does the same most of the time, explaining how much it can help with taking your mind off the things you’d rather not think about.

You both sat and chatted to each other for roughly twenty minutes while Leon was still out of the room on the phone to whoever, and surprisingly enough to you, you got on well with Krauser — he seemed kind and caring, and genuinely interesting to talk to.

“Well, hey, if you ever wanna learn self defence or anything like that, feel free to ask me.”

“Really?” You smiled brightly at him, giving him cute puppy dog eyes that you weren’t even aware you were doing, “I’d love that!”

“Great, we can start whenever you want, just let me know and I’ll clear my schedule.”

“Would…now be an inconvenience? Just a little, of course! While we wait for Leon?”

Jack laughed and nodded, “sure.”

He held his hand out and pulled you up off the box after he stood up, catching you against his sweaty chest before you regained your balance.

You both walked over to the mats that were laid out on the floor for padding, and he walked you through some simple steps, nothing too confusing or exhausting.

His hands rested on your lower back then ran up to your arms as he adjusted your position to stand correctly, his hands lingering across the bare parts of your skin, but not long enough for you to grow concerned, of course.

He was smarter than that.

He stood beside you and showed you what to do, throwing some punches into the air in front of himself and letting you copy his movements.

He was impressed with how fast you learnt, and he’d almost completely forgotten that he’d been training Leon not even thirty minutes prior, instead he was fully focused on you and the way you moved. His eyes carefully trailing up and down your body, taking in every curve and line he could see, admiration twinkling in his eyes.

For the next few weeks you came and watched Krauser and Leon train even though you weren’t supposed to, and then on Thursdays you’d come alone in secret to be trained by him.

You’d usually stay a few hours and truth be told, you enjoyed every minute of it. He was a great teacher and he made it easy to learn — he never treated you like you were stupid even when you messed up badly and swore up and down that you were going to quit after embarrassing yourself so much.

Eventually you moved on to floor work after he was happy with the progress you’d been making with the basics, and he showed you what would happen if you ever ended up in a situation where you were on the floor or you needed to do a takedown yourself.

Krauser could feel himself becoming more and more captivated by you, everytime he was above you with his hands pinning yours down to the mat, your chest rising up and down as you tried to catch your breath. The way you looked up at him, so innocent and helpless, it was almost enough to make him lose his composure right then and there, but of course he never did. He remained professional the entire time, never once hinting that he was picturing himself fucking into you, your nails scratching down his back, your eyes rolling back as his name slipped from your pretty glossed lips.

He couldn’t help himself when it came to you, he couldn’t help but enjoy the way you struggled against him, your hips grinding against his crotch without even realising it. He was a lot bigger and stronger than you were, a complete domineering figure compared to you, and he ate it up as much as he could — how much he got off having you look so delicate and weak below him.

“Okay, how the hell am I supposed to get out of this?”

“Come on, think…” he smiled down innocently, as if he were trying to get you to realise the answer yourself rather than him just enjoying having himself slotted between your plump thighs, “what makes the most sense to do?”

Krauser sighed with annoyance as the hour timer went off, slightly startling him out of his lovely thoughts, to his dismay.

His eyes gazed toward your bedroom window once again, checking for any signs that you were still awake, a slight glow that came from the screen of your phone or a dim light off to the side that meant you were in the bathroom — but luckily for him, everything remained pitch black and still.

Jack reached over and grabbed his phone from the dashboard, placing it on mute before shoving it into his right pocket and sliding out of the car, shutting the door behind him as quietly as he could.

Once he made it over the street he casually walked around the side of your home like he lived there himself, checking both ways before doing so, just to make sure no one was watching nearby.

Jack had been watching you for weeks, learning your routine and as much as humanly possible about you, because of course he wanted to protect you and get to know you at the same time.

It didn’t take much for a man like him, with his skills and knowledge, plus his access to any equipment he may need, to get all the information he wanted — it was easy for him to get whatever he wanted without anyone really asking any questions, after all he was a respectable and honourable soldier.

Just from watching you he had learnt your weekly routine extremely fast, after all, you were a creature of habit and you didn’t like to change the days you did things, if you could help it.

On Wednesdays you’d go food shopping, Thursdays you’d complete any chores that needed doing out of the home, and Friday night at roughly 19:00 you’d go down to the local bar to meet Leon and drink until walking home between 12:00-01:00am.

Not only that but you’d made it easier for him by being kind enough to give him your social media’s alongside your number when you had been training with him, telling him you ‘don’t really give these to anyone’ — obviously you liked him because he wasn’t just ‘anyone’, and he knew that you must have secretly loved him just as he loved you, but you were just too scared to admit it out loud.

He often viewed your social media even when you didn’t post much, it gave him a lot of insight into your life when you weren’t with himself or Leon. He learnt your favourite colour and the song you’d been listening to on repeat, how you’d found a new romance book to read and you were actually enjoying it which surprised you, even how your new shoes were so nice but they’d given you really bad blisters.

Krauser couldn’t help but fall more and more in love with you with each new thing he learnt, you were just so perfect for him and there wasn’t a single thing he didn’t love about you.

Well, other than maybe Leon.

He knew, deep down, Leon was a good guy, but he was too content with being weak and being a loser. He wasn’t good enough for you, and Jack knew that Leon would only drag you down with him. You needed someone strong and smart, someone loyal and protective, and Leon just wasn’t that guy.

“Come on, I taught you better than this, baby.” Krauser muttered to himself as he grabbed your spare house key from under a rock that was placed conveniently next to the large plant pot that hid it out of normal view.

He sighed as he silently turned the key and unlocked the door, his head shaking side to side at the fact you’d remove the key from the door on the inside which meant he could get in. Luckily for you of course, it was only him entering your home, after all it could have been some crazy person that was looking to hurt you or worse.

Once he was in the house he clicked the door shut and re-locked it, slipping the key into the same pocket as his phone while he crept toward the stairs.

He knew he had to forgive you for this little blunder you’d made, he knew you were smart and everyone makes errors, but maybe he just had to punish you nicely so you wouldn’t be so silly and leave a key out in the open like that ever again.

He snuck his way through your house and made his way to the stairway, he slid his hand up the railing as support while walking on the outer, less used edges of the wooden stairs — making sure they wouldn’t creak as much under his weight, not wanting to risk waking you before he even got to you.

As he made it to the top he could see you’d left the bedroom door slightly ajar for him, a slither of light coming through the door from the streetlight outside your window guiding his way perfectly. A slight smile crept along his face as he held his breath and listened out for you as he stood before your door, and finally after hearing a cute and almost silent little snore come from the room, he let out his breath and continued moving forward.

Jack ceased all movement at the foot of your bed as you slowly rolled over, his heartbeat thumping loudly in his ears, the adrenaline surging through his body as he prepared for himself to be caught right then and there in that moment.

But you didn’t wake up.

Instead of your eyes fluttering open, you moved to the side and the sheets slid off your skin, showing your bare legs and leaving them exposed to his gaze. He couldn’t help but trail his eyes up and down your body, his excitement growing only more when he saw that you were only wearing some cute panties and a thin vest top.

How easily it’ll be to take them off, the voice in his head echoed.

He smiled to himself as he palmed at his cock through his pants, the anticipation already building in his lower abdomen as his thoughts ran wild.

Finally, he had you exactly where he wanted you, he’d be able to do all the things he had only been able to fantasise about while you were training together, he’d be able to show you exactly how much he loves you.

It was a miracle that you hadn’t realised that he was borderline obsessed with you before this point, he was always checking up on you and seemingly knowing about the things you’d done over the weekend — always saying how you mentioned it earlier in the day when you questioned him on how he knew, and of course you believed him, he’d never lie to you, why would he?

You were adorable, the definition of perfection to him, there was no one in this world like you — and that meant you had to belong to him, he wouldn’t let someone else soil you with their worthless hands.

He knew you’d be thankful, after all he was doing you a favour, right?

Who in their right mind would want a worthless man fawning over them so pathetically, making an embarrassment out of themselves as they tried to get your attention. Plus, who could protect you like he could? Nobody.

While lost in his thoughts he hadn’t even realised his cock was in his hand, his wrist moving just barely but still enough for him to buck his hips into his fist as his eyes continued to wander along every part of your exposed skin.

“Fuck~” a breathy sigh left his mouth as his head fell back and his mouth opened, his hand pumping quicker and quicker, his mind overflowing with images of you and your body, the thoughts of your whimpers and whines as he buries his cock deep inside of you and coats your womb thick with his cum.

But before he could get his release, he stopped. He had to save himself for you, not wanting a single drop of his seed to go to waste, it all needed to be sat snug inside of your cunt.

Without much hesitation he stripped himself down naked, he cock slapping lightly against his belly as he walked to the side of your bed and lifted the sheets off to the side as carefully as possible.

Your legs were already slightly parted for him and there was just enough light coming into your room for him to see a little wet patch on the crotch of your panties beginning to form. A wide smile appeared on his face and he licked his lips, he was like a starving animal about to devour his first meal in weeks, hooking his fingers along the waistband of your underwear he carefully slid them down and off of your body.

You shuffled at the sensation but never enough to stir from your sleep and luckily for him you parted your legs even more as you tried to roll over, a clear invitation for him to slot himself between them.

Krauser stared feverishly at the prize before him, your cunt already being aroused from whatever dream you’d been having — most likely about him, he thought…he knew.

Who else would you be dreaming about, after all?

The dream felt so real, so tantalisingly good that it was like you had died and gone to heaven. The smell of whiskey and cologne hanging heavy in the air, music playing quietly in the background all while Leon grabbed at your hips and kept you still as you tried to lift yourself from his face, his fingertips digging into your plush skin as his tongue grinded against your puffy, sensitive clit.

You let your head fall back while strings of moans and sighs slipped from your parted lips, your thighs quivering around his head with every pass of his tongue until you finally came.

It all felt so real even as you stirred awake from your sleep, the feelings of your dream finally dissipating and bringing you back to the disappointing reality.

Your back arched from the bed and another quiet moan slipped from your throat, your eyes forcing themselves to open against their will.

Your thighs squeezed themselves shut as you felt an orgasm wash over you, a real one this time, and Krauser’s hands wrapped tightly around your legs, welcoming the feeling of your thighs crushing his head.

A shaky sigh left your body as you finally came down from your high, barely being able to concentrate as his tongue continued lapping up your juices — pushing its way into you before teasingly flicking over your already overstimulated clit.

It took only a moment before the panic set in, the fear of realising someone was between your legs and not knowing who it was. The fact that you weren’t still just living some high from a great dream, but someone was inside your home, inside your room.

You pushed and kicked to no avail, panicked shouts and cries before you ripped the sheets back and saw Krauser staring back up at you with a devilish grin plastered across his face.

“What the—”

“Shh,” his hand reached up to your lips to silence you within a second as he sat up on his knees.

His body was highlighted perfectly from the subtle lighting that came through your curtains from the street light outside. His muscles sculpted so deliciously, his abs being the perfect backdrop for his already rock hard cock to lean against.

“Like what you see, hmm?” His voice pulled you from your thoughts, with horror.

You watched on as he ran his finger delicately along his smooth chin before licking them, not wanting any of you to go to waste, after all you tasted so goddamn good to him.

“How the fuck did you..”

“Get in? Easily.” He spoke with such confidence, like he hadn’t done anything wrong — somewhat sounding proud of himself for what he’d done.

Krauser ran his hands up your thighs before grabbing the hem of your flimsy night shirt, one swift yank and he ripped it in half, leaving your chest exposed to him.

Instinctively your hands wrapped around your body, a desperate attempt to hide yourself from him which displeased him so obviously.

“Don’t hide from me, darlin’.”

His large hands wrapped around your wrists and forced them above your head, easily adjusting his grip so both of your hands were pinned down by just one of his.

He used his free hand to explore your body, his calloused fingers sliding along your ribs before finally halting just under your tits. A small grin appeared on his face as his thumb rubbed across your hardened nipple, enjoying the way you flinched against his touch, your body betraying you so easily.

“Krauser, please…” you pleaded with him but your pleas fell upon deaf ears, he was adamant to get what he came for, and he knew that in the end you’d be grateful that he did.

It didn’t take long before he got too impatient with the teasing and tugging of your nipples, no matter how much he adored the cute little sounds you made as he did. Instead, his hand began sliding down your stomach and between your opened legs, his body still wedged between them so you couldn’t even think about shutting them.

“Please, please just stop, Krauser!” The tears had already started to roll down your cheeks as you fought against his tight grip, but he ignored you as if you weren’t even speaking.

He used his middle finger to slide between your folds, barely even brushing against your puffy clit but still you couldn’t help but react, a small whimper escaping from your throat as you watched him through blurred eyes.

After coating his fingers in your slick, he pushed his way into you, slowly and deeply, his eyes watching as his finger disappeared into you.

Your hips grinded down toward him, needy for some friction and you couldn’t help but hate yourself.

This man broke into your house and here you were, moaning as he stretched you out with another large finger, curling them so impeccably that it didn’t even take him a minute to find that spot inside of you that practically made you melt in his hands.

Jack pumped his fingers in and out of you, going between that and curling them in you, relishing in the sounds not only you made, but the sounds your wet cunt made, too.

“I knew you didn’t want me to stop.”

He used his palm to grind across your clit as he leaned forward, peppering small kisses along your jaw, his tongue licking from your chin up to your bottom lip.

“Ah~ Krauser, wait please.”

“That’s it, come apart for me, baby.” His tongue traced a line along your lip before he began to kiss you, sloppy and desperate but it didn’t matter, you could barely kiss him back anyway.

You tried to swallow your moans and not give him the satisfaction of knowing that he was making you feel that good, you tried so hard to stop yourself from coming on his fingers, but no matter what you did you just weren’t a match for him.

As much as you hated it, he was good at what he was doing to you. It was like he had a map to your body and he knew exactly how to traverse it perfectly, every touch setting your nerves on fire, your stomach flipping with anticipation and fear as your eyes followed his every moment.

He sat back on his feet and lazily gave his cock a few pumps in his hand before he laid down next to you, pushing you onto your side so he could lay behind you like he was spooning you.

“Jack, it’s not gonna fit!” you pushed against him and tried to escape but he wasn’t having any of it, “please just leave, I swear I won’t tell anyone, I promise, I promise please.”

His arm had already wrapped around you, resting just below your tits as he pulled you back flush against his chest with a crushing grip. Your hands reached up and grabbed at his bicep, trying so hard to push yourself away from him, your nails digging into his flesh hoping that it’d stop him, but he was far stronger than you were and simply didn’t care for your attempts.

“Oh darlin’, I’ll make it fit, don’t you worry.”

The tip of his cock pressed against your folds, inadvertently gathering your slick along it as he teased your entrance so daintily, like he was scared you’d shatter in his hands if he were too rough for even a moment.

“Krauser, aah~” as soon as you uttered his name, he couldn’t resist any longer.

He bullied himself into you, his cock sinking further and further into you until he couldn’t move anymore, your walls forcibly stretching out around him, a painful sting but he promised it’d only hurt for a second.

For a fleeting moment he remained perfectly still, savouring the feeling of how your pussy fluttered around him in an attempt to force him back out, because even after all he’d done to prepare you, you wouldn’t relax for him and you were only making it more painful for yourself.

Krauser could only wait so much, though. After all, he’d been waiting so very long, and his patience had worn thin long ago.

He pulled his hips back agonisingly slowly before slamming back into you, his arm still wrapped too tight around your body so you couldn’t move too far from him.

Every slow thrust into you knocked the wind straight out of your lungs, your breath already being shallow from the way his arm was crushing you. His pace remained slow, too focused on the way your cunt felt, how with every drag of his cock he could feel the way your walls gripped around him like they didn’t want to let him go.

He wasn’t afraid to admit it, he was addicted to you. You were like a drug that he couldn’t get enough of, so purely intoxicating that he couldn’t help but get lost in you — never being sure whether he wanted to return back to reality or not.

The only thing that finally pulled him out of his thoughts and slow thrusts was the sound of his name. Fuck, how that drove him crazy. How perfectly his name rolled off your tongue, your moans so innocent and seductive without even trying.

If Krauser did believe in any God, he’d surely believe in that moment that you were made just for him.

His pace sped up, getting too carried away and not even bothering to notice how you whimpered and cried, your fingers still clawing at his arm every time the tip of his cock kissed your cervix.

“Fuck, babe…” he groaned in your ear, his breathing heavy and uneven, never trying to hide how good you were making him feel.

And the tears never stopped rolling from your eyes, you couldn’t believe what was happening yet you couldn’t help but enjoy every thrust of his cock, how he angled himself perfectly to make sure he was pleasuring you, too.

It was obvious he didn’t want to hurt you on purpose, but that just made you feel dirtier, he was still an intruder, a friend that betrayed your trust in the worst way imaginable — but you were liking it.

Jack released his bruising grip from around your ribs and let his hand slide down between your legs, using his finger to rub rough circles against your clit, adding to the stimulation his cock was already giving you.

Your hand grabbed at his but you weren’t fighting him anymore, instead you let him have his way with you and every single moan that he forced from your lips only led him to fuck you harder.

“Fuck, you like this, huh?” He chuckled as he forced you onto your stomach, his hand wrapping around the back of your neck and pushing your face against the mattress.

“Jack wait”, your words muffled by the pillow you were gripping onto, his hips mercilessly slamming into you as he chased his own high.

The bed creaked every time he moved his body, and you were sure that the wooden slats would break beneath you both at any moment.

The feeling of your cunt tightening around his cock was enough to send him barrelling over the edge, his hand slapping the fat of your ass as he pumped his cum deep into you without caring that you were begging him not to.

You laid motionless as his hand rubbed up and down your back, ignoring the light kisses on your shoulder as the weight on the other side of the bed disappeared. You weren’t fully sure how much time had passed since he pulled himself out of you, but you could still feel the way his cum leaked out of your abused hole and stained the sheets under you.

“So, we still on for training tomorrow, baby? I got some new things to teach you…”

#⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ 📝 writes resident evil !#resident evil #resident evil x reader #jack krauser #krauser x reader #resident evil 4 #re4 #re x reader #jack krauser x reader #krauser x fem reader #female reader

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whatawonderfulexistence--blog · 1 year

Text

Dance With Me (Terzo x Reader FLUFF)

Credits to @crowblin for the amazing edit of smiling Terzo

(A/N: I had the cutest idea for this fic, I really hope future me does justice in writing this. The only reason I didn't label this as GN is because the reader does wear a dress to the party, but I kept the pronouns neutral since everyone can wear dresses, obviously. Absolutely no warnings at all, just Terzo and the reader falling in love, dancing being cute, friends to lovers, Primo being a dad.)

You sat in silence as your fellow siblings talked about a party that was going to be held a week from now at the Abbey. They all buzzed with excitement, discussing what they would be wearing, if they were going with anyone or who they hoped they'd get a chance to dance with. "What about you, (Y/N)? Are you going with anyone" Dammit, you were hoping you could keep yourself out of this conversation. You had been planning on avoiding the party all together, not wanting to embarrass yourself due to the fact that you didn't know how to dance.

"Oh, I'm going to be busy that night. Primo needs me to stay late to work on something." Your friends knew how seriously you took your work, and no one was going to question Primo's motives for anything he did.

"Primo loves you, I'm sure if you asked to take the night off for the party he'd let you. Plus, I thought I heard even he was going to be attending this one." You internally grimaced, of course he was. The first time in years he actually decides to go to one of the Abbey's parties when he's your only excuse for ditching.

"I'll see what I can do." You excuse yourself with a smile before heading off. You needed to figure out what to do and you needed to figure it out quickly. There was only one person you could think to turn to at a time like this. You hurried through the halls, eventually finding yourself standing in front of Terzo's office door. You knock tentatively, standing there awkwardly as you waited for him to answer the door. You were surprised when Primo opened the door instead of Terzo.

"Il mio bambino," he smiles at you, "I take it you're looking for Terzo, come in." You enter the office hesitantly, seeing Terzo sitting at his desk. Primo floats past you, back to the chair you assumed he was sitting in prior to your arrival. "Is everything alright (Y/N)? You look troubled my dear." You sigh, not really wanting to admit the reason you were down there. You glance at Terzo, apprehension still apparent in your features, he motions for you to sit.

"I need your help." He rests his elbows on the dark wooden surface in front of him, perplexed by the fact that you seemed serious. You had been best friends with Terzo for years, you never asked for his help on principle. Now, you had gone out of your way to come all the way down to his office, admitting that you needed his help in front of Primo no less, something had to be seriously wrong. "This party next week... I was trying to get out of going. But, apparently, word has gotten around that you're going to be attending." You turn your head to look at Primo. "I'm sorry Papa, I was trying to lie and use you giving me work as an excuse not to go. But, that's besides the point."

Terzo waves his hand, "hold on, pause. Why are you trying so hard to not go, it's going to be fun! Apparently this is going to be different than Secundo's usual parties."

Primo nods in agreement, "I've been told this is going to be closer to a formal ball than one of Secundo's usual... What do the younger siblings call them? Ragers?" You felt yourself starting to physically sweat. That was worse. That just made things even more terrible than they already were. This now has transpired into something far beyond the casual rhythmic club dancing you were used to seeing at these parties. It was very rare for Secundo to hold formal parties like this but when he did they were as grandiose as anything you could possibly imagine. You paled at the thought of what would happen if you even attempted to ballroom dance, you felt sick at the thought of it. "Il mio bambino, are you alright? You look like you're about to faint."

"I can't dance!" You suddenly blurt out to both of them. "If I go to this party I'm going to be the laughing stock of the Abbey because everyone I know dances in some capacity-"

"(Y/N), I'm sure you're not the only one who doesn't know how to dance." Primo tries to reassure you.

You groan, "I know that, but-"

"You don't want to do anything that could make you look stupid." Terzo finishes bluntly. You nod in response, rubbing the bridge of your nose.

"Terzo, you're the only one I could think of to come ask." You saw Primo's gaze swap between the the two of you, a small smirk on his face as if he knew something neither of you didn't.

"You want me to teach you how to dance?" You nod bashfully, still not wanting to accept the fact that you needed his help.

"Well, I think it's time for me to take my leave, let you two discuss this in private." He places a supportive hand on your shoulder. "My doors always open if you're feeling overwhelmed and need a break, come by anytime." You smile at him and nod, watching him walk slowly out the door.

"You want me to teach you how to dance?" Terzo repeats his earlier question quietly, leaning back in his chair with a look of pure disbelief on his face.

"Listen, I'm not happy that I have to come ask for your help, but you're my best friend, and I know you know a wide variety of dance styles... So, I'm hoping you won't make fun of me too badly and you'll help me learn before the party." You couldn't meet his eyes, you didn't want to know how he was looking at you.

"First of all, rude ass, I'm not that mean." You can't help but let out a small laugh at him being offended for you even remotely assuming he was mean. "I'm not going to make fun of you for not knowing how to dance, I used to be lanky and awkward and didn't know how to move my body. It takes time, practice, not everyone is born with the ability to dance. But, we have a week, sí? That sounds like a timeframe I can work with." He smiles brightly at you, an expression you try your best to return. It was definitely for the best that it was your best friend giving you dance lessons, but the whole thing still made you incredibly nervous. Terzo stood, you copied his motions unsure of what he was planning. "I think I know a good place to practice?"

"We're going now? Like, right now?" He nods with a confused expression.

"When do you want to start learning? An hour before the party starts?" He rebuttals. He was right, the more time you got to learn the better. You followed Terzo through the winding halls off the Abbey eventually ending up in a large open room that appeared to be used for storage. Your newfound dance partner ventures off into a corner, shuffling a few things around before letting out a sound of approval when he finds what he was looking for. He pulls out a small stand that had an old record player sitting on it, a box of various records to go along with it. "Let's hope this thing still works." He fiddles with it for a minute, eventually having it click to life. A slow, melodic tune fills the room, Terzo dusts off his hands with a smile. You stood motionless in the center of the room, your arms tightening around yourself as nervous tension built in your chest. Terzo shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it over a nearby stack of boxes before carefully rolling up his sleeves. You swallowed thickly, your pulse speeding up for some reason you couldn't place. He steps closer to you, "are you ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be." He takes one of your hands in his, placing your free hand on his shoulder before wrapping his arm around your waist, pulling you close. He proceeds to talk you through a very basic waltz, counting off each step so you'd know how to time it when you eventually started dancing to the music. You noticably cringed everytime you accidentally stepped on his toes. He would just chuckle and wave it off, telling you it was okay and it was all part of learning. Eventually, after a few days of practice, you started to somewhat get the hang of it.

"Good, good, now the next part is very important. You need to stop looking at the floor." He chuckles, causing you to blush slightly. You made an attempt, your eyes looking at the wall behind Terzo as you mentally pictures the steps. "(Y/N)... Relax." He says with a small smile. You hadn't realized until he said something that you had been holding your breath. He studies your face for a moment, "why don't we take a break for a minute?" Terzo sat down on the floor, a light sheen of sweat covering his skin from the hours you had been practicing that day. You joined him on the floor with an aggravated huff.

"I'm never going to get the hang of this." You say miserably, pulling your knees to your chest and hiding your face in them.

"You're doing great, I never said this was going to be easy. You're already a hundred times better than you were a couple days ago." Terzo slides closer to you, wrapping a comforting arm around your shoulder. You lift your head slightly, meeting his dual colored eyes in the process. You felt... Strange. You were no stranger to physical contact from Terzo, he just always happened to be a very hands on guy, not that you complained. But this made you feel different that anything you had felt towards him before. That tight, thick feeling in your throat was back. The same feeling you got when you watched him prepare to dance with you on that first day. Your heart was thundering in your chest, your hands felt clammy, your stomach churned but not in the sick and queasy way you had experienced before. "I know that by the time the party rolls around, you're going to be even greater at dancing than you could ever imagine." The way he was looking at you, you felt like you were running out of oxygen yet you've never had a fresher breath of air. You were feeling really conflicted.

"Could we pick this up in a couple hours?"

He nods with a concerned expression. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, just a bit tired I think." He stood, helping you from the floor in the process. Terzo continued to hold your hand in his, you reluctantly slipped your fingers out of his grasp.

"I'll be in my office when you're ready to pick back up, okay?" You nod, leaving the room before he had the chance to question why you were suddenly acting so strange. Your walk eventually turned into more of a jog as you ran off to the one place that could always help soothe your mind, Primo's garden. As if expecting you he was already there, tending to his plants like he normally was on any given day. The familiarity of this site helped you relax slightly. There wasn't any new thoughts or feelings, new experiences, just Primo and his garden.

"Il mio bambino, I can smell the anxiety coming off you from here." He didn't look up or stop the task he was in the middle of. You started in his direction, Primo could read you like a book at any given moment of course now was no different. You sat on the wall nearest where he was working, the two of you coexisting in silence before he decided to speak again. "What's wrong my dear?" He turns his full attention towards you and you immediately begin to crumble under his loving, almost parental gaze.

"I'm..." You pause, sighing slightly as you tried to find the right words to say. "I think I might have a crush on Terzo, it feels weird saying that out loud. I don't know, ever since he's been giving me dance lessons I feel like he's all I can think about. I've caught myself day dreaming about him for Satan's sake."

"You and Terzo have been very close for a long time, and as far as I know he's one of the first people you've really taken an interest in... Would it be such a bad thing to, dare I say, see where things go naturally." Primo chuckles, he knew how much you hated navigating things that were new. You always seemed to have a step by step plan to resolve every problem you've ever faced, but not this one. Primo joins you on the wall, taking your hand in his, "I think you should just let things take their course. Even an old man like myself can see the way you look at him, you've always adored him even if you haven't realized it until now. Terzo is your person, and I'd venture to say you're probably his. You know him better than anyone, you probably know him better than I do and he's my brother!" He lets out another small laugh before slowly standing up. He offers you his arm, "how about I take you back to your dance lessons?" You link your arm with his, sharing in some pleasant conversation as he walked you back to Terzo's office. He asked how you thought the lessons were going.

"Terzo's an excellent teacher, he's kind and patient, I'm just worried I'm still not going to be ready, we only have a few days left." Primo hums.

"I don't think you're giving yourself enough credit il mio bambino, I'm sure by the time the party rolls around you'll be ready to dance the night away." You reached Terzo's office, Primo knocks on the door and turns to you. "I hope our little chat today ease's your nerves my dear." Before you had time to respond Terzo opened the door, a confused expression on his face when he sees Primo. "I believe they're supposed to be with you." Saying only that, Primo turned to you, bid you farewell, and floated off down the hallway once more.

"I think I'm ready to try again." You say quietly, a meek smile on your face.

"Excellent." Terzo returns your grin, the two of you heading back down to the empty room that had become your dance studio for the time being. You took your position, Terzo's arm securely around your waist, your body almost flush against his. You started to walk through the steps again, trying to stay in time with the quiet music from the record player. Without realizing it you had started watching your feet again. "Don't look at the floor, look at me." His voice was deep, almost commanding. Your eyes snapped up to his, your cheeks flushing at the close proximity. "That's perfect cara mia, just keep your eyes on me." You didn't want to, being this close to him and having such intense eye contact was making you flustered. But, you had completely stopped overthinking your dancing. Before you knew it your clumsy attempt at a waltz had turned into actual dancing. Every shift of Terzo's body guided you to exactly where you needed to be. Over the last few days before the party dancing with him actually started to become fun. He spun you around the floor, occasionally you both would stumble over your own feet but you weren't riddled with anxiety over it anymore. You got one more practice session in the night before the party. You and Terzo planning on meeting at his quarters tomorrow to hopefully calm any nerves you could possibly have before he kissed the back of your hand and left you to your thoughts for the rest of the evening. You found yourself struggling to pick out something to wear. Knowing that subconsciously you were thinking about how you wanted to look good for Terzo made you groan. You knew Primo was right, nothing horrible was going to happen for giving into your feelings. You managed to find a gown you bought a few years ago that you never had gotten the chance to wear. A simple, elegant, black floor length gown. It was perfect. You were in the process of getting ready the next day when you ran into a problem. You couldn't zip up the gown by yourself. You were audibly cursing to your empty room as you fumbled with the zipper. Suddenly, there was a knock at your door. You held the back of the dress together the best you could with one hand and opened the door with the other. There stood Terzo, tie slung around his neck a small boquette of flowers in his hand.

"Hey, perfect timing, I need your help." You hurriedly pulled him inside. He chuckles, pulling the tie from his shoulder and holding it up.

"Good, because I also need yours." You chuckle, you had been helping Terzo tie his ties for years, of course he still needed help. Unfortunately for him your matter was more pressing. You turned, showing him the open back of your gown.

"Do you think you could zip me up? You felt him step closer to you, that familiar buzz spreading across your skin as you felt him step behind you. You glanced at him in the mirror in front of you. He studied your face for a moment, a small smile on his lips. Terzo's fingers were cool as they dragged up your spine, effortlessly bringing the zipper up along with it. After he was done he rested his hands on your waist, admiring the way you looked, how the dress hugged your curves in exactly the right spots.

"You look radiant this evening cara mia." You can't help but blush at the compliment. You turned, taking the tie out of his hand and placing it around his neck. You tied it meticulously, making sure his collar was neatly folded over, the knot perfectly done.

"Just as handsome as ever." You smile, resting your hands on his chest. You got caught up in his gaze, mismatched eyes keeping you pinned in place. He glanced down at your lips momentarily, your heart rate instantly picking up at the sight. He had just barely started to inch his face closer to yours when you panicked, "these flowers are beautiful!" You caught sight of them on the table where Terzo left them.

He sighs slightly, "they're from Primo. He wanted to apologize for not being able to come see you before the party, but he'll make sure to find you at some point tonight." You take a deep breath, inhaling the flowers sweet scent. "(Y/N)... Would you care to accompany me tonight?" You smile, setting the flowers down and stepping closer to him to adjust his tie once more.

"Nothing would make me happier Terzo." The two of you made your way to the party, Terzo wrapping his jacket around your shoulders because he insisted that you looked cold. You helped him back into his coat, smoothing out his suit before the two of you entered. You took his arm, smiling up at him. The place was already a buzz with energy, Terzo had a talent for being fashionably late. You wandered around and mingled a little. You eventually found Primo, he looked like he was about to shed a tear when he told you how wonderful you looked. Your arm linked with Terzo's once again, Primo passing a knowing glance between the two of you. Terzo turns to you, bowing slightly as he offers you his hand.

"Would you care to dance cara mia?" You placed your hand in, he gently brings the back of it to his lips. He leads you to the dance floor at the start of the next song, pulling you into his embrace. Actually being out on the dancefloor you started to feel nervous. Apparently that showed in your face, "remember, look at me... Only at me." You took a deep breath, hours upon hours of practice taking over your body with ease. He whisked you around the floor, spinning you around just like he had before. He held you close to him, both of you laughing giddily as you danced, drank, and laughed the night away. You and Terzo made your way down the hall, stumbling into each other and giggling.

"My feet hurt." You groan.

"You always wear heels to the parties, and you always complain." Terzo teases you. He suddenly scoops you off of the ground, earning a startled, happy shriek from you. "You can't complain about how much your feet hurt when you're not using them." You laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck. You walked past Terzo's quarters on the way back to your own, you stopped him.

"Can I come inside?" He smiles as he studies your face.

"Of course you can cara mia." He sets you down for just a moment while he opens his door before immediately sweeping you off your feet again. He flops back onto the couch with a groan, you now seated comfortably in his lap. He smooths your gown over your legs, "I can't get over how beautiful you look in this gown."

"Well you look very nice in that suit." You smile at him, he kissed the back of your hand. "Terzo?" He hums in response to your question. "Can... Can I kiss you?" His hand comes to rest on the side of your face. You could feel his breath against your lips as you got lost in his eyes. Terzo started to inch his face closer to yours, this time you didn't try to look for an escape. Your eyes fluttered shut as his lips finally met yours. You grabbed him by his collar, pulling him as close to you as physically possible as he kissed you. "I'm... In love with you, Terzo... I think I have been for years..." You admit nervously. In response to your confession Terzo kisses you again.

"I was worried you weren't going to feel the same... I didn't want to risk ruining our friendship." You couldn't believe what you were hearing. Both of you had been in love with each other for years, and you both were just too scared and stubborn to admit it. You both gazed lovingly at each other, leaning in for another short sweet kiss before talking the rest of the night, drifting off in each other's arms.

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sonorousabyss · 5 months

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hiya first time sending an ask, love your work btw

you know in the electro hashira reader fic it says

“M/N actually took on at least two known Tsugokus in the pursuit of eternity. The eldest is currently missing and presumed dead by the corps,”

what if the reader found their eldest student and it turns out that they were turned into a demon, how would they react?

𝗠𝗮𝗹𝗲, 𝗘𝗹𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗿𝗼 𝗛𝗮𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗿𝗮 𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 - 𝗔𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗥𝗲𝗴𝗿𝗲𝘁

An: Greetings, Anon! I've been absolutely giddy ever since you sent this ask in, thanks for following the story so closely, and being intrigued enough to ask! I'm more than happy to tell you about it! Happy holidays, by the way! Hope the season has gone well for you!

Warnings: Angst, minor gore

The first thing that overcomes M/N when they see the haunting form of their tsugoku haunched before them, consuming human flesh, is rage.

The second thing that overcomes him is an overwhelming feeling of regret.

It’s a vile thing, a sinking sensation deep within his gut that claws away at him, taking root anywhere and everywhere it can find purchase. His body grows cold, fingers almost numb on the hilt of his sword from how hard he gripped it, the large, billowing sleeves of his uniform obscuring the subtle shake of his arm as he’s forced to make a debilitating choice.

His Tsugoku, his first tsugoku, looked up at him with eyes that almost seemed to glow in the moonlight. He was just like how they remembered him. The same softness in his cheeks, the same hardness in his gaze- but there was a blankness too. Like the former slayer was looking directly at him and seeing nothing; It was like he was a piece of glass before the demon’s harsh eyes, utterly transparent, and ultimately worthless. Something to be shattered.

And it stung.

The eldest tsugoku looked at him without any recognition at all.

It almost made him laugh. Such a sick, twisted turn of fate, that after all this time of mourning and sacrificing, of all the demons he’d slayed in his apprentice’s name, and the successor he’d trained to take his place to avenge him… that he was alive... Living off the flesh mankind, feasting like a dog.

And yet, somehow? M/N felt deep within his soul that he deserved it. That he was to blame.

He watched the demon stand, tattered haori blowing in the wind as it wiped the blood off its face with his sleeve- the same one he’d worn when they’d been separated in the forest. The same one that he’d worn during the last mission they went on together. The same Haori he’d gifted him when he took him in as one of his own, decorated with the blood of who knows how many humans.

He deserved this.

He remembered it all. Remembered it vividly. A nest full of demons, far too many to handle alone- far too many to handle with a mere tsugoku. They’d been called to investigate an area because of multiple sightings nearby- odd since demons rarely flocked together- especially as they got stronger. They were territorial. But these not only managed to defy that preconceived notion, but they were enough to give most slayers a challenge. So he’d come there, intent on teaching his tsugoku a lesson and furthering their training...

They couldn’t handle it.

He sent out his beloved crow to get reinforcements, damn near dragging the young man with him as they fled, taking out the occasional demon that got a bit too close. Like his tsugoku in the present day, the boy then was stubborn. He thought the world of the electro hashira and thought they could take the vile things if they just stuck together and stood their ground. He was wrong. He deserved this.

His tsugoku trusted him with his life. M/N trusted him to follow him.

He couldn’t keep an eye on the boy the whole time. If he was going to plow a safe path through the hoard to get them both out alive, he would have to keep his eyes peeled for demons. He cut them down one by one, the sound of faint footsteps behind him his only solace reminding him that the boy was safe. The rhythmic sound of heads and bodies dropping resounded through the desolate forest, blood roaring in his ears, heart thumping in his chest as he relied on desperation, determination, hatred, and adrenaline to get him through. Perhaps… too much hatred.

He deserved this.

He didn’t know when it happened, but he’d gotten a crystalline realization, crisp as the freshly fallen snow he trudged through that there was one less pair of footsteps following behind him.

He deserved this.

He skids to a stop, breathing incredibly loud in the eerily quiet air as he whips his head around, gripping the hilt of his sword so hard that his knuckles turn white. There was no one. A sea of trees, the occasional pool of bloodstained snow as the corpses of demons gradually began to break down and float away in the breeze, like ash. But no one was there.

He deserved this.

The smart thing to do is run. He knows this. But as his blood boils with rage he needs to know for certain if he’s still alive. If he can be saved. Despite what the other members of the corps, his fellow hashira, thought of him, he wasn’t heartless.

He sprints back into the fray, searching the snow for where the footprints staved off. He looks around desperately. Where is he? Where is the boy? His Tsugoku?

He deserved this.

He came to a stop before a pool of blood. Too much blood for a human to survive losing, he thinks. It was there in the dead center that lay a depression in the snow where a body had been, and a torn piece of the haori he’d once given to the student he trusted with his life... And with a heavy heart, he’d walked into the center, picked up the fabric, turned on his heel, and left.

He deserved this.

A flash of metal to his right brings the Hashira back to his senses, and he tore himself away from his pain and regret, extending a hand in front of the culprit to stop them from going any further. The slayer paused in her tracks with a fiery rage in her heart, a scowl so deep that it chilled most to their very cores. M/N’s current Tsugoku, the most fervent follower of his ideology, couldn’t stand the fact that he, of all people, told her to stop.

“Why do you hesitate?” She hissed, words, laced with poison as he stared out at the form of his former tsugoku-turned-demon.

His first, and biggest, regret.

M/N watched as it eyed them up and down, accessing their strengths… and their weakness.

He hadn’t drawn his sword yet.

He knew very well why she was angry with him. There were very few she’d listen to in this world when it came to demons, and she, perhaps, was even more stubborn than he had ever been. Demons were a plague, he’d taught her, that needed to be eradicated no matter the cost. They were a slayer of man, hurting innocent humans who did not deserve the tragedy wrought upon them by monsters that lurk in the night. And to this day, he felt the very same. There hadn’t been any exceptions, not even for younger members of the corps, fledglings, who’d been turned in the past that he’d been forced to put down...

No. Not forced. He delighted in their demise too much to call it that.

But this time…

His face twisted in his own scowl as he took a step forward in the snow, arm still outstretched, before he reached for the hilt of his sword and unsheathed it with a determination he’d never had before.

As much as he wanted to deny it, he’d seen proof that demons could be good, or at the very least rendered docile enough not to bring harm to humankind, through the young boy known as Tanjiro Kamado, and his young sister Nezuko. That very boy had dared to stand before him, before his peers, before the master himself and proclaim that he was going to find a cure for his sister and turn her human once and for all.

And for the sake of all things good in this world, he hoped it was true.

“I’ll handle this.” He said calmly, shifting into stance as he prepared to take on the demon that was once his student. And begrudgingly, his Tsugoku sheathed her sword and complied. After all, if he had ordained to take on the flesh-eating monster himself, then that meant he did not grow weak. That he had not turned his back on their code. That he was not a traitor. And even if she didn’t like it or understand, that would have to be good enough for now.

And in the seconds right before his first tsugoku dared to take on the charge, he uttered something to him no slayer ever expected to pass through his lips in this lifetime.

“You’re coming with me, whether you like it or not.”

And the sounds of their battle were quickly engulfed by the fridged winds.

AN: Thanks again for this ask, friend, and I hope that you enjoyed!

May your day be as pleasant as the ocean's abyss is deep.

For those of you who are new around here? I take requests. You can find my rules here.

#kny x reader #kny x male reader #kny #male reader #demon slayer x reader #demon slayer x male reader #demon slayer #hashira reader #demon slayer x hashira reader #kny x hashira reader

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slothquisitor · 2 months

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What Moves in the Dark

The Netherbrain is defeated, and all of Astarion's plans for his future dissolve when his closest friends leave him for Avernus. Struggling to find purpose and a way to walk in the sun again, he meets Liv, a wizard working in an alchemy shop in the Lower City. She has her own reasons for wanting to help him, but their search for a cure is put on hold when a mysterious blood illness begins sweeping the Lower City.

Together, they team up to solve the mystery.

A Baldur's Gate 3 Eldritch Horror AU.

Read on AO3.

_____________________________________________________________

Prologue

The chamber is silent as a tomb before the figure begins. Magic coils in the air, a snake poised to strike. Then, there is the rhythmic drip, drip, drip of blood as the figure mutters words for a spell under their breath.

There is something reverent about the ritual as if this spell was a prayer and not simply a plea. Even the fury held behind their teeth feels like a benediction. The words spill out, slick and oily in the air, carrying a power all their own. But there are no gods listening; there is no divinity here.

It is something else that awakens instead. Something that has been slumbering. Something old and patient and twisting. The figure knows not what it calls upon, but it answers anyway. The figure asks for vengeance, for power, but they will not find that here. It is not interested in vengeance.

It is only here to consume.

It reaches out, in the space between worlds, crawls between the words the figure chants. There is blood, so much blood, and blood has power enough. It will do.

The spell is finished, and the figure is not satisfied. It hasn’t worked; the world is unchanged. It doesn’t care. The figure leaves the room, climbs the winding stone steps to somewhere brighter, open, better. Suddenly the world explodes with variety and chaos and potential .

The figure announces that the spell did not work to the others present in the room. One reaches out, a hand placed on the figure’s shoulder. It startles at the contact, sends out a touch, and is suddenly torn asunder. It mourns, it cries, it reaches for that piece of it that is now gone forever. But then, it can feel this other self, like a phantom limb. It is more.

It reaches further and further, beyond itself, tumbling in freedom, in ecstasy. There is so much to find, to discover, to take. But there is another power in this place, a rippling sort of magic it intentionally skitters away from. That’s alright; it can be patient.

It retreats, pulls back slowly, and waits. And waits. And waits.

Until it doesn’t.

____________________________________________________________

Chapter One

Astarion stands alone on the docks. Behind him, his ruined city is celebrating and mourning and rebuilding. In truth, he’s not sure why he’s here, again. Ever since Gale had told him about Karlach’s engine, about Wyll and Tavren’s desperate plea to take her to Avernus, he’s wanted to return to the spot. He thinks he can make out the scorch marks in the planks of wood, and though he knows they’re alive and well and probably kicking ass in Avernus…his dearest friends are gone and he didn’t even get to say goodbye.

He hadn’t been far from his friends, but he might as well have been a world away because the sun was shining and he was no longer immune to it. They’d looked for him; he’d heard their shouts, but he hadn’t wanted to see them. He hadn’t wanted them to see him, weak, pathetic, just a vampire spawn once again. He’d stayed hidden, and waited alone until nightfall, unable to bask in the victory in the face of so much loss.

So he hadn’t heard the news until he arrived at the Elfsong, the air filled with desperate and fervent celebration. He hadn’t intended to join in, he didn’t feel he had much to celebrate, but then…four of his friends were missing from the group in the middle of the tavern. What was left of their group was accepting thanks and drinks and gratitude from casual moths. There were whispers in the crowd of the heroes of Baldur’s Gate gone to take on Avernus, to the Blood War, so he’d pulled Shadowheart and Gale away from the chaotic revelry and they’d told him everything. How Lae’zel had jumped on the back of a red dragon. How Tavren, Karlach, and Wyll had gone to the Hells.

His losses just kept stacking.

He’d stayed just long enough for a drink of mediocre wine, and then he’d slipped away, unnoticed. And now he’s back here, and he’s not sure why. Just hours ago he and his friends had celebrated their victory here, and had wondered at the tadpoles now gone from their heads. He wishes he could go back to the moment just before it all fell apart, when it felt as if the whole world was waiting for him.

And now? The world is still there, still waiting, but he’s not sure how to reach out and grab it on his own. He had hoped that once this was all over, they’d keep adventuring, keep finding trouble and causing chaos together. He hadn’t considered another future, hadn’t believed that they wouldn’t find some way to fix Karlach’s engine and move right along to the next heroic deed. Tavren had done so many impossible things, what’s an infernal engine after gods and hags and a giant Netherbrain?

He spends a long time on the dock in the darkness, until there is a light blue quickening on the horizon that tells him dawn isn’t far off. It’s depressing just how quickly the learned habits from two hundred years of retreats just like this kick in, but instead of Szarr Palace, he heads back to the Elfsong. He doesn’t know where else to go.

In the days that follow, their group dwindles even further. Halsin and Shadowheart depart the city too. Minsc and Jaheira are busy with the work of rebuilding, and he is left with only Gale for company.

“Wonderful news, I have managed to procure us new lodgings!” Gale announces one late afternoon while Astarion counts down the hours to nightfall in his room. It was probably practical for them to be moved out of the large room their group had shared and into smaller, private rooms, but Astarion is starting to hate the Elfsong. He’s counted the floorboards, found odd shapes in the stitching on the curtains, and wondered if this is all his life is now.

Despite not being charged a penny for their rooms, probably out of deference to their service to the city, he’s sure they’re quickly outstaying their welcome. Astarion doesn’t have anywhere else to go, so he’d decided not to worry about that particular problem until he has to. At least the Elfsong has an endless supply of wine.

“New lodgings?” Astarion asks. If Gale has gotten an apartment in some facsimile of forced domesticity for them, he’s not going no matter how much he hates this room.

“Rolan has kindly invited us to stay with him and his siblings at Ramazith’s Tower,” Gale says with a sense of accomplishment. “The help of another wizard will be most welcome as I puzzle out how to get the crown out of the Chionthar and returned to Mystra.”

Ah, so it’s charity. Fabulous. “No.”

“Oh come on, Astarion. You can’t tell me that you’re happy here trapped in this room during the daylight hours.” Gale is doing that thing where his words are earnest and his eyes are intensely focused. It’d worked on Tav, but it won’t work on him.

“I have no desire to be in the debt of a trio of tieflings we’ve rescued three times over,” Astarion replies.

Gale nods like he understands, and Astarion resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Rolan is a friend, Astarion. A friend offering his wizard tower that has plenty of room and many, many books. We merely skimmed the surface of the tomes that were in Lorroakan’s possession. Perhaps there’s something that might help us find a way for you to walk in the sun again.”

Astarion isn’t stupid. He can see what Gale is doing, dangling out hope and optimism like some second-rate trinket peddler. It’s clear that Gale will be going, and Astarion doesn’t want to be left behind again. So he grimaces and sighs. “Ugh. Fine. But there better be something in that book collection that is actually helpful if I’m giving up proximity to an endless supply of wine.”

“That’s the spirit!”

Astarion is pretty damn sure he’s going to regret this.

***

“Have you ever conducted an autopsy?” Kharis asks, his words softer and more gentle than Liv expected. It��s not a question she’s expecting, but then, her work at The Shadowed Quill hasn’t been anything she expected either.

“No,” she replies and immediately wonders if admitting this means she’ll get dismissed from the room, lectured about all the ways she’s useless.

But Kharis just nods understandingly, and Liv reminds herself he’s never made her feel small or useless. The dwarf sighs, his bright red beard shifting against his barrel chest. Liv hasn’t ever asked how old Kharis is, but when he looks at her like he’s doing now, his blue eyes carry the weight of many, many years. She doesn’t know what his life was like before he opened this alchemy shop in the Lower City, but she suspects it was not a kind one if the deep, jagged scar that bisects his left eye and cheek is any indication.

“That’s alright,” he says kindly, “it’s been a while since I’ve done this. I’ll just have you watch and take notes for me, yes?”

She’s grateful for the out. She’s never considered herself squeamish, but after the mind flayer incident a few days ago where she’d been forced to fight and kill no less than three illithid enemies, she’d found herself looking around at the death and destruction afterward, and she’d had to retch in the alley.

Information had trickled out in the days following the attack, and it had answered some of the questions she and Kharis had, but not all of them. The Shadowed Quill was not meant to be a clinic, and Kharis and Liv are not doctors, but they do trade in magical remedies, and sometimes when no one else has answers, people are desperate enough it doesn’t matter.

It certainly hadn’t mattered for Alfran, who lays on a table in their workroom, dead. Alfran had come in complaining of headaches, weakness, dizzy spells, and bouts of memory loss. They’ve seen a lot of that lately…now Liv knows some of those people were infected with mind flayer tadpoles because they’d all turned into mind flayers in one terrifying, horrible instant. But there are also people like Alfran, whose symptoms did not go away when a brain fell out of the sky. He’d died yesterday, and there had been nothing she or Kharis could do.

It’s only been six months since Liv left her family’s comfortable Upper City estate, but it feels longer for all the heartbreak she’s seen. Alfran’s dead and there’s no one else to care, no one else who’s trying to get to the bottom of it. No one else wants to help the other people with the same symptoms, and it’s all because they’re poor, and they live on the wrong side of the city. Before she came here, she knew about the cosmic unfairness of the universe, was intimately acquainted with loss and pain, but it’s another thing entirely to see it play out on the street she lives on.

“Ready?” Kharis asks her, scalpel in hand. Their workroom is not made for this sort of work. The counters and cabinets are littered with everything they cleared off the workbench to accommodate Alfran. Globes of light bob up and down slowly in the space, lighting up the room.

She smooths her hands down her apron and steps closer to the table, to Alfran. He was young, barely eighteen, his golden skin pale in death. He’d been a runner for the Guild, and Liv had held his mother’s hand while she wept over her dead son. It had been more than a little alien to see a parent mourn a child like that. When her sister had died, her parents hadn’t so much as flinched.

She picks up her notebook and quill. “Ready.”

Kharis murmurs a prayer to Lathander before he begins. Liv catches only about half the words, but glances away anyway, as if she is witnessing something private. She doesn’t put any of her faith in the gods, and has never believed they listened or cared. But Kharis’ voice is soft, his eyes as kind as they had been when he had asked Alfran’s mother for her permission to examine her dead child. Liv had been surprised at the care, and she’s surprised by it now too.

Kharis takes the scalpel to the skin and begins to carve in a diagonal down from Alfran’s shoulder toward the center of his chest. It takes a moment, but the cut begins to ooze with blood. Kharis draws back his scalpel in shock.

“That…that shouldn’t be happening.”

“What?” Liv’s heart is racing, there’s something in Kharis’ tone that spells danger.

Kharis peers down at Alfran’s body before placing two thick fingers against his pulse point. “He’s been dead nearly a day, all his blood should have been pooled at his back.”

Right, she’d forgotten. Liv is reminded that they are not doctors, not experts at this. They are scholars playing at medicine because there is no one else interested in a boy from the Lower City who died mysteriously.

And yet, the wound is leaking blood anyway, as if the blood is somehow still pumping through his veins. But it’s not, so this doesn’t make sense.

Kharis pulls his hand away from Alfran’s neck, before crouching to peer below Alfran’s back, which is lifted slightly by a block beneath his upper back. Liv crouches as well, though she must drop almost to her knees. The telltale mottling of the skin is there, indicating that the blood has pooled, so why is the cut Kharis made bleeding?

They both stand up at the same time and immediately freeze. The blood is no longer oozing. Instead, tendrils of it reach like the tiny weeds that sprout between the cracks in the cobblestones. “Step back, Liv,” Kharis warns, his voice unyielding. “Don’t touch anything.”

He mutters something Liv doesn’t catch, and a blue spectral pair of hands appears. Kharis himself has backed away, but he’s watching and directing the mage hands that pick up a specimen jar and carefully coax the blood into it, just like one might a spider onto a paper. The blood moves easily, as if wanting a direction.

“What in the hells.” Liv chokes on the fear, on the acrid stench of wrongness in the air. “What is that?”

Only once the bottle is sealed does Kharis examine the blood within, the way it branches and reaches and shifts. “I don’t know, but we need to burn that body immediately.”

***

If Astarion had to admit it, staying at Ramazith’s Tower is better than being cooped up in his tiny room at the Elfsong all day. There are a great many windows in the tower, but Rolan and Gale have enchanted enough of them to block out the sun so that he can move about the tower freely, even in the daylight hours. It had been a kindness he hadn’t expected, hadn’t known how to express his gratitude for properly, so he hadn’t said a thing about them.

There is plenty of space in the tower, and it’s easy to be alone. Which is what he tells himself he wants, even if he’s not sure that’s true anymore. He spends the first day or two mostly in his room, not wanting to be out and about the tower if it means acknowledging the kindness present. But by the third day, he’s figured out that Rolan might make a comment or two about the place being his, but no one is holding this over his head, no one is demanding a thing of him.

Gale and Rolan are busy working on recovering the crown, and Astarion has no plans, no direction for what he wants his life to be. He has longed for freedom for so long, for the ability to plan and shape his own life, his own destiny. And now that it is here, he is lost. His list of friends and allies dwindles by the day. He doesn’t know what he wants.

The only thing he does know is that he wants to walk in the sun again. Tavren had been sure they could find a way, just like they’d been sure they’d find a way to fix Karlach’s engine. Astarion had hoped they’d all be looking for the answer together instead of him alone, but he’s got a wizard’s tower at his disposal for at least the time being, and well, he might as well use it. He spends the long daylight hours looking through books and taking notes. It’s slow, boring work, but he’s hopeful that if he just keeps looking, he’ll find something.

“I found another tome that mentioned vampires down in one of the vaults,” Rolan says approaching the desk Astarion has claimed for research. The space is a mess, piles of books and scrolls and hastily scribbled notes. If the new wizard in residence of this tower is bothered by it, he doesn’t say so.

Astarion looks up from the scroll he’d been reading. “Who’s the author?”

Rolan consults the spine of the book. “Lysander Grimholt.”

Astarion points with his quill at a pile near the top of the desk. “Add it to that pile.”

“You mean there is a method to the madness?” Rolan asks with a cock of his head.

Astarion glares at the tiefling. “If you’re not here to help, you can go.” He’s not sure about the wisdom of ordering around a wizard in his own tower, but then, the tower only belongs to him because Tavren made it so. He discards the worry.

“Well, if you’re going to be rude then I won’t tell you about the lead Cal and Lia wanted me to pass along to you.”

“A lead?” Astarion repeats. He doesn’t mean to sound quite so doubtful, but it is what it is.

Rolan grins, and then the little shit shrugs. “Guess you’ll have to ask them since I’m clearly bothering you.”

There’s a lightheartedness to the exchange that Astarion might have appreciated a few weeks ago, but it falls flat now. “Just tell me what it is.”

Rolan gives him a complex look and his smile disappears. “There’s an alchemist shop in the Lower City, apparently they’ve been helping people with all sorts of magical maladies.”

“You think some Lower City magical swindlers are going to be able to help me?” Astarion scoffs.

Rolan sighs. “I wouldn’t mention it at all except that Lorroakan had complained about them taking business before, and seemed somewhat convinced that they were legitimate competition. Who knows? It might at least be worth a try.”

Astarion’s not exactly making loads of progress here. He’s found plenty of books mentioning vampires and chronicling how to kill them, but he’s found nothing else useful. Astarion is well-read, mostly out of necessity, he had so few avenues of escape for two hundred years, but he’s not a researcher or a scholar. Rolan and Gale have helped, but what’s the harm in casting a wider net?

“I’ll pay the little shop a visit this evening,” Astarion says. Rolan takes it as a dismissal, and Astarion watches him retreat. “Thank you, by the way. It’s…well it’s something.” Though what, he’s not sure yet. Rolan doesn’t turn, and instead waves a hand to indicate it’s nothing and continues on.

When he’s not annoyed at being in the wizard’s debt and trespassing on his hospitality, Astarion does actually like Rolan. He’s grumpy and gruff all to disguise his deep care for his siblings, and he has enough ambition to see an opening and take it. Like this tower that’s now his. Astarion can respect that.

He glances out the windows, to the bright and shining day just out of his reach, and gets back to work.

***

The Shadowed Quill is quiet this evening. They’ve likely seen their last customers for the day, and Liv should turn the sign around and lock the door, but she’s busy cataloging potions and spell components, and Kharis has stayed later than usual, examining the blood they’d pulled from Alfran. He hasn’t shared any theories with her yet, but she suspects it has less to do with secrecy and more that he is genuinely baffled.

She is too, if she’s honest. Curiosity has seeped the fear from the situation, and she’s been spending her off-hours poring over every tome they have on blood diseases and disorders. Nothing has explained the viscous tendrils that emerged out of Alfran. They’ve taken blood samples from two more people who’d come to them with similar symptoms, but so far, Alfran’s blood appears to be the only one behaving oddly. They haven’t told anyone about the strangeness with the blood, had given reassurances and promises to the others that they have no business giving. But the families can’t pay, so all they get is a cleric and a wizard with good intentions.

Liv knows why Kharis does it, the sense of responsibility and righteous duty compels him forward, but for her, it’s more complicated. She doesn’t know what it is she believes in, where she places her trust, she just knows that in the face of so much suffering, she can’t stand idly by. But she and Kharis help, they always help. And Liv tells herself that she’s adding some net value good to this world, and maybe it’s enough to balance out her past, her family name.

The bell over the door rings as the door opens and someone enters. “We’re actually closed,” Liv calls.

“Your sign out front says otherwise.” The elven man who steps into the shop is pale and wiry, all sharp angles. He’s dressed finely and his accent carries the inflated sense of self that so many Upper City types have. He’s also beautiful if beauty was something that could be balanced on a razor’s edge.

“I apologize, I forgot to turn it, but our hours are posted. You’ll need to come back in the morning.”

The man’s nose wrinkles in displeasure. “I can decidedly not come back in the morning.”

She knows his type: pompous, entitled, and rude when something doesn’t go their way. And yet, there’s something vaguely familiar about him, like she’s seen him somewhere before. Liv keeps her voice even, but firm. “Like, I said: we’re closed. We’d be happy to help you with whatever you need in the morning.”

“Do have any idea who I am?” the man asks, his voice rising steadily in both pitch and indignance.

If he’s a noble, she doesn’t recognize him. She shrugs. “No.”

“Honestly, it’s as if some people aren’t grateful at all. Look, I understand you’re closed, but I have a very restricted schedule when it comes to visiting tiny alchemy shops in the Lower City, so maybe you can just tell me if you can help me.”

Liv’s curiosity gets the better of her. “With what exactly?”

He seems genuinely surprised at her question as if he didn’t expect her to acquiesce. “I…well…I’m…you see….uh, what’s the best way to put this? I’m…I’m a vampire.” He rushes the end of the phrase, tacks a laugh on at the end as if he’s told her a joke.

And suddenly it all clicks into place. His too-sharp features, the pointed incisors she understands now are fangs, the air of danger that seems to bleed off of him. And then she recognizes him from the broadsheets. “You’re one of the heroes of Baldur’s Gate.”

He looks genuinely exasperated that it took her this long to get there. “Yes,” he says, drawing out the syllables. “I’m Astarion.”

“Thanks for protecting the city…I guess?” Liv replies, unsure exactly where he’s going with this. She’s interested in helping him, but he still hasn’t told her a damn thing beyond what he is.

He glares at her as if she’s being deliberately obtuse. “Can you help me or not?”

“With what exactly? You still haven’t told me your problem.”

“And he won’t. I’m afraid you need to leave.”

Both she and Astarion’s attention snaps to the doorway that leads to the workroom. Kharis stands there, axe in hand. Astarion raises both hands. “Now, I know I was a little rude, but this is uncalled for.”

“I will not ask again. We don’t help the undead here,” Kharis says, taking a slow step forward.

Astarion’s gaze catches on the rising sun etched into the axeblade. He sighs. “Rolan could’ve warned me you all worshipped Lathander. Well, then, I’ll be on my way.” He turns and leaves, the bell jangling in the silence that falls.

Liv turns to Kharis in confusion. “I thought we helped everyone.” She likes working for Kharis, but they both know that she’s overqualified to work in an alchemy shop. Now that she’s free from her parents, she’s been looking for a project or piece of scholarship she can use to get the hells out of Baldur’s Gate. Her family poisoned every last one of her connections when she left home, and none of the academies would even touch her. She’d genuinely like to help Astarion if she can, but even if she can’t, she’s not sure any researcher has ever worked this closely with a vampire. It’s sure to at least get her in the door somewhere.

Kharis lowers his axe. “Lathander teaches that all undead must be destroyed. I’m not interested in killing him, but well, I don’t have to help him either.”

Kharis rarely talks about his religious convictions, but Liv’s gotten the sense that they were acquired later in life and that he didn’t grow up in worship. She wants to bring up the questionable coincidence of strange blood and vampires calling all within the same tenday, but she knows it’s a losing battle. Kharis is stubborn and once his mind is made up, there’s no talking him out of it.

“I’ll finish up out here. Why don’t you grab us some dinner from Hattie’s?” Kharis suggests with an air of apology. Hattie is a giant of a half-orc who runs a food stall down the block, and after Kharis healed some bad burns for him, he gives them a steep discount.

“Won’t Wynn be upset you’re skipping dinner with him?” she asks.

“He’s working late. I’ll eat dinner with you, and then head home.”

Liv doesn’t argue the point because there’s an opportunity here. If she leaves now she might still catch Astarion on the street. Kharis won’t help, and that’s fine because he has his beliefs, but he didn’t forbid her from doing a damn thing. She’s the one who lives above the shop. Astarion could come by at night and she could help him, and Kharis wouldn’t be any the wiser.

“I’ll be back,” she smiles and then ducks out the shop door.

Astarion hasn’t made it far, but she still hurries down the street before calling his name, worried that somehow Kharis might be watching. When he hears his name, he pauses before turning, his face a mixture of surprise and disdain.

“I assure you I got the message; I won’t be back,” he says, voice tired.

“I’m sorry about Kharis. I didn’t realize just how…unyielding his beliefs were,” she says, closing the distance. It’s a pretty night, the moon is high in the sky, casting Astarion in moon-touched silver. “I have no such convictions. I’d still like to hear your problem.”

He looms over her, silver hair glinting as he cocks his head. His crimson eyes narrow, and she is reminded that she has chased a vampire down a darkened street. Alone. This close, there’s something preternaturally still about him, and she’s unsure how she didn’t immediately realize what he was.

“I’d like to find a cure for my condition .”

A cure for vampirism? That sounds more than impossible. But if she managed it? Well, that would be an accomplishment even her parents couldn’t ignore. She doesn’t want to give him hope where there is none, but she wants this. “I could try.”

“Really? I assume not out of the goodness of your heart. What do you want?”

She doesn’t want to tell him about her family, about the thorny complicated pieces of it. So she settles for something smaller, more immediate. “We’ve been treating people with a blood sickness, and then you come knocking. It can’t be a coincidence. I want some of your blood.”

He laughs, fangs flashing as he steps near. The angles of him are just this side of wrong, too sharp. There is a sense of otherness about him, but she is not afraid. “Darling, that’s not how this typically works.”

She doesn’t want him to know just how much she wants to work on his problem, so she shrugs and turns away. “Well, good luck then.”

“I didn’t say no.”

She glances over her shoulder, doing her best not to smile in victory. “Come back in an hour then.”

#astarion #astarion x tav #astarion bg3 #bg3 astarion #bg3 fanfiction #astarion x liv #eldritch horror au #check the tw on ao3 besties #this is a bit different from my usual #what moves in the dark #slothquisitorwrites

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ani-coolgirl · 8 months

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Compulsion, Cravings, Consequences, and Control

Written for @wincestwednesdays prompt 5: withdrawal

Read here on AO3

Dean attacks him the minute he walks through the door. There’s no other word for it. Sam barely makes it down the bunker staircase before he’s pinned to a wall, Dean’s mouth devouring his. There’s not even time to set down his bags; they slip from his fingers, contents spilling everywhere, so he can cup Dean’s jaw instead, his other hand going to Dean’s waist. They make out for a good five minutes, kissing out in the open as brazen as a new couple in high school, grabbing a spare moment between the bell. In a way, it’s not totally inaccurate. This—being together—is still new. It’s barely been a month since Sam pulled Dean’s phone away from his face one afternoon and did what he’d been too frightened to do his whole life.

(Sam still couldn’t say why he chose the moment when he did, exactly; if the trigger had been defeating Chuck, he should’ve have done it almost a year ago. Instead, he waited. What he was waiting for, he couldn’t say. For all the darkness in his head to settle and dissipate? To admit what he’s already known for too long? To finally feel safe? It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t like to analyze it.)

The point is, it’s still a raw, this thing between them. They’re still learning about this part of each other—the only part left they don’t already know backward and forward. They can be shy, awkward even, which is truly a bizarre state of affairs for two people who’ve known each other their whole lives. If Sam didn’t know Dean would talk smack for saying so, he would say they were going slow. He can still count on two hands how many times they’ve been past first base.

Dean’s hands drift downward, where he toys with Sam’s zipper. Sam’s brain comes back online. “Woah, woah,” he says, gently guiding Dean away. It takes a moment for Dean to back up, but luckily, he doesn’t look too put out—just annoyed. “What’s all this?”

Dean doesn’t answer at first, squeezing Sam’s hips and kissing up his neck. “Wassit look like?” he mumbles as his grip slides further back.

Sam jumps when Dean squeezes his butt. “Y-yeah, but—”

“But what?” Dean asks though he doesn’t sound too interested in the answer. “Don’t you wanna?”

Of course he wants to. There’s a little spot behind his left ear that makes his brain go pleasurably fuzzy and stupid that only one person in the entire world knows about—and Dean just became the second. Equally distracting is Dean rhythmically massaging his ass, occasionally gripping in a way that suggests something more intimate. And, of course, there’s the erection grinding against his front, which his own rapidly rises to meet. It’s almost humiliating how little it takes to get him going these days—they’re both way too old to be playing grab-ass like this in the front door of their house.

“Going kinda fast, aren’t we?” Sam gasps. He regrets the words the second they come out of his mouth. He’s also too old to be sounding like a junior on their first date. That’s good blackmail material for a few weeks, at least.

But Dean doesn’t jump on the opportunity to rib him. He’s too busy untucking Sam’s shirt from his pants. “So?”

“So? Dean—” Sam pushes Dean back, for real this time, far enough that Dean has to actually take his hands off him for a moment so they can both breathe. To his surprise, Dean’s face reddens in a way Sam knows isn’t just from arousal, fidgeting in place. “What’s going on?”

Sam tries not to go down the worst-case scenario track but it’s sort of habit by this point. Dean’s in danger. Dean’s cursed. Dean’s sick. Dean’s dying. Dean’s dying, and he’s trying to say goodbye.

Sam waits. Dean offers a weak grin. “I missed you?” he offers. Sam raises an eyebrow. True, he had been away for a pickup—very rare, very valuable lore books he negotiated away from a witch friend of Rowena’s for their library, all of which were currently dumped all over the floor—but he’d only been gone for two days, maybe two and a half. Dean, wanting no part of any“witchy nerd bullshit” opted to stay behind and run errands instead. There shouldn’t have been time or opportunity for Dean to get into anything untoward, but, well, they both have a history of failing miserably of keeping out of trouble. “C’mon, Sam, can’t we just—”

“Dean, seriously,” Sam interrupts firmly. “What’s going on?”

Dean’s face amazingly gets even redder. He scratches the back of his head and averts his gaze. “I, uh. I can’t stop thinking about it,” Dean admits.

It takes a moment for Dean’s confession to click. It. It. Three days before Sam left, he and Dean had gone all the way (gone all the way, Christ, how juvenile could he get) for the first time. It was strange. And clumsy. And they’d had to stop twice because it turns out, no, there is no such thing as too much lube. And Sam actually had to postpone his trip because sitting was such a pain and he bitched about for a good day and a half after.

And Dean couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Now Sam’s blushing too, neither able to look at each other. Sam would hardly call that his best performance. Any and all attempts to come across as sexy just became awkward when he realized the one looking at him had seen him through every (unfortunate) stage of puberty. Every noise that came out of his mouth was either too loud or too weird. And he knows he could have responded more, given Dean positive feedback during the whole thing instead of just snapping at him when he asked for the millionth time if he was okay. It’s not like it hadn’t felt good, eventually, but part of him had still been so freaked out that he when he finally came it was as much of a surprise as it was a relief. They didn’t even share a bed after, and Sam spent half the night utterly mortified, unable to sleep. He was sure it’d be a couple of weeks, maybe even a month, before they made another attempt. He didn’t want to wait that long but he couldn’t even look Dean directly in the eye right up until he left.

But now Dean’s studying his face with intense scrutiny, the embarrassment slowly fading from his own. “I was fine while you were still here but, man, the minute you walked out that door... I thought I was going nuts,” he says intently. “I kept having these flashbacks. Like, Full Technicolor Stereophonic Surround Sound.”

Sam winces. “That bad, huh?” he asks lightly. Dean shakes his head and steps a little closer.

“It’s never been that way before, you know? Not even after my first time.” Cautiously, Dean reaches out, laying a hand on Sam’s arm. “I kept thinking about... hell, I dunno, everything. How you taste, how you smell. The look on your face when I finally got naked. What you look like naked, obviously.”

There must be something on his face giving Dean the green light because he steps closer, trailing his hand up and down in a slow, soothing motion. “Jesus, you know you’re gorgeous right? And looking at you hard and knowing all of that was for me... You have no idea what that does to a guy.”

“I have some idea,” Sam manages. Now they’re back a square one, Dean pressing Sam against the wall, hands wandering up his body. Dean smirks and presses the advantage.

“The minute I saw your dick,” Dean murmurs, “I wanted to choke on it.” Sam’s mouth instantly goes dry. “I’d never gone down a guy before, and you’re so fucking huge, I was too chicken shit to go for it. But I was drooling for it the entire time. At least until I got you turned over.”

Sam’s once again losing his ability to think. Dean succeeds in pulling out his shirt. The minute he does, he goes for skin, groping and exploring; Sam gasps when he pinches a nipple.

“That ass. Fuck. I can’t believe you let me tap that,” Dean continues. To demonstrate he grabs it again, this time without disguising his intention in the slightest, digging his fingers in a spreading his cheeks as much as he can within the confines of his pants. Dean’s mouth never stops moving, whether to nip and suck at his jaw or whisper more nonsense in his ear. “Let me get you all sloppy. Working all those fingers in you, seeing you shake all over for me. Fuck.” He can’t actually reach, Sam knows he can’t through his jeans, but he still moans when Dean rubs along his crack, teasing his hole. “And when I got in you? Felt you squeezing my dick? God, I almost lost it then and there.”

Sam wishes he could hold himself open, let Dean inside again, but he’s too stupid to figure out how. All he can do is whine and grind against his brother, imagining. “Shit, I’d done anal before but it was different you, know?” Dean rumbles in his ear. “Watching myself fuck you. The way your back looked, and your sweat. And the sounds that you made... Christ. The minute you were gone, those sounds popped up in my head and I had to jerk off, right then and there.” Sam shakes his head and Dean seizes him, holding him still as he circles his hips against Sam’s. “I did. Did twice more after that. Every day you were gone. I don’t think there’s a room in here I haven’t pulled one off in now.”

“Gross,” Sam gasps, the closest thing to a coherent thought he’s had in several minutes.

Dean chuckles. “It’s true. But nothing helped. Nothing can compare. You got me obsessed, man,” he confesses. “Don’t even know how I can get hard anymore but you told me you were an hour out and I was ready to go. I fucking need you, Sammy.”

That’s it. Sam shoves Dean back and Dean stumbles, nearly tripping over the books in surprise. Now, Sam can see it— the wildness in Dean’s eyes, every inch of him oozing desperation. He’s like a cat in heat. Worse, like a junkie itching for a taste. And Sam just deprived him of a hit.

“Bedroom,” Sam insists before Dean can think he’s being rejected. That gaze grows impossibly darker, and the smile more wicked. Their first attempt might not have been the stuff of romance novels but it was enough to get Dean hooked... and Sam’s pretty sure he’s got the same addiction.

#wincest #wincest wednesday #supernatural #spn #my fic

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donteattheappleshook · 1 year

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Not Broken At All Chapter 15/?

Summary:

A season 1 Neverland AU. Emma is still trying to adjust to her new life as Sheriff of Storybrooke and mom to Henry, who still believes everyone in town is a fairytale creature. When she finds a badly beaten, one handed man while patrolling, she’s convinced he’s crazy. He is, after all, rambling about fairies and shadows and crocodiles. But when Henry is suddenly taken out the window of a house everyone believes is haunted, the madman in the hospital might be her only hope of getting her son back. Whether he likes it or not.

Rated E

Catch up on Ao3 (where my italics work) or on Tumblr 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

CONTENT WARNING! This has the hunt which includes lost boys (kids) being killed and while it's brief, it's a dark scene. There's also some gore afterwards and violence (again against lost boys) referenced off-screen. If you're at all uncomfortable you can DM me and I can let you know which sections to avoid. I had a few people review it and tell me it's "dark but not too dark" but better safe than sorry. And hey, there’s also smut to make up for it.

Thank you thank you thank you thank you always @the-darkdragonfly and @elizabeethan for your help with this feral fic 😘 and thank you @kmomof4 for being a fantastic beta for this chapter! 💕💕

*****

Part 15

She can still feel the burn of his kiss - her kiss - on her lips when the moon hangs high above the Jolly. She’s been watching it, tracking its slow climb across the sky since she came out of the forest to find Will waiting on the shore - Wendy having taken the dinghy and leaving them stranded. Emma was almost relieved that she wasn’t there, that she didn’t have to explain why she was standing there alone, why Killian wasn’t with her. No matter how angry Wendy was at her Captain, she would have noticed. Will, on the other hand, was too fixated on the sea, on the ship rocking rhythmically against the waves to notice. But the way he watched it, as though it were miles away and not metres, betrayed what the longing in his eyes was really for.

She’d suggested they swim, the ship not far and the water most likely clear of vindictive sirens. Mostly she’d just wanted to get that look off of his face, to stop feeling the guilt that accompanied it. They’re risking their lives for you, Swan, all of us are - for you and for your son. He didn’t put up an argument. Will only shrugged dismissively, looking back out to the ship and wading into the sea.

It’s been hours since then, hours of waiting and staring out at the dark water, searching for any movement in the dimly lit night. She can feel the cold breeze seeping through her thin shirt, chilling her skin and sending a tremor through her bones. But she can’t go below deck, can’t leave her spot by the railing. Not until she sees some sign, any sign that she didn’t just send him to his death to protect Henry. Henry, who's still out there, who’s waiting for her to come get him, who may already hear the Lost Boys’ cries.

It’s late, the moon already growing dimmer against the lightening sky. Will had come up some time ago, only sparing her a passing look before finding a spot far enough away that they wouldn’t feel the need to speak. He’d gone straight below deck once they’d climbed out of the water, his small plea of ‘Wen, please’ carrying over to her in the silence. The nights are always so quiet here, the sea soundless against the ship, the wind not stirring in the trees. It’s wrong, and unnatural, this island not a place rooted in reality, the piercing wails of the children in the jungle starker against the silence, echoing over the sea.

Emma casts a glance over at Will, leaning over the railing, looking out at the water rather than the beach, though she imagines he’s not really looking at anything at all, and wonders if he can hear them. He’s never said. Only that Wendy did. And now Killian is out there risking his life to make it up to her, to atone for the daughter he left behind by making sure she doesn’t lose the man who stayed by her side. Because of her. Because she begged Will to go, begged anyone to go and do what she couldn’t.

Daylight begins its slow crawl over the night sky and still there’s no sign of Hook, no sign of Wendy since the forest. She doesn’t hear Will cross the deck until his arms fold over the railing beside hers, his shoulders tense as he leans heavily on them, his question leaving him in a heavy breath.

“He went, didn’t he?”

Emma nods, fingers pressing into the soft wood beneath them. But he’s not looking at her so she lets out a small ‘yeah’ and watches his jaw clench, teeth pressed together as anger and relief war on his face.

“Bastard.”

“How far is the camp?”

Will gives a small shrug. “It moves. But it can be found if you know what to look for.” When she doesn’t answer he finally turns his head, just a fraction and she feels his gaze from the corner of her eye as she goes back to watching the beach. “He’ll be back.”

“How do you know?”

“The man’s bloody impossible to kill. Trust me,” he insists. “I’ve tried.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

He sighs when she doesn’t answer. “Pan doesn’t want him dead. He never has. He enjoys torturing him too much.”

“What if he changes his mind?” Especially if he catches him trying to meddle in whatever plan he has for Henry.

“He could,” Will acknowledges. “But he expects Hook to try and stop him. It’s all part of the game.”

“This isn’t a game.”

“Everything is a game to him. Sometimes… I used to wonder if he even knew what was real and what wasn’t. I didn’t. Not until…” The little girl he brought to Wendy. “He’s a child. Everything, this whole island, his hunts and his raids and his conquests, it’s all make believe, one big, never ending game.”

Emma doesn't know which is scarier, the thought that Pan is a monster that murders and maims and torments without remorse, or that his acts of cruelty can be carried out without care, without any true understanding of consequence - for fun. How many times as a child did she play cops and robbers? How many times did she and the other children in homes sword fight with sticks and cardboard tubes, laughing while they ‘killed’ one another. Because it was all just make believe.

Her thoughts are cut off by a slow roar of something in the trees, the dull, faraway sound carrying over the water. Will looks out at the sky, suddenly alert and she follows his gaze, the sun just breaking over the horizon. “It’s starting.”

It’s shouting, she realizes, a low rumble of a battle cry making its way towards the beach. “The hunt?”

“Aye.” The voice comes from behind them, Wendy having finally emerged from her cabin, staring out towards the shore. There’s a moment where she takes in Will standing beside her, frown pulling at her brow before relief softens it. But her gaze snaps back to the beach, eyes wide, brow marred again. “Where’s Killian?” The question is sharp, an order. But neither answer. She knows. Wendy rushes to the rail, looking frantically out over the water as though she could see him through the jungle. “Bastard.”

It takes her a moment to school her features, to regain control of herself, hands still clenched into fists against the edge of the Jolly. But once she does, she slips back into the role of the fierce pirate captain Emma met that first night - the one that ended a deathmatch with a single word. “Ready the crew” she tells Will. “Be sure they’re prepared to take on the wounded. And no one,” she adds, tone commanding and almost frightening, “no one is to leave the ship. Is that understood?” The question is directed at her.

“I-”

“If you go on that beach, you’re signing your death warrant. You’re to stay below deck,” she orders. “Understood?”

“I’m not staying below deck if Henry comes out of that jungle,” Emma argues.

“Killian is taking care of Henry. If Pan sees you you’ll be putting both of them at risk. You’ll stay below deck, Emma,” she repeats. “That’s an order.”

“Let me help. I can -”

Before she can finish, she’s being lifted off her feet, a small nod from Wendy to Will, some unspoken command and suddenly she’s tossed over his shoulder and letting out a cry of protest as she’s carried below deck.

“What the- Put me down!” she snaps, but Will and his stupid, freakish strength holds her steady, the arm across the back of her thighs vice-like.

“I swear to god, you better not lick me again while you’re back there,” he warns.

She gives a hard elbow to his ribs in retaliation, the small grunt he lets out immensely satisfying before she’s being dropped on her ass, the damp room one she doesn’t recognize, and a lock clicks into place. It takes her a second to register where she is.

“You’re throwing me in the fucking brig?” she demands, fingers wrapping around the solid iron bars. “You can’t be serious.”

“You're part of this crew. You don't follow orders, this is what happens,” Wendy tells her before heading back towards the deck. “You’ll be let out when it’s over.”

“Maybe,” Will adds with a mirthful smirk that makes her wish he was close enough to hit again. But the door slams shut between them and she’s left alone with her outrage.

The shouting is getting louder now, the sun climbing quickly - too quickly - into the sky. She can distinguish words now, cries of ‘get them’ breaking through the hollering and the cheering… and the screams. The first one she hears- sudden and sharp and cut off in an instant- sends her heart dropping into her stomach. She hardly has time to let the dread take over before another takes its place, this one worse, drawn out, fading into a whimper, small and heartbreaking and horrible. It’s followed by cries of victory.

Reaching for the bars on the small window of her cell she hoists herself up onto the small bench, just able to look out if she holds her weight up, standing on barely touching tiptoes. She wishes she hadn’t. The beach is a bloodbath, bodies strewn out across the sand, dead, or soon to be. They’re too far for her to recognize any, but they’re all so small, narrow shoulders and lanky limbs. Any one of those bodies could be Henry. Every single one is a child.

Emma nearly falls off the bench, barely managing to land on her feet as she doubles over, emptying her stomach on the floor of her cell. It doesn’t stop, the chaos on the beach echoing in the small room, screams, cheers of triumph, the slice of metal and the batter of arrows falling over one another until they all fade into the endless din of battle.

She can’t bring herself to look again, sitting with her back to the horror, hands over her ears as she tries to drown it all out, stuck and helpless to do anything about it. It’s not Henry. Henry’s not there. She needs to believe that Killian got to him in time, that he stopped him from being a part of it. Those aren’t his cries of pain she’s hearing. That’s not him celebrating. Henry’s not there. She repeats it, again and again, curled on the floor, trying to block out the horror. They were right. She wouldn't have been able to stay below deck- either above or below. She wouldn’t have been able to stay off the beach.

It goes on for ages, growing in volume, the Lost Boys riled up more with every fallen victim. She could almost believe they were playing, were it not for the crying, the pleas for mercy. Then, almost as quickly as it started, the sounds begin to quiet. She hears a flurry of footsteps thundering onto the deck above her head, hears the muffled shout of Wendy ordering her crew to aid the survivors.

The mayhem on the beach finally settles, the slashing of swords and the cries dropping one by one until there’s silence. And then there are only hoots and hollers echoing across the shore - a celebration. Someone is congratulating them. She doesn’t have to guess who it is. She’ll recognize that twisted, childlike voice for the rest of her life.

It’s over. It has to be. Please let it be over. There’s no more clash of swords, no more wails of pain and death and she can almost breathe again until she hears it. A single, sobbing whimper from the shore, a cry of “mama” that burrows itself deep, echoing through her. There’s another. And another. And it’s the worst sound she’s ever heard, worse than the Lost Boys at night - children crying for their mothers.

She’s on her feet before she can think, yanking at the goddamn padlock on her door, clawing at it and shouting with rage when it doesn’t give. She doesn’t have anything to pick it with - no tools, no pins, not even a goddamn pen to break apart. Fucking pirates knowing better than to leave anything within reach that could help her break out.

She pulls the heavy leather boot from her foot, the heel solid and adorned with metal. It’s flimsy and awkward but it’s all she’s got and she reaches, arm scrapped raw by the stripped bars as she tries to get any force behind the blow. Reaching for the padlock, the angle awkward, and hitting it again and again, she curses when she hits it hard enough to knock the boot out of her hand, fingers aching where they still connect with the iron.

But she doesn’t stop, not so long as she can hear the kids crying from the shore. She may not be their mother but she’s a mother and she’s getting to that fucking beach. She yanks off her other boot, trying again, hanging on so tightly this time that her knuckles go white. Emma’s not sure how long she tries, how many times she brings the heel down on the lock, her skin damp with sweat, her shirt bloodied where the bars scratched her.

“Come on you stupid son of a bitch.” She’s tired, her arm aching, fingers bruised, but there’s a fury in her, a rage that builds until it feels like it will burst out of her. And then it does. She smashes the lock again, a spark of light flashing when it makes contact, bright enough that she has to shut her eyes. But when she opens them, the lock is on the ground, broken in two.

The cell swings open easily as she runs for the deck, yanking the door of the brig open only to crash into a figure on the other side. Fingers and metal wrap around her arms as she tries to push past him, shouting obscenities and shoving at him. But he doesn’t move, his grip tightening until she hisses, flinching, skin scratched raw beneath his hand and he lets go.

“Swan.” The name is what snaps her out of her panic. Her name. The one only he calls her - the one he promised not to let her forget. She looks up at him, finally realizing that it’s him, that he’s there and alive. The blue of his eyes, sad and anxious, shines even in the dim light of the room. “It’s over.”

She hears it then, the absence. There’s no more noise, no more screaming, no crying, the awfulness faded to nothing, the only sound the creaking of footsteps above them and her own ragged breathing. Her hands slide over his chest, pulling back enough to look for any sign he’s been hurt, that he didn’t come back in one piece. She searches his face, remembering the way she’d first found him, battered and bleeding, but those wounds are long healed, no new ones in their place and she sighs gratefully.

“Henry?”

“He’s fine. He wasn’t there. He’s safe.”

She nearly gives into the sobs that are trying to spill out of her, too full of anguish and fear and relief to keep them from overflowing. But her hands find the sides of his face, rising on her toes to capture his mouth with hers. She’s cried enough today - cried enough every day since she got to this stupid island, since she lost Henry to it. She doesn’t want to cry anymore. Her tears serve no purpose. They won’t keep Henry safe - but Killian did. Killian kept him safe.

He lets her kiss him, lets her slide her fingers into his hair, lets her seek his tongue with her own and keep him there with a death grip on his collar. But when she presses herself closer to him, seeking more of his heat to warm her frozen skin, more of him to fill the ache growing inside of her, he pulls back. He watches her carefully, searching for something, maybe remnants of the wine or that the events of the last hour haven’t completely destroyed her.

But Emma sees it then, the same exhaustion she feels darkening his eyes, pulling at the lines of his brow. The mask of resilience and unflinching coolness in the face of everything that’s been thrown at them slips, and he lets her see the suffering she knows is reflected back at him. She doesn’t know how long he’s been on the ship, how much of the massacre he had to watch before he came to find her - how many times he’s had to watch it before, just as powerless as she’d been to stop it.

She opens her mouth to say something, to ask him those very questions, but his lips crash down over hers before she can get the words out. The force of it sends her stumbling back and he follows, kiss hard and demanding, the door slamming as he kicks it shut behind him, and he leads them both across the room until her back collides with the bars of the cell, knocking the wind out of her. He swallows the sound she makes, tongue sliding over her lip in apology before pushing its way into her mouth to taste whatever he can reach, whatever he can take.

He kisses her with the same desperation she feels - for all of this to be finished, for the horrible feeling and memory that’s sunk its teeth in to be drowned out. She understands. She doesn’t want to talk either. This day - the last hour alone - all she wants is to forget it. Just for a little while she wants to forget every wretched thing about Neverland and lose herself in the one person who’s helped her survive it.

Emma shoves at the lapels of his coat, pushing it over his shoulders and he lets it fall to the floor with a heavy sound. His lips find her neck as she reaches for his vest, fingers fumbling on the buttons when he works a mark into her collarbone and tugs her hair loose from its messy knot. Far more adept, even with only one hand, her borrowed vest is opened and tossed unceremoniously aside before she’s managed to undo all his fastenings, Killian pulling her shirt over her head almost frantically.

She cries out when his mouth closes over her breast, hot and wet, tongue rolling over the hardened peak while his hand finds the other and he turns her into a panting, whimpering mess just like he’d promised to in the fae woods. When she hisses out a warning ‘Killian’, his lips start a path down the length of her stomach, dropping to his knees, shucking his vest and shirt.

The look he tosses up at her, checking before his hook tugs at the laces of her stupid, inconvenient pants, sends heat burning in her stomach and wetness pooling between her thighs as he yanks the heavy fabric down her hips. Desperate, wrecked, the blue of his eyes nearly eclipsed by the black, heavy-lidded and full of shameless want and dirty promises.

“Fuck.” Her hands find purchase in his hair, stumbling back, hardly stepped out of the leather before his mouth is on her, hooking a leg over his shoulder and pressing her against the bars once more. The rough iron scrapes at the bare skin of her back, but she doesn’t care, not with the way he’s sucking at her clit, tongue flicking over the sensitive bundle of nerves and growling into her skin when she bucks into his mouth.

He presses his brace across her hips, holding her still as he eats into her, fucking her with his tongue and nothing about today matters anymore. Nothing feels real apart from his mouth between her thighs, the scrape of his jaw rough against sensitive skin. She whines at the push of his fingers inside of her, pleasure tightening in her stomach, the anticipation building in every muscle, the promise of release and fucking ecstasy just out of reach.

“Please.” The word escapes on a whimper, wanton and desperate, and then he’s moaning against her, teeth scraping sharply against her clit, making her cry out and her hands fist harshly in his hair when he pulls it into his mouth, fingers curling in time with the pulse of his tongue against her, his lips around her, and then she’s shattering.

She barely manages to catch her cry of release between her teeth as her whole body shudders and it escapes as a muffled sob in the dark room. But Killian doesn’t relent, egged on by her coming apart on his tongue, working her frantically, drawing out the aftershocks until they start to build to a new height altogether. She’s about to fall again, so close to the edge, but she pushes at his shoulders.

“Wait.” He only resists for a second, eyes dark with hunger when he looks up at her, but it’s the small hint of desperation, the unbridled abandon emanating from him that makes her remember that he needs this just as much as she does. That he’s been through as much as she has. And it’s not the first time for him. She can’t imagine living through today again and again for centuries. It’s no wonder he found solace wherever he could and with whoever he could in this horrible place. She’s been living a nightmare for a week. He’s been living it for lifetimes.

Emma joins him on her knees, not caring about the dirt and the damp as she pulls him to her, mouth finding his easily. The way their lips move against each other is familiar now, but no less heated as his arms come around her waist, pressing heated skin to heated skin, hand snaking up the length of her back to tangle in her hair, gathering it at the nape of her neck.

She explores the length of his arms with careful fingers, muscles hard under her hands from years at sea and endless fighting. She feels the rise and fall of scars across his skin before dragging her nails down his shoulders, leaving her own mark and feeling the bite of his teeth against her lip. Her fingers move to his chest, sliding through the coarse hair and finding the evidence of years spent in bloodshed. The gasp he lets out when she rakes them over the flat of his stomach to his hips is choked and she ducks her head, lips leaving his to trail the length of his jaw, tongue sliding over the spot below his ear he can’t seem to leave alone.

“Emma…” It’s a plea and a warning and a question all in one as she pulls at his laces. The feel of him straining hard and hot beneath her palm only urges her on as her mouth explores the taut line of his neck, leaving a mark on his collarbone to match the one he gave her.

He hisses out a word that isn’t in English but she’s almost positive is a curse when she slides into his leathers, fingers wrapping around his cock and running her hand over the hard length in rough, purposeful strokes. She touches him the way he’d touched her, urgent and desperate and aware that they’re on stolen time, revelling in every sound and unconscious thrust of his hips she draws from him.

His grip on her hair becomes vice-like, tugging her head back enough that he can taste her neck again, mouth and tongue sloppy between the small growls and sharp breaths he lets out hot against her skin. The drag of cool metal over her nipple makes her falter in her rhythm. He does it again, circling the hardened peak with the sharp tip of his hook and she releases him altogether, desire burning impatient as she pushes him back to sit on his discarded coat.

Killian takes hold of her hips as she climbs into his lap, settling a knee on either side of him before taking his cock in hand again and sinking down over the length of him. His muttered ‘bloody hell’ reverberates through her as he holds still, straining as he gives her a moment to adjust to the size of him, the burn and the fullness that turn to heat and want, and she needs more.

When she rocks her hips over his, they both let out a groan at the drag of his cock- so fucking perfect inside of her. Emma braces her hands on his shoulders so she can move over him, desperate to find that toe-curling pleasure he gave her again.

His fingers dig into the curve of her ass, rolling and guiding them into a rhythm, hips rising to meet her every time she takes him in again, refusing to be a passive participant as she rides him towards their release. His hook and mouth are everywhere, touching and tasting, finding the places that make her tremble, bearing down relentlessly when the curl of his tongue or the scrape of his hook causes her to cry out and soon she’s right on the edge again, lips pressed hard together against the moans of encouragement and of his name that want to fall from them.

His hand releases her, letting her keep their pace, change it how she wants, and his fingers trail over her hip, ghosting over the sensitive skin on the inside of her thigh. His thumb slides between them, finding where they’re joined with practiced ease and circling with every roll of her hips until she can’t keep quiet anymore, hands gripping madly at his back, teeth biting into his shoulder as she tries to muffle her cries.

He presses harder, circling faster, murmuring filth and praise into her ear and holy fuck she doesn’t think she’s ever been fucked so properly in her life - every inuendo and brazen conquest on the island entirely justified. There are no thoughts left apart from how badly she needs to come, all senses muted, drowned out by the overwhelming build, the delicious drive of his cock inside of her, thrusting harder, deeper.

His mouth nips at her ear, begging her to let him see her fall apart again, telling her how good she feels, how he wants to feel her shuddering around him, how he wants to come inside her. And then there’s nothing but ecstasy, nothing but fire and release as she comes apart at his hands.

She’s still shaking when he rolls her onto her back, braced on his hooked arm as the other slides under her knee, spreads her wider for him, fucking into her wildly, harder, deeper, chasing his release as fervently as she had hers. The grind of his hips, the scratch of his chest hair against her breasts sets off another wave of lust in her, begins another rapid climb as he takes her, using her however he wants, building on the high of her orgasm before it’s faded and sending her over the edge again.

The sound he lets out when he feels her coming once more, feels the dig of her nails in his back, is almost feral. Her name is a curse and a plea as he pounds into her until he goes rigid under her hands, pulling out and spilling himself hot on her stomach with a moan muffled against the crook of her neck.

There’s nothing but the sound of their breaths, heavy in the stillness of the room, the chaos of the deck far away above them as they lay still tangled in one another for a moment, drawing out the feeling of relief as long as they can, hiding from reality for just a little longer. Here in the dark with the weight of his body still over hers and the gentle hum of her skin, the heaviness of her limbs, it’s easy to pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

It's too soon when she feels him shift, the press of his lips to the hollow of her throat before he lifts his head, reaching for something in one of the many pockets of his coat they’ve sprawled out on. How he knows where anything is in the (she suspects) dozens of secret compartments that may or may not be magically hidden is beyond her, but he pulls out a handkerchief - dark like everything else he wears, but fine like everything else as well.

Tracing it gingerly over her stomach, he begins to clean the mess he made of her, erasing every trace of him from her skin. Emma takes it from him when he’s finished, sitting up to take care of the rest when she feels the brush of his fingers over her shoulder, tracing lines down her back with a furrowed brow and leaving goosebumps in his wake.

“What?” she asks, voice raw and rough from exhaustion.

His knuckles ghost feather-light along her back again, her skin burning slightly under his touch. “You’re hurt.”

There’s a bit of guilt in his expression as she turns to try and look over her shoulder, to see what he sees, the marks probably left on her skin from the iron bars. “I’m fine,” Emma promises, but he’s tracing the cuts on her arm now, ones that are definitely not his doing. “Those are technically Will’s fault,” she tells him casually, still pissed at her friend for tossing her in here, and he raises a brow at her blasé shrug. “Just if you were looking for an excuse, is all. I wouldn’t hold it against you if you wanted to defend my honour or something.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up in amusement. “I think you’re plenty capable of defending your own honour, love,” he tells her, brushing a stray lock of hair back over her shoulder. She watches him fight a smirk out of the corner of her eye. “There’s a bottle in my coat,” he says then. “If you don’t mind.”

Emma looks down at the heavy leather she’s still sitting on, the Mary Poppins bag of coats, and raises a brow at him. “You’re kidding right?”

Shaking his head with an exasperated sigh - the one she’s come to consider her own - he reaches over her, digging into one of the infinite pockets and she tries not to let him see the way her breath catches, heat burning low and slow everywhere he’s nearly touching her.

She could lean forward, just a fraction, and press her lips to the spot behind his ear, see if he’d say her name again in that shaky, pleading way he had before. If she kissed him now would he press her into the floor again, drag his tongue over her skin and make her fall apart with mouth and hand and cock? Would he let her do the same to him, let her bring him over that edge with her mouth on him, while she rode him?

Get a grip, she scolds herself when he finds what he’s looking for, pulling back to face her. She hopes he can’t read where her thoughts had strayed, can’t see the evidence she’s sure is written all over her, you literally just came three times. It’s just Neverland, just like it had been when she’d kissed him in his cabin and had been ready to let him fuck her on his desk where anyone could walk in (and had). It has to be - because if it’s not and it’s just him, then this could become a problem really quickly.

If Killian does notice though, he doesn’t say anything and her own spiralling thoughts are halted when she sees the bottle in his hand, the water swirling of its own volition, a pattern that has no ties to the world around it.

“Is that water from the spring?” she asks hesitantly as she watches him pour some onto another bit of cloth, one that looks like the same kind of bandage she’d made for him.

“Aye.”

“You’ve just been carrying that stuff around? Might have been helpful when you were stuck in that hospital bed.”

Another exasperated look. “I filled a bottle when we arrived - It doesn’t work in your realm. Thought it might come in handy. And look, it has.” She has to fight a laugh at his snark; he’s been spending too much time with her. “Now are you going to let me help you?” he asks, what was obviously originally a kind gesture now spoken with a familiar sigh that makes her catch her amusement between her teeth even as she nods and turns her back to him.

“How did you find out about this stuff?” she asks when his hook brushes her hair out of the way over her shoulder - mostly to distract herself from the feel of the metal against the nape of her neck, remembering it other places.

His tone is solemn when he answers though, cloth not touching her skin as he hesitates. “When I first came here… my brother was poisoned - dreamshade.” Brother? The water is cool against her back, his touch careful. “Pan showed me the spring.”

“The water saved him?”

The length of his pause makes her wish she hadn’t asked. “For a time.”

“He drank it.” It’s not a question and he doesn’t answer and her heart breaks for him. “And Pan let you leave.” How many people has he lost - how much pain has he suffered at the hands of the cruel people who took them from him? “Why did you come back?”

“Because I was a fool, looking for revenge against the Crocodile. Sometimes I wonder if he knew - if he showed me the dreamshade because he knew I’d return for it one day. He has a way of seeing people, finding the parts they don’t want seen, and using them to get what he wants.” She wants to tell him that he’s wrong, that whoever he thinks Pan saw in him isn’t who he is. But she can’t find the words, all of them sounding like platitudes. He misunderstands her silence. “Henry’s far stronger than I was, love. He won’t give in so easily.”

Killian presses the cloth to her back again, meticulous in his task and she wraps her arms around her knees, pulling them to her chest. “What did you say to him?”

She can feel the tension radiating off of him, matching it immediately. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I couldn’t risk him seeing me and knowing you were here. For all he is, Henry’s still a child, and little boys can’t keep secrets.”

“So what did you do?”

The way he clears his throat is almost indecipherable, his hand going over the same spot by her shoulder again and again, the scratch definitely gone by now. “Pan’s camp is always moving, but he also always sets it near a body of water, usually a stream.”

“Why?”

The cloth slides over her skin slowly, buying time, avoiding looking at her. “For the Lorelei.”

Emma whirls on him. “What?”

“Calm down, love,” he says softly, trying to get her to turn back around. “The sirens are his messengers; they relay his desires and bring him news of any stirrings on the island.”

“Killian. Did you send fucking Ianeira to him?” The mermaid who’s apparently so fond of drowning and eating humans.

“No.” She breathes a sigh of relief, but it’s short lived. “...Ianeira has a daughter.”

“What?!” That’s not any better.

“Swan.” He gives up his task for a moment, finally looking at her. “Do you really believe I’d have sought their help if they posed any threat to Henry? The Lost Boys are off limits to the Lorelei, and they’re on our side, bound by a bargain you made.” Her shoulders relax a little, still not happy about it. “The girl is hardly older than Henry in appearance. I thought she would have a better chance at getting through to him. The Lorelei can be…”

“Fucking terrifying?”

“Aye,” he nods. “She drew him from the camp and passed on our warning - that he can’t trust Pan, no matter what he says, that the hunt tomorrow is real and Pan would try and make him hurt the other boys, that if he did… he would never be able to leave Neverland.”

“Is that true?” Emma tries to keep the tremor out of her voice as she turns away, resting her chin on her knees. She doesn’t want to see his face when he answers. She'd rather be able to believe him if he lies.

“I don’t know,” he admits, drawing the healing water over a mark by her spine. “But we won’t find out, aye?”

She nods, halfheartedly. “And you’re sure he wasn’t there?”

“I watched the camp from the treeline all night and into the morning. Your boy resisted Pan’s manipulations. He’s stubborn, like his mother.” She shoots him a look over her shoulder, eyes narrowed and he smirks. “It’ll serve him well here. I kept watch until it would have been too late for him to join. I told you, love, he was far away from all of it.”

“But you weren’t.”

She feels his sigh hot against her skin. “I took a shortcut back to the ship. I couldn’t risk Pan wondering where I was when they reached the beach…”

Emma nods. “Today was -” She doesn’t have words for it.

“I know.” She feels the backs of his fingers ghost over the nape of her neck, brushing away hair that hasn’t fallen, thumb tracing along her nape. “I wish I could say it gets easier.”

She nods again - she wouldn’t believe him if he did - and tightens her arms around her knees, banishing the memories that try to creep in, wanting to stay here where they don’t exist for a little longer.

“So Ianeira has a kid.” He doesn’t comment on her change of subject, only hums. “She doesn’t really seem the motherly type.” And then thought suddenly strikes her. “Is she…”

Killian laughs. “Mine?” It’s not that ridiculous. He might have accidentally boned all the mermaids in Neverland. He could have dozens of little merbabies swimming around. “No, Swan, sirens don’t reproduce. They’re born of chance and magic, and very rare.”

“What about all your ‘creative’ encounters?”

“Those are… recreational.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Of course they are.” She doesn’t have to see his smirk to know it’s there, hook looping around her arm, tugging it gently free from its death grip around her legs so he can tend to the skin she marked up in her attempt to escape. The water stings slightly, the cuts deeper there, the cloth no longer as cold. “I can’t believe she let you use her daughter,” she admits. “She was so protective of her sisters.”

Killian hums in agreement, “It took some convincing.”

“Did it?” She doesn’t think she’s ever failed so spectacularly at sounding indifferent.

He lets out a soft huff of laughter, lips pressing to the back of her shoulder before he rests his chin on it. “Jealous?”

Emma scoffs. “Yeah, right. You wish.”

He’s quiet for a moment, her teasing not returned and he takes a slow breath in, lifting his head to look at her, the weight of his gaze enough that she twists to meet it. His exhale is warm against the curve of her neck, the sincerity in his eyes stripped bare, holding her captive with their intensity. “Perhaps I do.”

She swallows, heart racing at his confession. Because that’s what it is, a confession of intentions, of feelings she’s not sure she can face - his or her own. He’s watching her, waiting, that openness, the little bit of hope she can see breaking through absolutely terrifying. It’s one thing to find comfort in each other after a tragedy. But this, what he’s so clearly asking, isn’t something she thinks she can give.

Her tongue runs over her lips, mouth suddenly dry, the motion drawing his attention and breaking whatever that was that just passed between them. Her voice is tinged with gravel when she tells him, “I think you’ve got enough jealous creatures on this island for one man to handle.”

Emma sees the barest hint of disappointment he lets slip and makes herself ignore it. “You make me sound like quite the scoundrel,” he smirks, reaching for his discarded shirt and draping it over her shoulders. “I assure you I can only devote myself to one woman at a time.”

She raises a brow at him, pulling the shirt closed around herself, feeling less vulnerable than she had a moment ago and she thinks maybe he’d known. “There were three fairies throwing themselves at you yesterday - four,” she corrects, having forgotten the handsome gold-hued man. She thinks she sees the slightest hint of a blush on his cheeks beneath the cocky shrug.

“That was Solstice. It doesn’t count.”

Emma rolls her eyes, pointing out for the second time, “How convenient.”

A thud from upstairs draws her attention, followed by a shout of pain, and she hears Will cursing. Stay bloody still, damnit. When she looks over at Killian, he’s watching the ceiling too, whatever lightness he may have held onto for a moment now gone.

“We should get up there,” she says, not looking forward to whatever devastation awaits them on deck. There’s no lesser horror. Either many survived and there’ll be dozens of wounded and traumatised children awaiting them, forced to join a life of being hunted by Pan forever, or there won’t be - and the beach will be littered with bodies.

“Aye,” he agrees, standing and finding his pants, tugging the leather over his hips as she does the same. She’s lacing them up when she notices his attention.

“What?”

“You’ve got my shirt.” She looks down at the soft black fabric he’d wrapped her in, then at the bloodied white shirt in his hand. “Not that you don’t look quite fetching in it, love, but unless you want Wendy and Scarlet to know -”

Emma snatches her shirt from him, shooting him a half-hearted glare. “Turn around.” The look he gives her tells her what she already knows, that she’s being absolutely ridiculous, but he just gives her an amused little smirk before doing as she asked. It’s not that she thinks Will and Wendy don’t already know, or that she’s oblivious to the fact that he’s already seen everything, but preparing to walk into a tragedy after they’ve been hiding down here, selfishly pretending it wasn’t happening, sends guilt churning in her stomach.

When she’s dressed, hat tugged low over her head to try and hide her face from the new boys, she lets him turn back around, tossing him his shirt and waiting until he pulls the heavy leather coat back over his shoulders. “Ready?”

No. She nods.

The scene is worse than she imagined. She’d been prepared for the blood, for the pain and the chaos as the crew do their best to tend to whatever injuries they can. There’s buckets of bloodied spring water, discarded bandages stained red, former Lost Boys shouting and struggling against the holds the pirates have on them as they try and heal them. They’re still the enemy, she realizes. They may have just been nearly murdered by their comrades but until this morning, the Jolly was enemy territory, and now they’re being held captive.

What she hadn’t been prepared for were the ones who weren’t injured, who weren’t fighting, the ones sitting along the side of the ship, knees curled tight to their chests and hands over their ears as they stare at nothing with eyes that aren’t seeing.

Killian moves quickly, hurrying over to where Will is trying to hold down a boy who looks about twelve while Wendy attempts to reset his leg, broken with an arrow pierced through the bone. He takes the boy’s shoulder and arm so Will can do the same, both pressing down on his torso until he can’t move - Emma looks away but she hears the crunch of bone and the scream nonetheless.

“Hand me some bandages.” It’s not until Wendy shouts her name that she realizes she’s talking to her, the boy still fighting, though he’s growing weaker now. She scrambles to grab some from one of the buckets, bringing them to her. The captain begins wrapping the injury with soaked bandages, the arrow that had pierced him used as a brace, and the kid’s eyes fade in and out of focus, finally shutting as he passes out.

“A little help!” one of the pirates calls, struggling under the weight of a boy only a few years younger than himself. A stain of dark red blood is blooming on his stomach, soaking through his leather vest and Emma doesn’t freeze this time, running over and looping the kid’s other arm over her shoulders. They set him down against the mainsail, Emma watching as the pirate, barely more than a teenager, pulls open the boy’s shirt.

“What happened?”

“Looks like a rapier,” he answers, inspecting the gash, blood flowing freely from it. “Gimme a hand,” he tells her and grabs the kid’s shoulder so they can turn him over. “Dammit. It’s gone right through him.” Emma doesn’t know much about medicine but she does know that without treatment, a stomach wound is basically a death sentence.

“Can you do anything?”

“Nothing good,” he sighs under his breath. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a bottle like the one Killian carried and uncorking it. “Listen, mate, I can make this better okay?” The boy glares at him, face pale and clammy, distrusting. “If you drink this, you’ll live. If you don't, you're gonna die.” Emma’s thrown by his bluntness, by how calm he is despite being so young and she wonders how many hunts he’s already lived through. The boy continues to glare, looking away from him, rejecting the offer. “But if you do - hey,” he snaps, grabbing the kid’s chin and making him face him. “You’ll never get to leave, okay? You’ll be stuck here. Forever. And it fucking sucks here once you’re out. But you’ll be alive. And you’ll be one of us.”

“Can’t you just give it to him?” Emma demands, a second away from snatching the bottle and forcing it down the dying teenager’s throat.

The pirate shakes his head. “Captain’s rules.” She wonders which captain.

The boy still looks resistant, like he’d rather die than become a pirate than switch sides, regardless of what Pan’s just done to him. But then he starts to cough, a fit that takes over, the rough sound gurgling and wet as blood begins to drip from his lips and he turns panicked eyes on the pirate. The older boy nods, handing him the vial, but not letting go yet, waiting until the kid meets his gaze. “Never,” he reminds him. “You’ll never go home, okay?”

Emma watches him nod, bring the water to his bloodied mouth and drink, wincing and coughing as he tries to swallow, finally managing to get some down. They wait, a few long, drawn out moments, before the pirate looks at his wound again and Emma watches in amazement as it begins to close, blood flowing backwards along his torso in streams, pulled back into the tear in his skin.

The older boy pats his shoulder. “Try and get some rest. That’ll still hurt like a bitch for a while.” And then he’s gone, moved on to the next injured Lost Boy, and the next.

When everything is over, wounds bandaged, survivors counted, bodies laid carefully on the deck, a strange sort of silence settles over the ship. It’s not the silence of Neverland, that unending, eerie quiet, but the silence of dozens choosing not to speak, unable to speak in the wake of bloodshed. A crew member is cleaning the deck, the oldest here by far in his mid twenties, gaze somehow both unbothered and far away as he mops up the blood that ripples with the whim of the spring water spilled on the wood. Will is over by the side of the ship, talking to some of the boys who won’t speak, who don’t look at anything, voice falling low and gentle on deaf ears.

Wendy and Killian are with the dead, placing coins over their eyes and wrapping their bodies in sails. She can count five, five who made it to safety only to die on the bow of the Jolly. Emma stares out at the beach. There were far more than five out there. A few hours ago there were at least a dozen Lost Boys left out under the hot son. Both are gone now.

Sometime, in what’s been both the shortest and longest day of her life - the sun setting before it had managed to reach its highest point in the sky - Pan and his crew must have come by to collect their dead. Or perhaps something else took care of them, she’d seen shadows on the beach as darkness settled. Though what or who those shadows belonged to she couldn’t tell.

Killian had explained, as she’d helped to place a boy gently on a stretch of canvas and sew the fabric around him, that night always came quickly after a hunt. “There’s always a celebration for the victors.” Wendy had said the word with so much disgust it made Emma’s stomach turn. “They feast and fly and dance around the fire, bragging about their conquests.”

“Did you ever-” she started, but stopped when the woman’s face darkened, regret and anger. “I’m sorry.”

“They’re children,” is all Wendy gave in answer, casting a look towards Will, still trying to reach a boy, shaking and huddled by the helm. “So were we.”

Sleep doesn’t come easy, the sound of footsteps above her making her jerk awake - boys who’d refused to take a bunk below deck, still not willing to accept their new fate, their new role on this island. Voices set her heart racing, forgetting every time that the hunt is over. The crying tonight is louder than it’s been since she arrived, and the sounds of celebration carry over on the water.

She wants to go up there, wants to help them in a way she couldn’t this morning. But she saw the way they looked at her on deck, anger and hatred and fear. She’d be no comfort to them, not as a pirate. She could as herself, as a mother like ones they keep calling out for even now. Little boys can’t keep secrets. Emma’s shared her secret enough on this island. She can’t risk it without knowing they’re allies.

Knowing that doesn’t make it any less horrible, doesn’t make the guilt any lighter or stop each wail from piercing through her chest. And it doesn’t bring sleep either. She hears the door to the room beside her open quietly and shut with a click, hears the muffled voices, one hissed anger and the other gentle compassion, back and forth until they both go silent, finding comfort amidst the chaos.

It makes her want to cry, to let her own tears join those she only hears because she’s always been alone, because she’s always been abandoned - time and again. That may be the worse part, the small, selfish part of her that couldn’t help but understand their sorrow. She’s never lived through anything like they just have, but she knows that betrayal, the heartbreak of having trusted someone so completely, only to be cast aside. Alone again. Always alone.

“Emma?” He’s not asleep when she sneaks into his cabin, pads across the small space to his bed. He’s half sat up, hand reaching instinctively for his sword at the first creak of the door opening, but his brace and hook are on the small table beside him, blunted arm and chest bare, sheets pooled in his lap. “What’s wrong?”

She tries to answer, all of her explanations feeling weak, and her words get caught on a shaky inhale. She doesn’t want to talk about it, so instead she closes the rest of the distance between them, climbing carefully into the bed beside him and sliding beneath the covers. He tenses for a moment when she curls herself against his side, head resting tentatively on his shoulder, but then he softens, letting out a breath and sinking back against the pillows.

His arm hovers, hesitating before wrapping around her. She brings her own hand to his chest, focusing on the feel of the dark hair beneath her fingers rather than the way her hands still shake, listening to the rise and fall of his breaths rather than the sobs upstairs she can’t escape, and the steady beat of his heart as she tries to forget all the ones that won’t beat again.

His lips press to her crown, not quite a kiss as he speaks against her hair. “Sleep, love. Neverland can’t find you here.”

******

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#captain swan #cs fanfic #cs neverland au #cs neverland smut #cs smut #cs angst #cw violence #cw death #season 1 au #sort of

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mrsaltieri-real · 8 months

Text

His Perfect Victim (Mickey Altieri x OC!Dahlia Levine)

Chapter Nine: Better

Words: 4.7k

Warnings: language, a smidge of angst, fluff, small fight, Mickey being shifty, mentions of Mickey’s rough home life, soft!Mickey, gaslighting, light smut (finally, right?) dry humping, Mickey creaming his pants, slight dirty talk, slight praise, blood, etc

A/N: Whooooo boy! This chapter was SO much fun to write, we finally have our first bit of light smut. Not penetration, not even being naked but trust me, it’s not. I love these two dickheads so fucking much, so it means a lot to me that you guys reading like them too. Really motivates me to write, so a big, huge massive THANK YOU! Once again, thank you to @bisexual-horror-fan for editing and beta reading for me. You’re their number one fan and that makes me want to sail, THANK YOUUUU!!!!

@lizey-thornberry

Three months.

It has been just about three months of being blissfully happy, and it honestly felt surreal. I could feel myself falling harder and harder for Mickey every passing day, when his fingers would brush the hair out of my face as the wind blew, when he’d snake his arms around my waist whilst I was working on a paper for class and whisper into my ear, when he would kiss me, so soft and so gentle as though I’d break. I sometimes wondered if he was afraid of that, moving himself against me too roughly would make me splinter and threaten to shatter in his hands like some fragile glass doll, it wasn’t like I wasn’t thankful for the kind treatment, far from it, but yet, I wondered still.

But it hadn’t gone further than that, further than kissing, not really. I wasn’t ready.

I knew I wanted to, God, I wanted to. Whenever a make out session got too heated he would be the first one to pull away, gently gripping the tops of my arms and moving me softly but firmly with a smile, saying, “We’ve got time, baby,” And kissing my forehead.

He was so patient, it was disconcerting. In the frenemy part of our relationship, I didn’t know he could be this way. The way Randy and even Derek would talk about his escapades, I doubted Mickey had the capacity to be soft and gentle with anybody, but with me? It was almost like he was a different person.

Almost.

He still had an edge to him, something I hadn’t quite been able to put my finger on in the three months I’d been dating him. It seemed as though every day that passed he’d get more and more distant, glued to his computer and his cell, and our dates started falling few and far between. Sometimes it’d be days before I’d hear from him, and he’d come bounding back without so much as an apology, let alone an explanation. To start with, I didn’t ask for one, maybe I just preferred remaining blissfully unaware, not wanting the bubble to burst, or trying to be at the very least.

I hadn’t spoken with Randy since our fight, although I tried. Every time I’d approach him he’d stalk off like a fucking child, leaving the collective friendship group with raised eyebrows and confused comments, to which I’d just wave off. Sidney most of all was concerned, telling me as much when she found me on the green a few days prior.

“You have to talk to him, D.” She told me, voice firm and pressing, and her eyes fixed on me. I knew how it seemed to her, she didn’t want any more broken bonds or promises, we’d all been through enough. But honestly, at that moment, I didn’t care. I didn’t owe Randy anything, least of all speaking to him. He wouldn’t apologize, he never did. Why would he if he thought he was in the right?

I rolled my eyes at the sound of her voice, not out of annoyance, but about the fact I knew this conversation was coming as I dropped my pen onto my notebook and shot her a look, eyebrows arching a fraction as I watched her stare at me, fingers tapping rhythmically against her elbow as she crossed her arms.

“Don’t give me that look, Dahlia.” She said in a tone reminiscent of scolding a child. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear before moving my hands under the table, so she wouldn’t catch the twisting motion of my ring. She knew me too well, knew my tells when I was nervous or anxious about something. I looked at her dead on, sucking in a breath before saying in a clipped tone, “He can come and talk to me. I didn’t do anything wrong. What’re you doing here, anyway? Don’t you have theatre?”

Sid sat side-saddle on the bench beside me, elbow propped up on the table and her head resting on her hand as she spoke, “That was an hour ago, Derek’s meeting me here.” I noticed how her tone softened as she said Derek’s name before immediately becoming serious again. “It’s been three months and you and Randy have barely said five words to each other, Dahlia. You two usually can’t go five minutes without talking to each other, what the hell happened?”

I pursed my lips, hesitating and trying to plot out my response before telling her. As I looked into her big, brown eyes, I knew I could trust her. Sid wasn’t one for gossip, but I was worried. Worried that as soon as I told anybody what was going on between Mickey and I the bubble would finally burst and things would become a little too real.

She watched my expression, saw the hesitation in my eyes, and her hand dropped to mine under the table, halting the twisting motion on my ring and squeezing it softly as if prompting me to tell her. Sidney was perceptive, and knew me far too well.

So I told her. There was no use in lying, and I fucking hate lying anyway.

I told her everything, my feelings for Mickey, how we had started dating three months ago and decided not to tell anybody, how Randy confronted me about it and blew his fucking top, and how I felt about Mickey. How I really felt.

“You’ve known him longer than I have, Sid.” I spoke after I finished telling her everything. She’d listened patiently, hand remaining over mine as I told the tale.

“I suppose.” She said with a small shrug before adding, “But not that much longer. Why?”

“I know how he… Was. Randy is worried that he’s going to end up breaking my heart, but he doesn’t see the Mickey I see, you know?” I know I sounded more like I was trying to convince myself rather than her, but she nodded thoughtfully as I continued, “I love Randy, but he doesn’t understand. Mickey makes me feel…”

“Better?” Sidney suggested when it seemed as though I was at a loss for words.

Better. It was somehow the perfect word. Not completely healed, not perfect, but better, and it was enough. More than enough. I had spent ages clinging on to life, barely, hardly scraping by, unsure how I would remain afloat, ages spent in almost stasis, half-life. Not dead, but not alive either, a cheap facsimile of an existence, not one of note or satisfaction. Then he came along. He changed it. With Mickey, I didn’t feel that way. When I was with him? I felt alive, I felt happy, I felt fucking good and yes, better. Much better.

“Yeah, better. He makes me feel like a human being again.” I sighed, pushing my hair out of my face with my free hand. I was itching to play with the ring on my finger, to indulge in my nervous habit of choice but fought the urge and just kept looking at Sid, my knee bouncing anxiously.

“I don’t want to get hurt.” I added softly. I could be vulnerable around her, I knew that, and it helped greatly.

“Who does?” Sid’s other hand moved to my knee, stopping the increasingly rapid bouncing motion as she spoke very gently, but very clearly, “But if you don’t want to, then you won’t. You’re smart, Dahlia. Smart enough to know if someone’s playing you.”

I looked at her and pointed at the covered scar on my stomach, smiling a little and sarcastically saying, “Yeah, I’m real perceptive.”

Sid smiled faintly, but didn’t speak, allowing me to continue.

“And lately he’s just been… Weird, you know? He’s always getting phone calls, gets really shifty if I ask who it is, or just changes the subject all together. I don’t want to be paranoid, but I know how he was, you know, before. I don’t just want to be another name on the list of people who he’s had in his bed.”

“Do you really think he’d do that?” She asked me, moving her hand from my knee to lean her elbow against the table before carrying on, “I don’t think he’d be in a relationship with you only to mess it up by cheating, it doesn’t seem like his style.”

I stared back at her, thoughtful for a moment, before slowly shaking my head no, eyes flickering past Sidney’s head to see Mickey and Derek approaching, Mickey smiling at me warmly.

“They’re here.” I said quickly, standing up and grabbing my bag from beside me, as Sidney twisted around to look behind her, waving her hand at Derek. “Thanks, Sid.” I added softly as the boys eventually made their way to us.

Derek smiled at me politely before moving to Sid, bending down and lightly catching her lips with his. She melted into it with a blissed out smile, and I saw Mickey roll his eyes from the corner of my eye, making me have to bite back a laugh.

“Mind if I steal her, Dahlia?” Derek asked, his eyes not leaving Sidney as his hand slipped into hers and their fingers laced together.

I smiled at him though he wasn’t looking and responded with a simple, “Of course.” Sidney glanced at me then at Mickey, something he didn’t miss, before saying goodbye to both of us and leaving with Derek.

“She knows, huh?” He asked, watching Sid and Derek walk away, and I simply shrugged with a, “Yeah, she does. That a problem?”

He looked back at me, settling down on the bench and patting the space beside him. I looked down at his hand, pursing my lips and staying put, arms crossing across my chest tightly. He stopped the patting motion, hands moving to rest on his knees as he sighed deeply, leaning back and his eyebrows raising curiously at me as he asked, “What? Am I in trouble?”

“That depends.” I gripped my elbows tightly, eyes scanning his face as I thought about how to ask him.

I cared for Mickey, cared deeply. More than I thought was even possible. He’d picked me up and slowly began piecing me back together, did I want to risk that? I wasn’t an inherently jealous person, not usually anyway. At least, I didn’t think so. This was my first real relationship with someone I actually cared about, the feelings I was having were completely unfamiliar, a brand-new concept of feeling. Would this ruin it?

“Who keeps calling you?” I blurted out, eyes trained on his face and my voice a little sharper than I intended it to be. His expression smoothed, looking as blank as a mask as his head cocked just slightly to the side, fingers stopping the drumming motion on his leg.

“What do you mean?” he asked me calmly, maybe a little too calmly. Not as though he’d been necessarily expecting the question, but more unsurprised.

“Whoever you’re speaking to on the phone, you get all distracted and different afterwards. I know it’s probably none of my business but-“

“It is none of your business, Dahlia.” He interrupted me, voice a touch sharper as his fingers dug a little into his thigh, not looking away from my face, “What, you think it’s some bitch I have on the side? Didn’t we have this conversation three fucking months ago when we decided to, “try this out”?” His fingers came up in air quotations before falling back into his lap, a small tut and a roll of his eyes as he continued, “Fuck, Dahlia. Come on.”

A part of me knew exactly what he was doing, twisting things to direct everything back onto me, make me feel insecure and stupid. I hate to admit that it worked. He had me, he had me so fucking bad, I was ignoring every screaming red flag being thrust at me.

Pathetic, right?

I opened my mouth to backtrack, to apologize, tell him it really was none of my business, but he just shook his head at me, pushing himself up sharply and looking away from me, a hint of something I couldn’t quite distinguish briefly crossing his face before disappearing just as quickly. Pain? Hesitation? Regret?

“I’m not cheating on you, Dahlia.” His voice was calmer, but he still didn’t look at me directly, stared past me as though I wasn’t even there. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Then what’s going on?” I found myself approaching him, hands reaching up and holding his face in hands and making him look at me. His brown eyes looked into my own, and he sighed, hesitating for a moment before saying carefully, “It’s complicated. I don’t want to involve you, it’s messy, you know?”

I did know messy, apparently I attracted it, but at that moment I didn’t care. My fingers pressed firmly to his cheeks and he sighed, hands falling to my hips.

“So curious.” He mumbled, his forehead pressing gently against mine.

“You can talk to me.” I promised him, my tone was soft, hopeful, yet Mickey still flinched at my words, as if I shouted them in his face as opposed to the whisper I had put out into the air between us.

“Not here.” He said quickly, his hand moving from my hips to take my hand from his cheek, tugging me to his dorm room across campus.

Once inside, I realized I’d never been in his dorm, he was always in mine. I was pleasantly surprised to see it was cluttered but clean, posters of movies I’d never heard of crowded his walls, mountains of CD’s and DVD’s were piled high beside his television. I noticed it was a double room that he somehow had all to himself and questioned him about it curiously. He shrugged it off as he always did, mumbling about his scholarship and how it has its perks before he sat on his couch, gently pulling me down beside him. The place screamed him, it was nice, I could see myself spending time here and even better than that, it smelled like him, but in a very nice way, not in a reeking of dude kind of way so many college guy’s places did.

I looked at him expectantly, pulling my legs up under me and leaning back against the couch as he began to slowly attempt to explain what had been going on.

“I’ve got somewhat of a chequered past, Dahli.” He began, picking at a loose thread of his sweater, a small habit I noticed he took up when he was feeling anxious, and not making eye contact with me. I reached forward and placed my hand over his, stopping the motion and smiling encouragingly at him. He looked at me, soft brown eyes melting a little, and continued.

“My parents weren’t that great, not bad, but bad enough that I was bounced around the system for a lot of my childhood before I was placed back with them when I was fourteen. They’d had another kid by then, my brother. I started acting out, guess I felt replaced. It was just silly things, petty theft, the occasional Grand Theft Auto,” he flashed his devastating smile, but it didn’t quite touch his eyes, “Then things got more… serious. I was getting arrested a lot, my parents kicked me out, and everything just got worse. I try to stay in touch with my brother as much as I can, but it kind of just faded out when I started college.”

He adjusted himself on the couch, so he was directly facing me, my hand still gripping his tightly. “The phone calls I’ve been taking were from my mom, Dahlia. She asked me to stop trying to contact them, they want to move on from all the shit I put them through, says they can’t do that if I’m pestering them.”

It baffles me now how swiftly he managed to twist the truth about his life, and how easily I chose to believe him.

“I’m sorry, Mick. Fuck, I’m such an idiot.”

He shook his head, free hand moving on top of mine and smoothing his thumb over my knuckles as he said softly, “You’re really not.”

“I’m sorry about your family. They sound like dicks.” I commented.

A small smile broke out across his face and he chuckled a little before saying very pointedly, “Can’t all families be dicks?”

I smiled back at him, moving my hand from his and resting my palm on his cheek. He leaned into my touch, eyes fluttering closed at the feeling of my cold hands before opening back up and settling back on my face.

“You’re so beautiful.” He mumbled, and I couldn’t help but laugh, thinking he was just being playful, but then bit the inside of my cheeks when I saw his serious face. His hand moved to my leg, fingers lightly grazing my thighs through my jeans as he leaned forward, pressing his lips gently against mine.

I threw myself into it, the argument and fake confessions already forgotten as my hand moved from his cheek and into his hair, his own sliding up to grip my waist. He was being careful, calculated and was clearly doing his best to hold back, something he wasn’t at all used to doing. I knew that. But at that moment, I suddenly didn’t want him to be holding back.

I wasn’t ready to have sex with him, not yet. But I’d spent so long feeling nothing, I felt the overwhelming desire to feel anything, feel him touch me.

So instead of this just being another make out session, I decided to push myself.

It was important to be cautious, the last time things escalated I had the panic attack of all panic attacks, so I moved carefully, deliberately. I pushed myself up, moving one leg over him to straddle him as his hands remained on my hips, my lips not moving from his. A curious hum sounded from his mouth as he pulled back, looking up at me cautiously.

“I want to try something, if that’s okay?” I breathed, hands resting on his shoulders. He looked interested, an almost cocky smile on his face as he asked, “We’re not going to fuck, are we?”

I shook my head, reaching behind me to take his hands from my waist and move them to my ass, his expression grew even more interested.

“Oh, I see.” He said, tone even yet amused, “You want to grind-“

I cut him off, placing my hand over his mouth, and he chuckled from behind it, eyebrows raising.

“Don’t be crude.” I muttered, and he mumbled something from behind my hand. I slowly pulled it away, so he could speak clearly.

“We don’t have to.” His tone was more gentle, hands still tense on my ass. I nodded my head with a shrug, “I know, but I want to.”

That’s all he needed to hear.

I knew he was probably pent-up, knew his sex drive was ridiculously high, and he hadn’t been able to do anything about it, other than get himself off. After our make out sessions, he’d usually leave rock hard, having to adjust himself, so it wasn’t obvious on the walk back to his dorm, but he never complained, not once. But with how hard his blunt fingers were digging into the thin material of my sweats and pressing into the flesh of my ass, how his hips were slowly beginning to grind upward against me, I knew he was holding back yet again.

The pressure made me gasp, my hands gripping his shoulders and squeezing tightly. It was a subtle, soft pressure, the feeling of it felt shockingly good. Within three moves of his hips, I was seriously feeling it, eyes unfocused as the friction and slow simmering build of sensation sets in. I tried not to squeeze him much harder and just keep my mind on what he was doing, on the rhythm he set, steady, sure, but easy. All too soon being still wasn’t enough, I needed more, to contribute, so I did.

Tentative and certainly not in any kind of particular rush, I grind back experimentally, hips moving down and that pulled another sound from me and one from him too. The feeling of the fabric sliding back and forth on me was amazing, I could feel how wet I’d gotten, damp material plastered to my quickly becoming sensitive skin.

“Are you okay?” The question surprised me, a small shake of my head I force my eyes back into focus and look down at him. He was staring up at me, concerned, our bodies had not stopped moving, and I nodded, appreciating him checking in. “Yeah. M’ great. Why?”

“You’re just really outta breath.” He laughed and shit, he was right. My breathing was extremely laboured, I tried to reign it in and instead of confirming with him that yes I was fine, I decided a much better move was to shut him up a different way. My mouth was back on him and I ground down the hardest I had yet, and the shocked groan he let out into my mouth was immensely satisfying.

I was surprised to realize how much I enjoyed this, the feeling of his hands gripping my ass, kneading it more and more roughly as the grinding of my hips slowly increased. I moaned into his mouth, fingers moving to his hair and knotting in the strands, gripping and just tugging at it desperately, my hips rolling down a little harder, meeting him in the middle.

The action pulled another groan out of him, hands moving to my waist to force myself against him, halting for just a moment. I’d never felt like this before, suddenly understanding why in high school everyone was at it at any given opportunity.

I pulled back, looking down at his face impatiently and a smile broke across his face, fingers dancing underneath my shirt as he said softly, “Feel good?”

“I did, then you stopped.” I complained. I could feel myself pulsing, clenching desperately around nothing for more contact. I could feel him throbbing from between the thin material of his pants, so hard beneath me, it was making me insatiable.

“I just need- a second. You’re driving me fucking crazy here, Dahlia.” He breathed, voice a little strained and the fact I did that to him, made him sound like that, caused him to struggle to maintain his composure, made me feel a weird sense of pride and arousal mixing low in my stomach.

It gave me a second to catch my breath, but it wasn’t long. Before I could even think, his arms completely wrapped around me, briefly picking me up and making me let out a surprised squeal as he moved me underneath him, climbing on top of me and hoisting my legs around his waist, quickly asking, “Is this okay?” As one hand pressed against my hip and the other weaved into my hair, grasping the soft strands between his long fingers gently.

I nodded, pushing my hips up eagerly, and he let out a small laugh, head moving down, so his lips grazed my collarbone as he pushed himself against me. I could feel the length of him rubbing against my covered clit, nudging and pressing against it a little harsher than before. My head fell back against the arm of his couch and I let out a loud moan, surprising even myself at the volume, but that only seemed to encourage him, especially when I shakily breathed, “Fuck, Mickey,” into his ear, my fingers twisting in his shirt.

His hands moved from my waist and in between us, pushing my legs open for him by my inner thigh as he continued to move against me, grinding faster, almost desperately as his lips moved to my ear, whispering to me softly, “You’re so fucking good, so perfect, I can’t believe I get to be the first person to make your pretty little pussy cum.”

The feeling building up inside of me was something I’d never felt before. Hearing him speak, knowing that him being the first person to get me off was such a turn on to him, it was for me too. I could feel myself growing even wetter, impossibly so, my panties drenched so much that I knew he could probably feel the dampness through the thin layer of material covering him, and he could most definitely feel the heat.

His hand further pressed on my inner thigh more firmly, I could feel myself coming to an unfamiliar edge as my back began to arch off his couch, my legs itching wider for him as he rubbed and ground his clothed cock against my covered pussy, the sensation of my clit being pressed against with such pressure that I felt myself explode, gasping his name over and over again into his ear as though it was a prayer as my body began to spasm. My leg that wasn’t being pressed down kicking out to wrap around his waist, pulling myself as close to him as I could as my manicured fingernails digging into his back under his shirt sharply, causing him to let out a small hiss, cursing under his breath, the sensation sending him cussing. He was fucking himself against me only a couple more times before I felt the sudden hot spurt of liquid come through his pants and seep through his own clothes and into mine with a groan of my name into my throat as his hips slowly came to a stop.

It was insanely quiet for a moment, only the sounds of my almost laboured breathing and his own before he slowly pulled his head from the crook of my neck to look at me, lifting a hand to swipe his thumb over my cheekbone. I forced my eyes open, looking into his eyes and saw the smile on his face, making me break into one myself as I breathed out, “What?”

“You’re just… You’re so beautiful.” He spoke so softly as he repeated what he said earlier, but it felt different. In the new context after what we just did, the words had more weight, felt heavier but made me feel lighter, heart beating hard in my rib cage.

Mickey’s eyes were scanning over my face as he spoke. His cheeks were deeply flushed, his hair even messier than usual, and his pupils dilated. I could only guess I looked somewhat similar to him. I could feel my hair sticking to my neck and forehead with sweat, the fire in my stomach burning out nicely as my smile widened, and I moved my face to his, kissing him softly before letting my head fall back again.

“Are you okay? Was that your first-“

“I’m fine.” I answered his first question before laughing a little with a roll of my eyes and interrupting him, “God, no. I’ve done it to myself, but it was never, you know, like this.” I interrupted with a laugh. As he slowly sat up, I noticed him flinch slightly, and I moved up with him, a little confused, until he laughed, touching his back and pulling his hand away. I was surprised to see the crimson staining the tips of his fingers and I questioned him, concerned, “You’re bleeding?” Before reaching behind him to lift his shirt, eyes widening as I saw the mess of his back.

“Kinky little bitch in the making, aren’t you?” He laughed.

“Fuck, Mickey, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry!” I began rambling apologies to him, feeling guilty and embarrassed, but he just looked at me like I was insane, a baffled expression on his face as he pushed some loose hair off his forehead.

“You’re sorry for what? Scratching my back?” He asked, genuinely curious and amused.

“Well, yeah.” It was my turn to look confused as I stared at him with furrowed eyebrows, “I hurt you.”

“Dahlia,” Mickey turned back round, wiping his middle and forefinger together until the blood disappeared and then moving his hands toward my face, fixing some of my messy curls back into place before placing them on either side of my face, making me look at him with that amused but affectionate smile still on his face as he said, “Don’t be stupid, you could never hurt me.”

Read Chapter Ten HERE

#yeahhhhhhh #first bit of something smutty #finally #hope you all enjoy!#scream #scream 2 #mickey altieri #dahlia levine #mickey altieri x dahlia levine #mickey altieri smut #his perfect victim

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noamuth · 22 days

Text

Time for Tea

Dalamus wakes from his trance in the early hours of the morning, eyes bleary and ears swiveling to take in the sounds outside. Insects are still singing their nightly song, filling the air with rhythmic trilling. Shadowheart called them crickets. At first, Dalamus found their high-pitched chirps to be irritating--especially when attempting to trance--but now they are simply the sound of the night on the surface.

He stretches his arms out to his sides with a yawn, noticing with some interest that his back is not aching. There is no pulse of pain when he pulls on his shirt, no spike of electricity racing up his spine as he stands and lifts legs to don his trousers, no warning soreness as he straightens himself and sets his piwafwi about his shoulders. Even lacing his corset and bending to lace his boots cause only the slightest twinge which quickly fades as he stands again. He feels fine. That, in itself, is suspicious, but he accepts the reprieve.

The pouch of dried Underdark mushrooms sits atop his journal. He has not used it since it had been given to him. Perhaps now is the time to change that, he thinks. He feels good. Why not make some tea and improve upon that?

He grabs the pouch and exits his tent.

All other members of camp continue to slumber in their tents, the occasional snore or mumble reaching Dalamus' sensitive ears above the chirping crickets. Even Astarion, as nocturnal as he is, appears to be in trance--he, like Dalamus, chooses times when most others are guaranteed to be asleep. The early morning is his alone to enjoy as cool, dewy air fills his lungs. Many surface dwellers seem to fear the dark, but is far more preferable than the stabbing light of the sun.

He sits on a nearby log with the mortar and pestle Gale often uses for herbs and spices, and sets several pieces of dried mushrooms into the mortar to begin grinding into powder. Dragon's Egg, Rogue's Morsel, and Funguswood will produce a bitter tea with just the right amount of spice. While its bitterness is the main draw for Dalamus, the tea also helps with minor illnesses. Nilaufein used to make this for him until he could handle the boiling water on his own, and since then, Dalamus has hardly gone longer than a week without making some. It never quite tasted the same as his brother's though.

Where Gale normally puts the cooking pot, Dalamus places the iron kettle. He pours the powdered mushrooms into the kettle, tapping the side of the mortar against the lip to ensure every bit is removed. A carafe provides the needed clean water for the tea, and then Dalamus flips the hinged lid shut and coaxes the fire to life. After boiling, at least an hour is needed for it to steep properly and obtain the bitter flavor Dalamus desires. He watches the surroundings and the sky as he waits.

He is still not used to the stars. Small, twinkling spots in the sky, like gems glistening in pitch dark stone, or glowing insects on the ceiling of a cave. Stories say that surfacers navigate by the stars, but he does not see how that is possible. How does one know which star he is looking at when there are so many? He knows vaguely of the Astral Plane, but thinking about it makes his chest tight with unease. He misses when his world was small and bearable, when all of the other peoples and Planes were so far removed from being his problem that they may as well not exist.

In Menzoberranzan, the time of day is shown by Narbondel. The Archmage heats a circular band of the stone to cause a glow, which moves upwards throughout the day until it reaches the top and dissipates entirely at midnight. On the surface, time is measured by the sun and moon, and to a lesser extent, the activity of animals. At night the crickets chirp, but as the night shifts closer to morning, the birds start to sing until only the birds sing and the crickets can be heard no more.

Soon the stars begin to fade and the sky changes color, clouds being lit from underneath in oranges and red as the sun peeks over the horizon. As the sky brightens, Dalamus finds that looking at it both hurts and still elicits a dizziness and nausea in him. He pulls the hood of his piwafwi over his head and focuses on the tea.

Once it has finished steeping, Dalamus stands and quells the fire--the iron kettle will keep it plenty warm over the next hour or so. Dark liquid pours smoothly into his mug, and the smell reminds him of home. He takes a sip of the bitter drink and thinks of business days started early and bazaar stalls lined up neatly, of people from all walks of life--poor, wealthy, Menzoberranyr, colnbluth and kivven alike--browsing Drowic wares with great interest, and of sick days soothed while his bother, Nilaufein, checks him for fever. And although the tea is not as good as the tea his brother once made, it warms him all the same.

A familiar yawn reaches his pointed ears, one swiveling to listen more closely. Gale has just awoken, and judging from the crunch of grass underfoot, he is heading this way. Dalamus does not allow his approach to disturb him, although he stands a bit too close for comfort.

"Do not stand behind me, Gale," he warns coolly.

"Right, sorry, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Good morning, Dalamus." Gale moves to inspect the kettle, taking in the aroma. Curiosity quirks his brow. "What sort of tea is it, if I may ask?"

"Dragon's Egg tea," Dalamus answers, taking another sip as he watches the wizard. Although Gale is far from harmless, Dalamus is slowly realizing that the man is more excitable than he is violent. With his eagerness to indulge curiosity, but deliberate refusal to anger severely, he makes himself an easy target for mischief with low risk of retaliation. Amusing.

Gale's sleepy eyes suddenly light up. "Like the mushroom? Fascinating. I've certainly had my fair share of teas--herbal, floral, and fungal alike--but don't believe I've had any made with mushrooms from the Underdark."

"If you have not had tea made by Drow, you have not had Drowic tea."

"Of course. Which begs the question... May I try some?" Gale hesitates so slightly, but his brows lift with hope.

Dalamus glances at the wizard, red eyes scanning, scheming. Letting Gale try some tea might prove entertaining. "Are you allergic to funguswood?"

"...Not that I'm aware. Why..?"

"I would hate to be accused of a murder I did not plan, is all." A sip from his mug exudes nonchalance.

"Ah. Your concern for my well-being is truly overwhelming, as always."

"By all means, please, have some tea."

Rather than appearing glad, Gale's mouth quirks slightly in suspicion. He tilts his head and crosses his arms. "...I expected more resistance. You're unusually quick to share this morning. Is there something you're not telling me?"

Dalamus lifts his face from his tea and smiles at the wizard in a show of sincerity. "And why not share? Today is a good day. I slept well, and now I get to share a taste of my home with my.. unlikely companions." His voice is smooth, polite.

Suspicions ease, albeit hesitantly, and Gale relaxes, grabbing himself a mug. The tableware items in camp are worn, obviously secondhand. Possibly third or fourth hand. But despite their chipped edges and faded designs, they do the job well enough for the ragtag group of survivors.

"It smells almost medicinal," Gale says, gently wafting the steam towards his face. His nose scrunches slightly, but he brings the mug to his lips, blows gently to cool it, and takes a sip. It is bitter. It is very bitter, and distinctly fungal, with a slight kick of spice. At no point is there any hint of sweetness that might smother the desire to spit it out.

He swallows, almost reluctantly, as if his very body wants to reject the liquid. "Well!" Gale exclaims with feigned pleasantry. "That'll wake you up. It's, uh.. well, it certainly is pungent. Suppose it makes sense for a people who rely on various fungi in their cuisine to have a taste for it. I'm afraid my palate isn't quite suited to the.. flavor. Perhaps it'll grow on me. Y'know.. because it's... Anyway. Tell me more about it. If you don't mind, that is." He brings the mug to his lips again, continuing to drink the bitter liquid even as the flavor elicits a frown.

For a moment, Dalamus is unsure how to feel as he watches the wizard sip at the Dragon's Egg tea. Despite obviously disliking it, Gale continues to drink... Why?

He is also increasingly aware that others in camp are beginning to wake. A few have wandered over within listening range, but presumably have no interest in trying the tea for the experience in the same way Gale is.

"It is a tea one of my brothers taught me how to make, especially good for slight illnesses of the throat and nose. The combination of mushrooms can help alleviate minor pain and reduce fever, as well as ease stomach upset. Funguswood allergies can be deadly, however. There is a small amount of funguswood, some Rogue's Morsel, Dragon's Egg..." He peers up at Gale's face before continuing. "..Bonecap."

With a shocked sputter, Gale immediately and unceremoniously spits out the tea, wiping his lips as his face pales at the thought of being poisoned.

A bark of triumphant laughter bursts from Dalamus, and on the other side of camp, Astarion erupts into cackles and giggles. Some other camp members smirk, while yet others roll their eyes at the display.

Gale recovers and wipes at his face, brow furrowed and tea dripping from his beard. He aims a glare at the chuckling elves, exasperation tempered by relief. "Having a laugh, are we? Hilarious. Well, I think I've had my fill of tea and Drowic hospitality for today, thank you, and will be returning to my books until someone needs me." The wizard half-stomps his way back to his tent, shaking tea from his hands and exclaiming about errant droplets having stained his robe.

Dalamus simply grins triumphantly to himself and sips from his mug. Delicious.

#missy writing #strighym story #drowic spoken #colnbluth = outsiders #kivven = surfacers #nilaufein #gale

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redwayfarers · 1 year

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continuously denying others who think they are together - for intellis <3

ooh, an ask! tysm for dropping by! a nice surprise. also, intellis have been on my mind recently so :> also, huge thanks to @melusinedreams for giving me the idea for this a while back. it finally got written down.

-- Dareia, somewhere on the Rhesainian ocean

Marya has always been told Wayfarers on a ship bring bad luck. Her parents were rather insistent on it. She had no way of testing these claims, of course, as in all her years of sailing, there haven't been any Wayfarers on board until now. Two elf-shaped magical voids roaming along the deck.

She has to admit she's curious. Who wouldn't be? She prays every night the ship doesn't suddenly sink of course, but the skies have been clear, seas calm and after two weeks, she gets used to seeing them around. Her anxieties soothed, she can now observe from a busy distance.

She hears them before she sees them. One of them, the taller one, always seems to be involved in some kind of conversation. Not that he really needs announcing that way; it's hard to miss him even when he's quiet, even when he covers that red hair of his under scarfs. Between the freckles and the height, it's difficult to not see him from the corner of your eye. He sings often, not caring for the quality, he laughs even more so, expressive, mocking, contagious.

She asked for his name, once. The question seemed to surprise him.

"Cassander Inteus," he said, a bit more softly than usual. When she went back to her work, she swore she saw him look back with prying, careful eyes.

One of Marya's friends corrected his singing, once. Cassander shook his head. "I'm Vestran, you know," he replied. "We don't sing it like that in Vestra, where we obviously sing it better. Take notes." Captain had to shoo them back to work with residue laughter on their lips.

More often than not, however, he spends time with his Wayfarer friend. They have their little spot safely out of the way yet still beneath the sun's merciless shine, though Marya's always wondered how they fit there when they're both so tall. Somehow, she doesn't think they mind the closeness.

The evening slowly descends on the Dareia. Day's work has long since given way to tiredness made worse by the scorching heat of the sun. Conversations are quiet and the sea joins in on them, waves splashing rhythmically against dark wood. She likes it. It's peaceful in a way so few things are.

Even the Wayfarers don't want to ruin it. Cuddled in their little corner, they seem to have exhausted most of their conversation topics for the day and are now content to just enjoy each other's presence. Cassander reaches out behind his friend's back, hand hovering over the dark, creased shirt.

"Can I?" he asks, far gentler than she's ever heard him speak before. It'd almost look like a different man, if it wasn't for the long, thick braid that trails down his back.

"Do you even have to ask, Songweaver?" His friend replies, equally softly. Songweaver. What a fitting nickname.

"I don't know, Aeran. Seems.. Appropriate to ask. Maybe you're not feeling touchy. Maybe you and your personal space are making out right now and don't need a third. I don't know."

Aeran chortles. "If I was making out with my personal space, I'd have left you here and gone to the cabin. And besides-" he leans in, whispering something in Cassander's ear. The redhaired elf pulls him close with a laugh and kisses his head.

"Beat me to it, Kellis, beat me to it," he says fondly. Marya smiles to herself. Young love's always brought a smile to her face.

When she sees Cassander emerge from the cabin next morning, she says with all the fervor of Erenvor's court gossip: "You and your boyfriend really defy the bad luck you Wayfarers bring to a ship, you know?"

Cassander stares. "My what?"

"Boyfriend. Are you married? Husband, then. Lover?"

"I... I have none of those things," he says slowly. "Aeran's my friend. My partner - not in that sense - and a very good friend." He huffs. "Got an issue with friends hugging each other?"

Marya bursts out laughing. He has no idea. "Nashira take me, of course not. But you weren't behaving like friends."

"Stars and hellfire, woman, what's wrong with you? We're friends. Friends!" He crosses his arms. "Back to work, you. Husband, she says. Do I look like the type to have a husband, of all things? Pfft."

Marya's always been told Wayfarers on a ship bring bad luck, but sometimes, they bring a little entertainment too.

#wayfarer #wayfarer if #wayfarer mc #inspo birb has come to town #my writing #cassander inteus #cassander x aeran #this was fun to write #such a fun little one shot ngl #originally marya was gonna gave a spouse and kids but that'd take away from intellis #she's literally just a random npc #i had to pen it as quickly as possible bc BOYS #tysm for dropping by <3 #aeran kellis

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canis-or-cannotis-lycaon · 11 months

Text

TIMING: About four days after ‘Pulled from the Edge’ LOCATION: Gael’s House PARTIES: Ren [@ironheartedfae] and Gael [@lithium-argon-wo-l-f] WARNINGS: Child Abuse/neglect (past)

SUMMARY: After a week of resting up at Gael’s house, Ren has a crucial decision she needs to make

Had it been four days or five? Gael wanted to say he lost track since the altercation with the mutated turtle Ren insisted was called a ‘Vodnik’ but it was difficult for him to lose track of time unless it was ripped from him during one of his sleepwalking ventures. It had been four days. The rain, while still persisting, had lightened up but that meant that regardless of how long she wanted to stay, he had come to an agreement with the girl who took up residence in his spare room until it was gone at least. He occupied his kitchen now, having texted her when he was out and about picking up some groceries - Gael didn’t know what she meant by ‘creamy with potatoes but not chunky’ but after doing a little bit of research he figured she was talking about… cream of potato soup. Somehow he didn’t think she would object even if it wasn’t the right dish but he couldn’t say he wasn’t about to try to make it for her. “I’m home!” He called through the house, leaving his shoes in the entryway next to the wall behind the door as he carried his couple bags of groceries in. The past week had seen him being more domestic than he had been in a while between gently tending to her if she needed it (though she was very independent) and Elias coming and going with his job and other activities, but he realized that he didn’t really mind it - he still had his own job and things to do, he just came to the conclusion that he didn’t like living alone. He felt… vulnerable when he was alone. Loosely speaking of, as he set the bags down and put the cold items in the fridge, he tilted his head as he heard a rhythmic pattern coming from the spare room - he was used to Ren not greeting him even if he announced his arrival and departure but he could hear something unusual this time. Licking his lips and looking at the wall as though he could see through it for a moment, Gael left the rest of the groceries where they were and he made his way around until he stood in front of her closed door where he knocked thrice gently. “Ren?” He called through the door gently. “Are you alright?” He asked, wondering if it was something he said in their messages to each other - she had abruptly stopped responding and he hoped he hadn’t said the wrong thing.

____________ Panicky pacing back and forth did not actually seem to help with the situation brewing inside Ren’s mind. The tidal shift of a pleasant conversation to one that sent the young fae into a tizzy about being fae (again) was making more than just waves. The nymph had been too wrapped up in her own thoughts to realize that she’d been verbalizing some of them aloud. In a way that was fine to do when she lived on her own, far removed from other people who might see or hear. She kept reading and re-reading the conversations. Trying to parse through what was right, what was dismissable, and what that meant she should do now.

Did he know? Should she tell him if he didn’t? More and more queries swirled into the storm, a rising tempest of endless questions that spiraled and fractaled out into more and more uncertainty. Distrust in herself, in all the things she was taught growing up, and how little they seemed to fit into the real world. One thing was persistent, above all else. Darya had never accounted for the kindness of strangers. Never thought or maybe realized that those who were not wardens would just see Ren as a young human girl. It felt like lying. Is a lie of omission still big enough of a lie that it counted? Whether it was binding fae magic, or just the after effects of panic, Ren was feeling sick to her stomach.

A voice called out. Not just any, Gael’s. The source of both so much comfort and on the equal and opposite side, stress. Not directly anything that he did, just… Potential energy. Right now (if Ren were any type of physicist) she’d say felt like she was sitting at the apex. The highest part of the parabolic swing. A dizzying view of every possible horizon. Hazily laid out before her through a deep fog of context she just did not have. She trusted Gael. It’d only been a few days, weeks verging on months if you counted his online council as well. But there was something to it.

Are you alright?

Simple enough question. Simple enough answer. Ren didn’t know where to stand, mentally or physically. Feeling at odds with herself in any position she found herself stepping to. So she retreated to the bed. Buried her face in her hands, and her hands in her knees, only then answering with a ragged; “No.” ____________

The chemist remained silent, lowering his head as one of his ears faced the door in anticipation for the response. In the few short days Ren had spent at his house, he felt as though he had learned a few crucial things about her, even if they were from his own interpretation and experiences in life so he wasn’t surprised when she answered with an honest and simple ‘no’. It was obvious when Gael thought about it - even if she wasn’t just pacing, he could hear her muttering to herself, possibly either engaging in a hypothetical, using herself as a soundboard or a mantra she used as a coping mechanism. “Okay,” He said just as gently and he turned to look at the door this time, dancing over its features as he mind wondered which scenario this was. “May I come in?” Gael asked slowly. “Or would you rather have some space?” There were too many variables in his mind and while he didn’t know what was going on, he was also unwilling to make the wrong call based on what little information he had. He also wasn’t even sure if he should be asking but having grown up with four sisters, he certainly knew better than to open a door on an unexpected female. He could figure out where to go from there but as of right now, he still patiently waited on the other side of the door, her muffled response sticking onto his mind.

____________ Shivers sang sweet siren songs of silence beneath her skin. Beckoning the nymph to remain in comfortable distance, to ignore the stirring in her heart and not admit her sins. Because that’s what she believed it to be. Ren was born fae. Born wrong. Born evil. There was no baptism of light or healing that could stop that. She’d been raised as a shield and a sword, but now she was being grafted into a position of personhood. Being asked to think of herself as more than just her mission. It was a fine, fine line to tread. One she was not so sure she wouldn’t fall from.

Accept help, betray her mother.

Deny it, lose whatever this was.

A group of friends, marked and bound by death, fire, and an oath that Ren had escaped from sharing. A detective who’d seen past the girl’s inability to take anything on principal and gave her a job to earn food and respite. So many people online and around town who’d offered a helping hand, a bit of advice, jokes and information she’d never even hoped to learn before.

A man who, without asking or wanting anything in return. Tended wounds, made food, gave her shelter, clothes, and a bed. A real fucking proper comfy cozy bed. Said she could stay as long as she liked.

He wanted to know what was wrong, and she did not want to lie. Ren felt sick at the thought alone. Her heart heaved with the heaviness of it all. It was a marathon to lift her head to the back of the door. To the strange scratches and where she couldn’t see beyond it, Gael.

“You can… come in. There is… talk we must have. Before you… make dumb decisions without knowing full consequences.” ____________ More pause lent itself to the breath Gael hadn’t realize he was holding until she gave him a response through the wood. Granted, the ‘yes’ was followed by a vague utterance that he wasn’t sure what to make of but that wasn’t on the forefront of his mind. “Okay, I’m coming in,” He announced as he slowly, gently opened the door to see her curled into herself on the bed, her freckled face regarding him as he crossed the threshold. She was upset, that much was clear but Gael wanted to figure out why. And if she wanted to talk, regardless of whether or not it was to keep him from ‘making dumb decisions without knowing the consequences’, then he was more than willing to talk though part of his mind started racing - did she get some idea that he was keeping her with an ulterior motive? Did someone else tell her about his brain injury, about the sleepwalking? “Talk to me, little fern,” He closed the door though it didn’t latch, letting her know that while they had privacy he wasn’t creating an obstacle to make it more difficult for her to disengage. “What’s going on?” He opted to sit on the bed near her, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees as he kept his dark gaze on her young face, the face that he’d seen gripped by animal instinct, the face that expressed curiosity and confusion, the face that he’d seen smile and heard laugh.

____________ Once again her skittishness, her inability to interact with things in a normal way was only greeted with compassion. And god, didn’t that make it so much worse? Ren screwed her eyes shut. Knowing the next part was going to be too much for her to see. Was there a limit to his kindness? To the way he ‘liked to view things from other perspectives’ or however he’d phrased it? Her throat was tight. Dry. She’d barely said anything and she wanted to stop already.

The bed bent with the new weight, not by much, but enough to tilt her small frame slightly toward him. Enough that her shoulder brushed against his and added another thing she felt bad about how nice it was. To have someone nearby. Someone who cared. Probably too much.

“There are–” A start. Hoarse. Ragged. “Things you do not know about me. I am not–” Not human, not good. “I am not who you think I am, not what you think I am.” Did she even know what that might be? Ren swallowed again, but it did nothing for the lump still sitting heavy at the base of her neck. The way Emilio reacted was different. He was different, he was a hunter. He knew about the supernatural world, and Gael was still calling the vodnik a mutated turtle. Made it all the more difficult to discern where this all could land.

There was a voice in her head shouting that he should be disgusted, and another quieter one that knew it would break her if he was scared. But she couldn’t just… not. Ren knew that she couldn’t keep accepting warm rooms and freshly made food if it meant keeping something this big from him. Not if she was going to freak out every time something brought it up. It was better to rip off the bandaid. Sear the wound tight. At least she’d know where she could stand.

____________ Her skin touched his and while her body temperature was still lower than what he was expecting, it was certainly better than the first day he brought her in from the situation outside in the rain. She was so light. Gael looked at her with earnesty, managing to soften his expression as much as he possibly could as whatever was burning her mind obviously had trouble getting to her mouth. When she did though, mentioning that she was neither what nor who he thought she was, his brow furrowed ever-so-slightly. He admitted that he didn’t understand what this meant - was she going by an alias? Had she taken someone else’s name that she assumed for herself? …Was she actually a 40-year-old man with a condition that made her look like a young girl? That last one was obtuse but not… entirely outside the realm of reality, as unlikely as it was. However, as Gael asked himself these questions, rhetorical what-ifs, a new question formed inside and it wanted to stop all the other inquiries. What did it matter? It was a big enough deal to Ren to work her nerves up but honestly, it didn’t sit right for Gael to suddenly change everything he knew about her, everything he learned and adapted about himself for his temporary guest because of some information or a liar revealed. He had enough of an idea to know that she had killed before, though he couldn’t be sure if they were animals or people. HE’D killed animals… so she wasn’t the only one hiding a facet of who she was. How could he be such a hypocrite? Gael opened his mouth to say something but he was having trouble coming up with something sufficient enough, something to assuage the turmoil she might’ve been experiencing. “I can’t… pretend to understand what you’re thinking right now,” He said slowly, making sure his voice was calm and even. “But I’d like to help if I can.” He blinked and turned to look at her. “I’m not here to judge you or throw you out.” He rubbed his hands together, leaning slightly to give her a very light nudge. “I promise.”

____________ With substantial effort, Ren had almost brought her breathing to a steady tempo. There was even a moment of warmth and light as he nudged up against her. Right up until those words came out. If she were more like her kin, she could have twisted those words to make him keep her around. Force him into something he might not choose himself and that terrified her.

The nymph loosed a bark of air that almost sounded like a desperate laugh. Tears began to prickle at her eyes and her cheeks turned red. “No. No-no-no, you cannot promise this. Please. There are things about this world you do not understand.” She was sinking further into herself. Probably making a mess of how coherent and audible her words were. Which was not great considering the potentially earth shattering news she had to break.

“That creature was not a turtle because it was a thing called a fae. It is magic. I am–” There was a long, long pause before she next spoke up. “I am not human, Gael.” Confession out in the air, she dug her head down further between her knees. A stone to weather whatever would come next. Against everything, she found herself wishing his reaction would be negative. It’d be so much easier to navigate. She could leave. Escape. Never let him see her face again.

And it hurt. These last few months had been the best she’d ever lived. This last week had some of the most comfort she’d ever allowed herself to enjoy. Ren didn’t know how to give that up. But she would. In a heartbeat, she would. More than anything else in the entire world, she did not want to hurt good people. People like Gael didn’t deserve to have monsters like her in their life. Problems waiting to happen. She’d wrestled enough with it when Emilio had so firmly set his opinion down. But she still couldn’t escape the idea that the fae inherently were bad. Something to be exterminated. And that meant her too. ____________

Right as he thought he had more of this figured out, Gael found himself wishing he could go back to a few moments before, when he hadn’t said those words - ‘thank you’ and ‘promise’ were off the table. He didn’t– He didn’t understand. And evidently Gael didn’t know how true this was as he saw Ren’s emotions breaking the surface and the words that she said didn’t quite register with him at first. She had him until she mentioned magic, something called ‘fae’ (even though he heard Beau making comments about that before, as well) and that she wasn’t human. Not human, what did that mean? What was she talking about? He managed to keep the confusion off his face but he couldn’t keep his thoughts from starting to swirl around in his head. Alan had spoken about something like this, too. Beau, Alan, Emilio had mentioned things not as they seemed, Regan. Monty, Ariadne, even Ren’s lowered body temperatures… Maybe his face wasn’t as well-hidden as he thought as he thought more about everything that piled up with this supposed revelation that Ren wasn’t human. Gael blinked and swallowed a knot that had formed in his throat without him even being aware. He could rationalize this. She was… delusional. HE was delusional. But also… even if she didn’t accept his promise, he told her that he wasn’t going to judge or cast her out despite the doubts that suddenly pulsed through him about her, everyone else that he’d met that seemed abnormal… himself. And for a moment, his mind switched the two of them. Gael WAS human but he had this… condition and for that same moment, he pretended that he was telling someone else who had no idea that this was part of him what he did. That he killed animals in his sleep, that he stripped down and wandered around who knew where, that every once in a while with zero explanation or ability to change it, something ruptured from within him and made him do things. His gaze flickered to the deep gashes on the back of the door. How terrified he would be of the rejection, the experience so strong that he HADN’T told anyone about it. His was just a brain injury, a neurological rewiring that had him say and do things that he didn’t mean to. And maybe… maybe the things Ren was saying were similar. Gael exhaled and looked to Ren for a moment, softly, his brow knitted in empathy, and he reached up to wipe one of the tears from her face gently. “It’ll be okay.” He offered quietly, not sure how true that was but for the purposes of right now, with the two of them on the bed and neither of them quite sure how to traverse this sea that they found themselves in, he gave her his word. “Magic or no magic, I said I wasn’t here to judge you.” He followed up. “Human, not human… The rain will stop eventually but you can stay as long as you want.” ____________

Waves of heightened emotion crashed around her. As the only thing worse than rejection settled in, Gael did what he always had done. He was kind. A gentle thumb found her cheek, stopped the silent stream of tears and wiped them away as she flinched. God she wished she hadn’t. Gael didn’t deserve that. Didn’t need a problem like Ren in his life. He didn’t understand, not really. He was still saying it was okay. Still saying she could stay, for who knows how long. If he really meant it, if he really would be alright with it, she’d stay forever. She knew that. But it wasn’t that easy.

If this had been an easier world, this conversation wouldn’t even be happening. Ren would be able to grapple with the fact that despite the image of her mother in her head, despite the fact that she so desperately wanted to believe that Darya had been a hero, she might not have been. Or she was, and that was worse. If she had the capability of compassion and care like Gael did, but she chose not to give it to Ren anyway. Because of who she was, because of who Ren was. Wardens couldn’t care for fae.

So why did she take her in?

Would Ren really have turned out to be a monster if someone like Gael had been there from the start? Someone who could teach her the right things to say, the right way to feel. Or at least someone who had even half a chart on navigating all these foreign emotions that came on so quickly, so intensely. A blade didn’t need to feel. Didn’t need to think. Didn’t need to question anything and everything the way Ren wanted to now. The way that each new unanswered query stretched out in front of her like a million fractals, each splitting off into more and more. All of them doubling down and forcing her to interrogate every bit of information she’d been fed her whole life.

“You do not get it.” The words were unintentional. But they came out anyway. In the same way Ren’s mind refused to let Emilio in, let him just be okay with her as she was, she was doing it now too. Defensive. Anger was easier because it meant she didn’t have to sit in the chaos of the unknown. The unsorted. Her past was too messy for the future to hold anything good. She was not good. Gael had to see. Had to know.

In her mind, there was only one way to do that. Something she hadn’t done on purpose pretty much ever in her life. Slip away the glamour, the fake facade that made her appear as something other than the monstrous thing she truly was. A horrible little bug, a pest. Skin shimmered away, replaced with a smooth green carapace, dotted with red splotches that almost resembled the freckles on her ‘human’ cheeks. Horns, antennae, segmented body parts and wings. Somehow even smaller than the form she paraded around in. Especially all curled up like this.

“This. This is what I am. And it is not a good thing. This is why it is dangerous to say Thank You, to say that you promise to do something. When I say I am not human, I– I am a monster.” The last and only other person to see this shape had said so, but in a much kinder affectation than Ren used. To Nora, it meant companionship in their shared oddness. To Ren it meant she’d never be something worthy of trust.

____________ She flinched, which Gael sort of expected though he kept his hand up for a moment before lowering it. The two were silent for a long moment before she said the simple phrase. ‘You do not get it’. His expression faltered slightly and he wondered what she would do if he told her that they might’ve been more similar than she thought. And then… Ren’s visage started to shift, shimmering, altering as though she were covered in glitter again. Gael subconsciously scooted away as the human he sat next to was slowly and effortlessly replaced by… what he could only describe incredulously as an insectoid with horns, wings, antennae. No longer was he sitting next to Ren the human, he now found himself beside a small… he didn’t even know what to call her. At first, Gael thought he must’ve been losing his mind though he couldn’t possibly explain what had happened, what was going on to betray his vision and a small, primal part of him wanted to escape, leap off the bed and out of the room so fast even he wouldn’t be able to process what was going through his mind. And yet… She spoke to him somehow, in some way, through her inhuman mandibles, and without thinking he snapped his eyes shut - his vision wasn’t reliable, he needed to hear her. Hear how she sounded regardless of manipulating him or what had happened to make him lose his mind. She sounded… “It’s still Ren.” Gael breathed. And he took another breath. Eyes still closed, he lifted his head and took another breath. Leaned into where Ren was sitting. Grass, earth… smoke. The scent on the sheets, in the room. Ren’s voice. “You’re still… Ren.” With his head turned to face her, he opened his eyes again and they rested on the small, insect-like form on the bed. “I… don’t get it.” He repeated her earlier sentiment. “But I also can’t… accept that you’re a monster.” He sighed.

____________ Well what the hell was she supposed to do now? Ren had laid out all her cards, played the final ace and– There was some fear. Perhaps it was just hesitation. So brief the young fae had not properly been able to catch, so brief compared to how it should have been, how it– No. No he wasn’t like that. Ren was starting to see the patterns. While sticking to everything she knew might have been the more comfortable path internally, even her stubborn mind could see that Gael was just… just too good of a person to reject her just like that. When a world altering revelation had been dropped in his lap he just… adapted. Took a few seconds to stop and think, then continued on the gentle path he was coaxing Ren ever closer to.

The few moments where he had closed his eyes were easier, now he was just… staring. Not the intense way that Ren tended to adopt. No, it was soft. Confused maybe, but earnest. She didn’t know what to do with that. Nora had seen her, and said she was cool for being a monster. Gael was seeing her, and was confirming that she was still a person. Still Ren. The nymph’s shaking body was just about anything but still though. It was like the thoughts inside had physical weight, each pushing and prodding and wanting to be the first to break out. All of it together nearly short circuited the already overloaded mind. What was once a confident attempt to scare him off in some childish way, turned quickly to a horrid shame.

The glamour returned. Just as quick as it had gone. Zipping up tight and locking away the parts of herself that she hated. Ren’s head turned too, looking away. Staring at the frayed edges of the rug, of where they met the hardwood flooring. Where she could trace the lines in the woodgrain and not think for just a split second of reprieve.

“This is because you do not truly know.” Distant and choked up, all her teachings came bubbling to the surface and spewed out of her mouth. “Fae are terrible manipulative creatures. They kill humans for fun. They take your words and use them against you. If you say thank you to one they will bind you to servitude. If you say you promise to do something they can make you do it literally and forever. Fae are monsters.”

____________ As effortlessly as it had appeared to his unreliable eyes, she had glittered back to her small, light, human form. He didn’t take his eyes off her as she did, instead trying to scrape his brain, to figure out how she had and what she did to get that effect; she wasn’t wearing a watch that projected holograms, she smelled and sounded the same in both forms, it didn’t look… uncomfortable. Well– Gael wondered if he said something wrong again, if he was just being foolish and trying to muscle past something that was intrinsically wrong. She avoided his gaze this time, looking at the ground and if he followed the path himself he could see a different set of scratches, the ever-present reminder of something inside him that he pushed down and hid, though he didn’t need to… fool anyone into accepting it. “But…” Gael swallowed again as his brow furrowed and he thought on everything she said. Monsters, manipulative like how she tricked him into seeing a different version of her even if everything else was the same down to the withdrawn behavior, word games. “But you haven’t done that.” He remarked slowly, lowering his head and though he didn’t search for her eyes again, he did scoot towards her, returning to where he was. He leaned forward once more - it was literally impossible for him to wrap his brain around everything that he saw so he was relegating himself to clawing at the parts that he could, about Ren’s tearful insistence that she was a monster. “You told me about the pitfalls,” He continued. “You helped my neighborhood. You’ve taken great care to make sure I haven’t… that you haven’t used any of my words against me.” He placed his hands together once more as his elbows returned to his knees. “So even if you are a fae, I can’t very well judge you as a monster like the ones you describe.” He licked his lower lip with a small nod. “So… not all fae are monsters.” Gael did look at her this time. “You’re Ren. You hate being told thank you because it means they owe you something and you don’t want that to happen. You like salami and cream of potato soup. You fought a vodnik and almost died just because it was the right thing to do and your laugh that day made me forget that it was raining outside. You can look like a human or an insect and you might be a fae but that’s not who you are because you’re Ren.”

____________ Each and every person who chipped away at the massive wall surrounding Ren’s heart had their own methods. Some worked really well, others not so much. Each made an impact though. Carved at the layers and layers of self hatred, of time spent digging herself deeper into an isolation so thorough that even on a good day Ren barely recognized herself outside of what she was ‘supposed to do’.

Somehow though, he did. Gael saw the bits that surfaced. Saw her and not what she was. Ren’s brows knit together, slowly slowly turning to face him as he went on. All the things he’d noticed. All the things he kept. Parts of her she didn’t show anyone. Parts of her that her ‘mother’ never recognized. Even with years under her belt she’d never come close to this level of understanding. With a millennia of practice she might never be able to have this amount of compassion.

“And that’s okay?” Tearful, barely audible. A second confirmation of things others in town had tried to impart. Her breath shuddered and slowed the hyperventilation she’d just come down from. Big green eyes looked into his, and for maybe the first time in her life, she felt like she was home. ____________

He breathed evenly though he knew his body wanted to react to everything that had transpired in that bedroom. He breathed evenly because he knew just enough about psychology to know that someone else breathing in close proximity helped others. He didn’t know anything about fae psychology but she clearly experienced emotion like a human, ate like a human and feared like a human so how different was she really? In, out. In, out. Her eyes found Gael’s this time, sparkling with tears, emeralds on a face wide with so much emotion and a burden. A voice telling her that she was a monster. Someone had to have instilled this into her from a very young age. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, hold her and let her feel his warmth and heart but this was delicate, as was she so instead he gave her another little nudge as he sat back, the arm closest to her moving so that his torso was exposed to her. Gael blinked slowly, a smile widening on his angled features. “Of course it is, little fern.”

____________ A foreign instinct wormed its way into her brain and pushed Ren forward. She found her head buried against his chest and her arms wrapping around. No more words, no more fighting. Tears flowed freely, but not necessarily out of sadness or anger. The world had spun on its axis, and the nymph was allowing herself to be held truly and wholly for the first time in her life. Darya would never, she could never do this. And she’d just as quickly kill Ren for being this soft. For going against her directive. For being a person instead of a thing.

There was relief to it. The hug. The way she could hear the man’s heart beating, feel the vibrations echo from his chest into hers. Slowing down her heartbeat until the two of them were at least in the same range. There, Ren sobbed. For grief of time that could have been spent like this. A quiet somber moment, still filled with more happiness than she could even describe. It was hard to say how long she sat like that for. Just letting the worst of it rush out of her like a dam being released. Harder to say how long she would have stayed if she let herself.

For now, it was over. The sudden break in facade patched up and died down. Ren shuffled back, still unsure of how this was supposed to go. She’d never cried in front of someone, not like this. Not this close, not this much. Tears were a weakness she couldn’t usually afford. It wasn’t like that here. She knew that now. ____________

The older man was glad he had positioned himself in the way he did because while he wasn’t expecting it at all, one moment had flashed into the next and her arms were around him, feeling her face pressing into his chest, her body trembling with an overflow of emotions Gael wasn’t sure she’d felt in a long while. After an initial pause, he placed his hands on her in turn, feeling large compared to her small frame, one gently on her head and the other on her shoulder. Gael felt a pulse through him, a warmth that he hadn’t felt in a long time - when he held his sister’s child, comforting her as she cried from an injury. So inconsolable but he kept breathing, as he did now with a different child in his arms. Bug, human, fae, not, the limited time they spent together, his damned attachments that he formed way too quickly and without anyone’s permission including his own but he grasped these feelings, ephemeral though they felt sometimes. He wasn’t sure how long they sat there and honestly it was as long as she needed. He kept his embrace strong but loose for when she would want to disengage and as she did, he obliged. Gael’s shirt was soaked with tears but he didn’t even notice - what he did notice was her regulated breathing, her exhaust, the relief of having released everything she had, even if only for a moment. She pulled away and he offered her a gentle smile, the same one he’d given her from the beginning and the same one he had when he talked to her online as an anonymous individual online. “I needed that.” He said after a small pause, not untruthfully. “...It’ll be okay.” And it would; she had his word, an unspoken promise.

#WR Writing #Writing: Lean on Me #Writing with: Ren #child abuse tw #child neglect tw #[past tw for both]#wickedswriting

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ironheartedfae · 1 year

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Timing: Just after Allgoods pt 2 or whatever we’re gonna call it Location: Axis Feat: @mortemoppetere & @ironheartedfae Warnings: sibling death tw, parental death tw, suicidal ideation tw, child abuse tw Summary: After Ren finds a way to excuse herself from the Allgoods, she goes to the only responsible adult she trusts. Mostly because he has a dog.

Like so much else that night, arriving in front of Emilio’s door was a blur. A mechanical fugue state taking her where some higher force thought she needed to go. It hadn’t hit Ren until she was in the car going away from the pit. When she was asked where to drop her off. She couldn’t tell the rest of the girls about the dump, even if Nora kind of already knew. She waived off suspicion, twisting her words like a good little monster. Flushing out the disgust at herself with a prayer of, god let this be the right reason to act more fae. To dip a foot into trickery and deceit, so long as she told no outright lies.

Sure, every feeling possible seemed to be flooding the girl’s brain but the warden, the stab wound, the pit… they weren’t what broke Renata. It was the hoodie. The sweater, her outer layer of clothing, the thing that had been bundled up and tossed away like trash, like it was nothing, was not hers to give away. In her mind, it was conditional like everything else had always been. Worse still, she had excused herself from the very chore that afforded her the clothing.

Other plans. Well the night hadn’t gone to plan at all now, had it?

Quiet, short, sharp half-breaths were all the sounds Ren was consciously making. And even that felt like a betrayal of trust. To whom? Only God knew. Maybe it was to God himself. A rhythmic drumming saw her chest heave with the effort of staying upright. With the dregs of pain starting to seep back in where duty and diligence had held it at bay.

Ren’s hand waivered, hanging just shy of the door, just an inch away. Too scared to knock, too scared to move away. Even when she heard the gentle whine of Perro on the other side. Even when footsteps drew closer. She didn’t hear them. She hadn’t heard anything, not really. Not since she tricked her way out of being bound like the others had. Should she feel bad for them? For having been fooled by the other nymph? Or was it some cosmic penance for them being monsters as well? Did they know how it would feed Cass’ fire? Or was it a simple mistake, ignorance forged into chains and labeled ‘All Good.”

—

He’d been sleeping on the couch since that especially vivid version of the familiar nightmare a few weeks back. Though maybe sleeping wasn’t the best phrase for it. He got winks, here and there, dozed off just long enough to start awake again sometimes, but nothing terribly substantial. If he weren’t a slayer, capable of running on far less sleep than most, the exhaustion probably would have gotten to him by now, twisted his mind into something more broken than it was already. As it was, he was just… tired, mostly. Bags under his eyes, paranoia turned up to eleven, jittery in a way that didn’t make sense. It was stupid, and he knew it.

Perro didn’t seem to share in his affliction, of course. The dog was snoring contentedly on the couch until he wasn’t, until his ears perked up with a sound Emilio caught a half-second before him. Someone outside, stopping at the door but going no further. No knock, no turn of the knob, just… hovering.

The dog jumped off the couch, trotting over to the door and letting out a low whine. It wasn’t a growl, wasn’t a defensive stance, which made Emilio think that whoever was on the other side of that door was someone familiar. Maybe Arden or Wynne or Zack coming up from their apartment to ask something, though he suspected most of them would have texted first. Emilio heaved himself off the couch, limping over to the door and standing at it hesitantly for a moment.

He waited for a knock, for a voice, for something, but nothing came. It seemed nothing was going to come, so he sighed. Slowly, he reached out and opened the door, brow furrowing at who he saw there. “Kid?” His voice was gentle, but confused. Hadn’t she said she had other plans tonight? What had they been? She looked goddamn haunted, like she’d seen a fucking ghost. In Wicked’s Rest, that might not be far from the truth. “Jesus. Come inside, ¿vale? Let me help.”

—

And there he was. The man she’d come to see. To lay her sins bare to, though she couldn’t say why. Ren’s eyes welled up with tears the moment Emilio opened the door, but by god she would not let them fall. She couldn’t even convince her eyes to blink. Just being looked at made her feel like her whole body was squirming beneath her glamour.

She must have looked so odd. This tiny shaking thing, still stuck in the same position as if the door were still closed. An oversized shirt with a strange slogan about wine and the time. One that swam on her, drooping over one shoulder and extending down to her knees. Looking more like a nightgown than a t-shirt. In a way, one might mistake this for the way a child might run to their parents room after a nightmare. But Ren had only ever been taught to sit with her bad dreams. To deal with them on her own, because she didn’t deserve someone to run to.

Because even Emilio would be angry too, when he found out. Right? She’d broken their ‘deal’. Not an official one, she would never do that to him. But she lost the thing she had taken in exchange for work, and now she hadn’t even walked the damn dog.

He was going to be pissed.

He was going to scream.

He was going to kick her out.

Then the list of people she gave any amount of trust to in Wicked’s Rest was going to narrow to no one and nobody. She’d be back on her own again. She’d go back to the dump and to her reports and files and resume the cold and clinical judgment of this town one by one. And yet…She couldn’t not tell him. Ren couldn’t let this slide, it was consuming her. Threatening to swallow her whole unless she–

“I-I-I-I lost it. I lost the hooded sweater.”

—

She looked more like a kid now than she had in all the time he’d known her. There was something jarring about it, something uncomfortable. It was easy to pretend, sometimes, that things were… different. That he was a man who could exist outside of the things he’d lost, that a father without a child could just go back to being whatever it was he had been before he’d held a tiny life in his hands and seen his own face reflected back at him in smaller features. Sometimes, he could convince himself that he was still something.

But moments like this made it harder.

Because right now, in this moment, it was hard to look at Ren without seeing Flora. A future they might have had, a kinder world where things didn’t hurt quite as badly as they did in this one. And every goddamn inch of him ached with it. Emilio was an orphan, a widower, and something else, something for which no word existed. And in this moment, he was reminded of it so much more than usual.

She said it like it was some terrible confession, like her losing the sweatshirt he’d found in the goddamn trash was the kind of thing she could never be forgiven for. And it reminded Emilio so harshly of confessions he’d made to his mother all his life, of small misdeeds that had earned big punishments and his desire to raise his daughter as far away from it as possible. He still didn’t know what Ren’s upbringing had been like — getting any kind of detail out of her was like drawing water from a stone, most days — but he’d gathered that it wasn’t kind.

And he wanted to burn the fucking world down on her behalf.

“Hey, that’s okay.” He reached out slowly, careful to ensure that the movement couldn’t be taken as a swing in her direction. Hands that had been used exclusively for violence all his life were anything but as they ushered her into the apartment, closing the door behind her. “Starting to get hot outside, anyway. But I can give you another one. Got plenty I need to get rid of. You’d be doing me a favor, taking them off my hands. Why don’t you sit down? You can help me get rid of some of the food in my fridge, too. It’ll expire if somebody doesn’t eat it, and I don’t want to be wasteful.” Again, making sure everything was worded transactionally, in a way that made it seem as though she was doing him a service. He’d learned that was the best — the only way to get Ren to accept help, sometimes. “We can talk while I get it ready, if you want.” Even if ‘getting it ready’ only consisted of sticking it in the microwave. “You wanna tell me what happened tonight? It’s okay if you don’t.”

—

Where was the storm? Where was the anger? Ren’s head swam through a riptide of emotions as warm and gentle hands grasped her shoulders, pulled her inside the apartment and whisked her off towards the kitchen. The fae found herself leaning into that touch far more than she realized. Far more than she’d let herself do under normal circumstances. Letting Emilio hold her upright. As if the weight of everything she had done that night was threatening to collapse her at any moment. Her breath had all but stopped since she stepped into the room. As if to breathe meant breaking the illusion. That’s what this had to be, there wasn’t any other explanation. Not one that her mind could conceive. This wasn’t real.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

The empty ache that had shadowed Ren her whole life stirred within her. Some broken part of her that knew something was wrong, but never had the words or the means to identify. Was this how normal kids were treated? An open palm instead of backhand or a closed fist. An offer for food and the chance to talk rather than just locking her up in the shack out in the woods. But Emilio didn’t know. Ren wasn’t normal. She’d never be normal. He didn’t know that she was a monster and now a traitorous murderer as well.

He was speaking. He was ushering her with calm words and soothing tones. Ren should have been listening but the drone of the ringing in her ears made it so hard to focus on anything at all. Something about more clothes. More food. More things added to a pile that was getting too heavy for her heart to carry. Why did he care this much? He shouldn’t, she was nothing to him. She hadn’t even held up her side of the bargain and he was offering more, more, more.

When would the fall come? When did the pile of more crumble and crush her? Was it even fair to string him along like this? When Ren was just a freak of nature, a very well trained monster. As far as she knew, her own parents hadn’t even wanted her, left her to die because she was small and weak. But Emilio? He didn’t even know Ren, and he was acting like– like–

“Why? Emilio detective, why are you doing this? I do not– I am not–” Ren broke the contact. The spell that held her. For his sake. He was far too kind of a man to deal with something as awful as she. Her small shaking frame stepped as far away in the kitchen as she could without leaving the room. Doing so abruptly enough that she slammed into one of the drawers. “You should not trust me.”

—

She was scared. Shivering and shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, like even Emilio’s attempt at a kindness he wasn’t familiar enough with to do well was so strange that it hurt her. Anger burned in his chest, though it wasn’t directed at Ren. It was directed at whoever had made her this afraid, whoever had fucked up so entirely that she thought everything and everyone was just waiting on an excuse to hurt her.

(He didn’t let himself think about how familiar her expression was. He didn’t let himself remember how many times his mother had locked him away somewhere for hours in a space so tight that he couldn’t take a full breath, didn’t let himself ponder the way he was certain that Elena Cortez would kill him if she could see what he’d become. Whoever had raised Ren up this way was a monster, something unforgivable. But his mother was different. She was a good person. She was a hero. If he repeated it often enough, maybe he’d forget the quiet, terrible thoughts in the back of his mind that contradicted it.)

She was quiet, and he let her be. He wasn’t the type to push someone to talk when they didn’t want to, wasn’t one to insist upon conversation when he knew he was bad at it. Maybe he should have, though. Maybe, if he’d said more, she wouldn’t have backed up the way she had, wouldn’t have slammed into the drawer in a way that made him flinch. (He was bad with sudden noises. He was bad with a lot of things.)

He turned towards her slowly, hyper aware that every movement could be taken as a threat when someone was afraid. He’d been in her shoes enough times to know that. “I’m doing this,” he said quietly, gently, “because I want to do this. Es mi elección. My decision. I trust you because I decided to. And you can decide to trust me back, or you can decide not to. But it isn’t going to change my choice. Okay? I already made up my mind. And, between you and me, I’m a stubborn bastard. I don’t go changing it. So you can stay here, if you want to. I can put this food in the microwave for you. Tastes like cardboard, but it’ll fill you up. I can get you another jacket. Smells like shit, but it’ll keep you warm. And you can sleep on the couch so you can walk the dog in the morning. Let me sleep in.” A lie, of course; even on the best night, Emilio didn’t tend to sleep, much less sleep in. On a night where a scared kid showed up at his door as late as she had? He knew better than to even attempt it.

But Ren didn’t need to know that. All Ren needed to know was that there was a place for her on that dirty sofa if she wanted it. If he framed it like she’d be doing him a favor, she might even say yes.

—

“Then you are making decisions without all information.” Ren’s head shook sideways rather violently. The energy inside her needed somewhere to go, and the movement seemed as good a place as any to put it. “You do not know me, you do not know anything about me. I–” A frantic gaze slid somewhere to the middle distance as another wave of fitful memory filled her head with the sights, the sounds, even the acrid metallic taste of the scene she’d left. Four other silhouettes, divided yet standing together. Each and every one marked by the iron that had really only ever been meant for Ren and Cass.

In her mind, the repeated story played out differently. In her mind, the others were watching. In her mind, they all knew. In her mind, it was the blades she’d been given as a gift from Darya that had killed the warden. In her mind it was her mother she was killing. The warden’s face contorted, shifting between that of Debbie, young, vibrant, and just at the start of her journey. And Darya, hardened by time, pockmarked and scarred by a life of protecting people from the vilest things nature had dreamt up.

It wouldn’t stop playing, over and over, vivid enough that it seemed to cloud out the small kitchen. The man in front of her, and anything else that wasn’t just a part of her guilt catching up with her. Ren slumped down until she was on the floor, knees bent up in front. Close enough to grab, to curl up into a little ball. God how she wanted to disappear. Wanted not to have this conversation. Wanted Emilio just to be mad like he was supposed to. She knew what to do with that. Knew the stalwart stone she had to be when it was shame and ridicule, anger and derision. But this?

An open heart was an invitation for disappointment. Ren didn’t know if she could handle that coming from him. Didn’t know if the inevitable break would break her too.

“I am not a good person.” She paused, bit her lip and continued in a whisper. “I am not a person at all.”

—

The microwave hummed, filling the silence with something even if it was only something small. Emilio was grateful for it, somehow, like the stupid hum of that microwave would ever be big enough to fill the space between them, like it could do anything to drown out the deafening sound of their heartbeats pounding together.

Looking at Ren, he thought, was not at all like looking at Flora as she had been. At four years old, with a father who refused to start her training, Flora had been a relatively happy kid. She’d had fits sometimes, the way all kids did, but she hadn’t been hurt the way Ren was now. Looking at Ren was like looking at what Flora could have been. What she would have been, had that massacre not happened and Emilio’s plan to get her away from the only life either of them had ever known hadn’t worked out. Looking at Ren was like looking at everything he’d desperately wanted to keep his daughter from becoming.

It was like looking in a mirror.

And it ached. He’d never much liked the sight of his own reflection, and he was finding he liked it less on someone else’s face. Emilio, at least, had probably deserved much of what was done to him. If he’d been a better hunter like Rosa, if he’d been smarter like Edgar, if he’d had the good sense to die young like Victor, it would have been better. His mother wouldn’t have been so disappointed, wouldn’t have had to work so hard just to try to turn him into something worth being. He couldn’t imagine that Ren had done anything to deserve the same treatment, but it was clear she’d gotten something similar. And it was clear that something else had happened tonight on top of it.

“I’m a detective, kid,” he said quietly, voice barely above that hum of the microwave. “And I’m not half bad at it. Just because you don’t tell me things doesn’t mean I don’t know them. I’ve got plenty of information.” He knew enough to guess what kind of upbringing she must have had, knew enough to make assumptions that he was fairly confident about. And he’d never said anything, because he didn’t want to scare her. There were few things scarier than being known.

But this might have been one of them.

The way she spoke about herself, as if personhood was a thing to be earned and something she hadn’t yet achieved… It was hard not to think of his own life again, of his upbringing. His mother’s face when she’d pulled him aside after Flora’s first birthday, the anger in her eyes. What you are doing with this girl, it isn’t right. You know this. You know what you are for, what we are all for. Weapons, not people.

The microwave beeped. He choked on the silence that followed for a moment, careful not to let any of it show.

“Between you and me,” he said quietly, opening that microwave door and yanking out the cardboard box of the meal within it, “I’m not much of a person, either. Definitely not a good one. My…” He trailed off for a moment, because the next word in the sentence was going to be wife but it was too heavy to rest easily on his tongue even now. “Someone I used to know always said good people were boring, anyway. Don’t know if she was right or not, but I like to think so.” He pulled the meal, unevenly heated and looking nothing like it did in the photo on the box, out of the cardboard and slid it across the counter, opening a drawer and digging until he found a packet of plastic silverware to put beside it. “You can stay,” he said quietly, “or you can go. It’s up to you. But I’m not going to stop giving a shit about you either way. Okay? Bad person, good person, not a person, I don’t give a shit. I decided what I decided. You’re stuck with that now.”

—

He wasn’t getting it. Emilio wasn’t going to get it, Ren thought, unless he knew the whole truth. That he had some disgusting insect in his kitchen and it should be squished just like any other cockroach. Maybe she wanted that. Maybe she felt like she needed to be punished for what she’d done. They couldn’t just get away with it right? Those four others and Ren had murdered someone. Not just a random passerby, a warden. A throbbing sickness welled up and for a moment the fae thought she’d vomit, but it stopped somewhere in her chest. Burning and aching with the pressure as it slowly faded back.

Ren remembered the way the adults had looked at her when she’d injured one of the other kids during training. Of course, the fae had been brought in as an example, as the test dummy. They were instructed not to hold back. The adults hadn’t batted so much as an eyelash when the hunters in training landed blows on her. When iron struck her skin and ate away at it like acid. But when she fought back, when she was playing her part. Doing what they asked, and broke that boy’s arm… Well then it wasn’t Ren versus five other teens. It was Ren vs a compound of fully trained Wardens. Only saved by Darya’s swift decisive action to lock her up while they deliberated.

“It’s a good lesson.” She said.

“Let the young ones know those things can’t be trusted.” She said.

“They can’t help their nature.” She said.

Ren always wondered if Darya knew that the fae could hear her from that closet, locked tight enough that the walls seemed to press in on the nymph sure, but not sound proof. For the best anyway. It was a lesson for her as well. In how much control she needed. How much she needed to hold back, about the monster she kept at bay enough to be useful. Enough to make them proud. Enough to be something more than what she was born into.

In that tiny kitchen though? Ren felt like she was a loaded gun. Ready to point and kill anything she started to feel comfortable around. The more herself she was, the more danger she exuded. Bright reddened eyes looked up from behind her curled up knees.

“You do not want monster like me in your house.” Quiet. Stubborn. Bitter. He was a detective, but that didn’t mean he had all the information. There was something else he was, too. Something that kept him away for long nights, coming home smelling of blood and dust. Far too familiar to be written off. Something Ren had suspected, but never been able to confirm. He wasn’t the only observant one.

“I am—” She choked on it sure, but she held the confession like a knife anyway. “I am not human, Emilio Detective. I am something awful, I should be put down for what I have done. For what I am.”

—

Nothing he was saying was getting through. It had been so much easier with Flora. She was so young that a kind word from her father’s mouth had been enough to ease her doubts, enough to scare away whatever easily vanquished monsters could make it into a four year old’s mind. Juliana hadn’t always liked the way Emilio comforted her, of course — he knew his wife had been afraid that he’d make their daughter soft, that he’d make her like him, but nothing could have stopped Emilio from giving Flora whatever it was she needed the moment she needed it.

And if Ren would let him, he’d do the same for her. But only if she’d let him.

He couldn’t keep fighting to be there for someone who didn’t want him around. He knew that. Not when he could barely manage to be there for himself, not when every inch of him still ached from the failures he already had under his belt. He’d meant what he’d told her that first night — he wasn’t a saint, even if he was doomed to be a martyr. He couldn’t pull her out of the fire while she was still clinging to the flames.

But tonight, he’d keep trying. Tonight, Ren was clearly going through something, clearly struggling to keep her head above water, and he could offer her a helping hand even if she was thrashing and pulling against it because tonight, she deserved that much. If she still didn’t want his help when she looked a little less haunted, he’d accept that the same way he’d accepted it of Nora.

“If I didn’t want you in my house,” he said, “I wouldn’t have let you in. Could’ve just not opened the door, you know.” She already knew the door didn’t lock, but they both knew she wouldn’t have come in if he’d kept it closed. She’d barely come in when he’d tugged her through the doorway himself, seemed a heartbeat from bolting now that she was here. Keeping her out wasn’t something he ever foresaw being any kind of a problem.

He nodded as she spoke. Though the last half of the confession, the idea that she ought to die for what she was put an ache in his chest, the first half wasn’t surprising. “Kid,” he replied, raising an eyebrow at her, “I’ve known you weren’t human since the first day I met you.” He glanced back to where Perro had gone to snooze on the couch, jabbing a thumb in the dog’s direction. “He bites humans. Or at least growls at them. And he likes you. I’ve always known. And I don’t give a shit. You don’t deserve to die for what you are. No one deserves to die for what they are.” He tasted ash in his mouth, Remembered Alvarez at Rivera’s farm, the way he’d sneered when Emilio pointed out that they’d killed children in Mexico. No. We killed hunters. There’d been a time when he’d have killed any vampire he came across just for being a vampire, but not anymore. People could die for what they did, but not what they were.

And not kids. Never kids.

“And if we’re talking about what we’ve done…” He trailed off with a wry, humorless smile. “I deserve to die a hell of a lot more than you do. Nothing you did tonight or any other night can be as bad as what I’ve done, kid. You can trust me on that one.”

—

How were you supposed to react when the world was crumbling around you, and someone refused to crack? Was it a good thing? It should have been a good thing. Ren should have run right to Emilio and wrapped her arms around him and understood that her place here wasn’t as tenuous as she fully believed. It was the depth of that belief though, that was rooting her in place. Just staring at him. Brows pulled up and together in confusion, still tense as a rubber band stretched to its apex. Short shallow breaths were the first movement she made in minutes.

I’ve known you weren’t human since the first day I met you.

Green eyes fell onto the dog, or at least the same direction Emilio was looking at. She had to stand to see. For some reason her body allowed her to stand if it meant looking for context. Allowed her to move closer to see from his point of view. Ren remained all at once too still, and unable to stop shaking. Like all the wrong parts couldn’t stop moving while the things that should’ve been stayed put.

Yup. There he was. Dog, companion, and supernatural sniffer. Apparently. Still unsure of how the dog could possibly have known, Ren’s eyes refused to leave the sleeping puppy. As if she could suss it out by just staring. Perro decidedly didn’t share his secrets. His gentle snores were the only thing that filled the living room, no matter how hard the nymph’s glare attempted to pierce through.

She looked up, almost a full foot up, at Emilio’s face. She hadn’t exactly realized how close she let herself get. But the kitchen wasn’t that big to begin with. “You…truly do not care?” Quiet. Broken. But listening. Pulled out of her shell enough by the subtle shock and confusion Perro’s ‘betrayal’ offered. Everything that came after, everything she finally let herself listen to, was at odds with everything she’d ever learned. It sat in her chest and made her stomach sour.

“My–” Mother, mentor, jailor. Funny. Someone who was more equipped with the language might realize the irony of Darya being a warden. “The people who raised me. They–” She bit at her lip. Gnawing enough to ground her with the pain. Let it drown the other onslaught of inputs from the rest of her body. From the giant burn on her side that still ached and throbbed with every movement. “They taught me everything. About what I am. About why all the fae should be killed. Taught me how to kill them as well. And tonight–” Ren’s voice cut off. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks. She couldn’t bear to look at him when she explained, but she had to, he had to know.

We… I…. The girls…. Just Ren. How to start?

She hadn’t made the promise. Ren had not bound herself to silence the way the others had and yet– She couldn’t bring them into this. Something stayed her voice more than the grief and guilt. The venomous snake of a feeling that had spurred Ren into jumping on the attacker, protective. She could sign her own confession, but not theirs.

“A warden I did not know attacked while I was investigating case. And I— I killed them.”

—

He watched as she came in close, watched the way her eyes went to Perro. The dog slept just as peacefully as he had before, quiet and trusting of the people in the apartment in a way he hadn’t been when Emilio first brought him home. He’d stayed under the sofa entirely those first few days, coming out only when Emilio left the apartment and disappearing the moment he got home. Uncertain, untrusting, and unwilling to put himself in the hands of someone he didn’t know.

Ren reminded him of that now. Looking like she was ready to run at the slightest chance, like any kindness he tried to show her would be misinterpreted as whatever punishment she believed she deserved. If you kicked a dog enough times, it saw every boot as a weapon. If you treated a kid like shit all her life, she’d start to think she deserved it. He remembered how good it had felt, going back to that dead vampire’s house after he’d gotten Perro situated in his apartment and burning the whole thing to the ground. He wished he could do the same to whatever terrible place Ren had come from, wished he could light it on fire and turn it to ash for the way she shook now, for the look in her eye. He thought they might deserve it.

“If I cared,” he said quietly, “we wouldn’t be talking right now. Would we?” Emilio wasn’t the sort of killer who lulled people into a false sense of security before taking them out. He didn’t gather his information through conversations full of lies or trickery. He investigated his targets from afar, and then he asked them directly. He was good enough at knowing when people were lying that he didn’t feel the need to fool them into telling the truth. Maybe Ren didn’t know that about him, but maybe she did. It wasn’t like he gave off the air of someone sociable enough to pass as a con artist.

His chest tightened as she spoke of the people who’d brought her up. Probably wardens, then. He thought of Rhett, of the days after the slaughter in Etla and how he’d been the only thing holding Emilio up. If he were here now, he’d want to kill her. Emilio knew that. And that ached, too. He was someone his brother wouldn’t recognize anymore, someone he often didn’t recognize himself. And he couldn’t figure out if the changes made him better or worse. Only that they’d get him killed, sooner or later. Only that there was an equal chance of a hunter or someone supernatural being the one to pull that trigger now.

Rubbing a hand across his face, Emilio shook his head. He wasn’t equipped to handle this. He wasn’t equipped to handle much of anything, really. “They were wrong,” he said quietly. “Being born isn’t a crime, Ren. Okay? You can’t be bad for something you have no control over.” He thought of Flora again, of the way Alvarez had justified her death. We killed hunters. We killed hunters. We killed hunters. We killed —

A child was a child. It didn’t matter what they were, didn’t matter where they came from, a child was a child. A thing deserving of protection, of love. And Ren hadn’t gotten that, and she should have. She fucking should have.

He pushed his tongue against his teeth as she continued, because the ending of this story wasn’t unexpected. Something had made her this shaken, something had crawled under her skin and left her trembling and terrified. She’d killed a warden, and part of him ached for that, too. Part of him wanted to ask what the warden had looked like, if they’d been an older man with a stupid beard and too much hair, but he couldn’t bring the question up to the surface. Not when the answer was something he didn’t want to know. She’d killed a warden, and he wouldn’t ask for details because if he did, he’d spiral into something he couldn’t get out of and she’d take it the wrong way and he’d never see her again. She was already a heartbeat away from running. He didn’t want to give her a reason.

“It was them or you,” he said quietly. “You did what you had to do.” He wasn’t sure how true it was, how much he believed it, but his voice gave nothing away. He’d find out more about the warden on his own, but he wasn’t going to put it on Ren’s shoulders. He’d killed plenty of people like her on hunting trips with Rhett, after all.

—

If he cared, they wouldn’t have been talking.

Wardens never stopped to talk to the creatures they destroyed. The Adelskold family was a shield against the tide, protecting humanity from those beyond the veil. Things hidden in plain sight, disguising themselves as human. Stealing from innocents, killing without rhyme, reason, or mercy. Holding power over anyone who so much as tripped on their words. Even just to say thank you could be a death sentence. Emilio understood that. Somehow he knew what she was, he’d done his own research. Maybe he didn’t know the exact details, maybe he did. In spite of knowing, he continued to think Ren was something redeemable.

Darya had talked of acts of grace, of miracles and blessings. But those things were never meant for someone like her. The best she could ever hope to be was a thorn in the side of the monsters she should have called her kin. Darya was strong, but always at arms length. Comfort was a poison in the matriarch’s eyes. One that would spoil the young fae, turn her sour. Pollute the pure soldier she was trying to create. Let some of that disgusting nature she’d tried so hard to beat out of Ren slip back in.

Direct opposition came in the form of Emilio Cortez. Blocking the blinding light of all Ren knew as salvation from view, but shielding her eyes from the harm it caused all the same. She’d seen what kind of a man he was. Helpful. Kind. Someone who refused to believe he was either. Who was so very much like the wardens, and yet so-so-so far removed. He looked at her with compassion. Compassion so foreign that it took this long for her to even realize that’s what it was. He looked at her like she existed and by God she felt so small when he did. Small, but seen for perhaps the first time in her life.

Ren wrestled with it. Held it like a ball of red hot glass. Too long in her hands and they’d burn, but just a moment of reprieve and it would fall and shatter. Emilio was many things, he was not a liar. Not from everything Ren could tell. How could everything he’d said be true, without all of Darya’s advice being false?

They were wrong. “But–” They were wrong. “I have–” They were wrong. “I am–” Ren sputtered, softly. Defending the sword that threatened to cut her head off, because it was all she knew. It was rooted too deeply to throw away. No matter how good it might be for her to do so.

Maybe it didn’t matter tonight. Tonight she was here. She was in front of a man who knew what she was, what she’d done, and was offering her sanctuary anyway. Even if she couldn’t possibly conceive or understand why, even if she never would. Maybe she could sort out the complicated feelings some other time. Maybe she could allow herself to be cared for.

“She did not deserve how she died.” Is what she settled on. Emilio could try and brush it off for whatever reason he had, but Ren could not. “I have to make up for that. I have– to do something right.”

—

It was hard, hearing something that went against everything you knew. Emilio understood that. He’d been there once, had watched his life fall apart around him and wrestled with the realization that while the vampires had been the bullets in the gun, a hunter had been the one to pull the trigger. Not just any hunter — a Cortez. Someone he knew, someone he loved. A man his daughter called abuelo had been the one to get her killed, and in doing so, he’d taught Emilio that not all monsters were inhuman. And Emilio was smart enough to puzzle out that the inverse, too, must be true; not all inhumans were monsters.

Ren certainly wasn’t, in spite of what she’d been taught. She was a child, small and terrified and already full of too many terrible words. She was a child, like what Flora would have turned into if Elena had her way. She was a child, and no one had ever treated her as such. So maybe Emilio would have to be the first. He wasn’t a very good man, and he’d been a god awful father, but he didn’t think he had to be great at either to give Ren more kindness than what had been offered to her so far. After all, he wasn’t her father, wasn’t anyone’s. He was just this now. And it was nothing worth being, but there was nothing else for him to be, either.

Still, the guilt remained. It was there in the way that knot in his stomach unclenched when Ren referred to the warden she’d killed as she, there in the way he found relief in the knowledge that his brother, who would kill Ren if he ever met her even in passing, was probably still alive and well and somewhere far away where Emilio would likely never see him again.

He let her words settle, unable to argue with them but unwilling to affirm the truth to the statement. Most people didn’t deserve how they died, not really. Most people deserved either better or worse than what they ended up with, but God or the universe or whatever made those decisions never seemed to take that into consideration. All the world ever did was take. There was nothing anyone could do to change that.

“Maybe,” he allowed, “and maybe not. Not sure you or I can say what she deserved. Being there at the end of someone’s life isn’t the same as understanding it, kid.” How many people had he killed now? He’d lost count a long time ago. He couldn’t say every one of them had deserved it. He knew for a fact that plenty of the ones he’d killed before the massacre hadn’t, and some of the ones he’d killed since probably deserved to live a lot more than he did. And he did what he did anyway, but he wouldn’t tell Ren to do the same. He wouldn’t ask anyone to do the things he did. That was why he was the one doing them.

Uncertainly, he put a hand on Ren’s shoulder. It was awkward, and it felt unnatural. He wasn’t used to comforting people any more than he was used to receiving comfort. But he wanted to try anyway. Just once, he’d like to do something right. Just to prove he could. Maybe that was another thing he and Ren had in common. “We can do that,” he said. “Me and you, we can find something to do to… balance it. But not tonight. Tonight, you eat your cardboard dinner. Tomorrow, you walk the dog. And we go from there, ¿vale?”

—

Whole libraries could be filled with the differences between what Ren knew, and what was real. Weeks of observation in this strange town had led to more discoveries than she could have imagined. And now they earned the context. It wasn’t that Wicked’s Rest nor its people were explicitly bad, nor that the people here were moral paragons by any standard. It’s just that everyone, everywhere was a little bit in between.

In all honesty, it frightened her. She didn’t know what to do with all the shades of gray that were starting to bleed into her black and white views. Didn’t know where she fit anymore. Didn’t know how to sit with these ideas and just let them breathe. Just let herself breathe and learn how to be.

But there was a hand on her shoulder and a kind heart ready to help her down the long road that twisted on ahead. Ren couldn’t know what would come next. Couldn’t guess how she’d react when faced with a similar situation to that grocery store. Couldn’t guess what she’d do if she was confronted with another target to hunt. She didn’t know how they possibly could make things right.

But as she found herself leaning into that touch. Slowly, slowly retracting the raised hackles and just allowing her muscles to loosen. Easing into the gesture, and relaxing for the first time that night, maybe the first time ever. She knew she had to try. With Emilio by her side, she figured it might just be possible.

Two small words peeped out of the nymph. Two words that took the strength of Atlas for her to muster. But two words that Emilio Cortez deserved to hear from her. “Thank you.” Tentatively the feral cat of a kid let her head come to a rest against his side. Let her eyes close and just soaked in the unfamiliar, but not-unwelcome, sensation. There was a warmth to it she hadn’t expected. Not just from body heat, but inside her own chest. Like something that’d been missing all this time finally kicked on, bringing her just a little bit closer to being real in the way other people were.

“I still do not understand, but I– I– I cannot do this on my own.”

—

Thank you. They were big words, coming from a fae. Emilio didn’t know how to release her from them — that was something he’d never been taught, because why would you want to release a fae without cashing in on the favor they owed you? — but he could make a silent promise to himself never to hold her to it. That thank you would die in whatever pit it sunk into inside of him, where it couldn’t hurt her.

He nodded as she continued, because he got that. Some days, he didn’t think he understood. The world was far more complex than either of them had been taught, but maybe that was all right. Maybe they could find a way to exist in it, anyway. In any case, though, one certainty remained: “You’re not on your own. I’ll watch your back if you’ll let me. Okay?” It was a promise he intended to keep.

“Okay.”

#wickedswriting

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sparrow-the-tired-lesbian · 7 months

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Here's the first half of it :3

Stella Luceat.

The rhythmic beeping of his monitor could be heard throughout the room.

Beep

A reminder of what is soon to happen.

A reminder of my luck.

A reminder of death.

The lights in the dank hospital room buzz. They’re too bright and would give anyone a headache.

I get up from my chair and move it to his bedside to hold his hand for what may be the last time. He and I. It was supposed to be us against the world. Us, against whatever would happen. We had plans, colleges, and lives. But he had to drive. He had to take me to it that night. What ‘it’ is, I may never know, as about 5 miles from the stop, we got T-boned by a drunk driver. Oscar was immediately knocked out. He didn’t feel the pain of the car crushing his left leg. Or the breaking of multiple ribs. Nor the slam of his head hitting the dash.

However, I did. I felt my arm break. I could feel my head slam against the car door. I experienced the pain at seeing the ambulance come and take his limp, cold, bloody, and broken body away. But that body was alive. It was alive, for now.

Oscar now lies upon his hospital bed, surrounded by his family and friends. We are all circled around him. I like to think he’ll make it. He’s more than strong enough to pull through, but I know he won’t. I saw how he looked. He looked dead already…I had thought he was. But these 13 days with him strapped up have done no good. He’s still in pain. He’s going to-

“Addam- “

I look up and I see Ben, staring at me. Ben is Oscar’s twin brother. They have been my best friends for 12 years. The two look so similar. Bright blond hair, green-grey eyes, and tall and lengthy. But Oscar has the height on the both of us. Oscar would always run around us and-

“Addam,” Ben says calmly, pulling me from my thoughts once more. It sounds like he’s talking to a lost child. “It’s time. He needs to leave.”

“No…no he doesn’t. He could make it. He’s pulled through before and he can- “

“Addam. He’s in pain. He hurts. He needs to go. Even if h- Oscar pulled through, do you think he would be okay? Do you think he could live a normal life? Do you wish for him to feel like that? Pain, all day, just because you couldn’t let go.” Ben knows it is not my choice. I know it is not my choice. Oscar is gone. But he’s here, as a shell of himself. He has been gone since the second they hooked him to the tubes and the wires that made the beeping.

The beeping.

I will never forget.

I couldn’t ever forget it.

Sitting at his bedside as the color drains from his face. My eyes traced over him for the last time.

My eyes trace his eyes, which used to light up under the stars. My eyes trace his nose, which he would press to my collarbone as we would dance. My eyes linger on his lips. Oh, how I wish to hear one more word from them. Any word at all. I wish with every ounce of my being for him to say “I love you” once more.

I wish for him to open his eyes, look up at me, and smile. Good lord, that smile lit up rooms. Brighter than every star we ever looked at.

Beep

..Beep

…Beep

…

One last breath, and he’s free. One last long, unending beep. He’s gone. Behind me I hear Oscar’s mother scream out for her son. I look over my lover’s face. All at once, I realize-

He’s gone. He is really, truly, gone.

And the world crashes down around me. The stars fall, the Sun stops shining, and the world turns a murky grey. I gasp and sob out. Dead. Oscar is dead. And there is nothing I can do. Nothing to bring him back.

Tears streak down my face as the families move around me to say goodbye, but I’m too far gone in my own head. The room is spinning, and my body feels like Jello.

Gone is dancing in his room past midnight, where the only noises that could be heard were our quiet laughs and the humming of his voice. Gone are the stakeouts in the woods at our spot, where we would whisper about the stars that night. Gone is chasing one another through the forest and tackling the other down just to lie on our backs talk our futures. Our future…that was no more.

The future that you ruined. The future that you so cruelly stole from him that night he drove you. He shouldn’t be dead, you should be.

What- what is that? Who is that?

I am you. We are us.

Why are you…speaking to me?

Ah, but I am not. You are speaking to yourself. I am merely just a voice that you gave to the thoughts.

“Addam.”

I am quickly pulled from my thoughts. My face is wet and puffy, and the room was still spinning. It wouldn’t surprise me if the Earth would crack open right then and eat me alive.

“Addam, it’s time to go. There’s nothing you can do.”

I look around and realize everyone is gone, sans Ben. His mother must have left. No one had moved Oscar’s cold body from the room, and his hand was still in mine. I wished upon every shooting star I had ever seen that he would wake up and move to kiss right there. He always would kiss away my tears.

Once more I take in the room. The blinding bright white lights still buzzed. The room still was small, and the colors were dull and basic. The bed that my lover had spent his last minutes in still took up most of the room. But there was no beeping.

And yet, I heard it. It was there.

The beep, beep, beep, of his heart. His heart, that was no longer mine.

Ben walks over and rests his hand on my shoulder. He knows the hurt and the pain. He understands, as half of him is gone forever.

“It’s time. You won’t want to be in here when they take his body.” Ben’s voice is comforting, like a warm blanket. It’s keeping me tied to the Earth. If it was gone, I’d surely be sailing through space.

Slowly, and ever so carefully, I rise from the chair. I grasp Oscar’s hand closer to my chest and I commit to memory every line that ran over his body. Every millimeter of him. Then, I lean over him and brush the hair on his forehead away. I press a kiss to his head. I press a kiss to his nose. I press one final kiss to his lips. His cold lips that used to be so full of life. The lips that would have the loveliest words and songs spill from them. I fall into his limp body and hug it close. He smells like himself, but more sterile. Tears pool in my eyes and spill down from my face onto his scratchy hospital gown.

Ben’s hand rests on my shoulder.

It’s time. I know it is. But I can’t leave. He’s still in this room, and I can’t leave him.

“Oscar-“ I hear Ben sob a bit. He’s a mess too. “Oscar is gone, Addam. It’s time to leave.”

Gasping between my sobs comes my reply. “I know…I- I know. I can’t leave him. I can’t. Then he’ll be gone. He’ll be–“

“Addam, he is gone. He’s just…just a corpse now. Lifeless. They’re going to be here soon to take him. We need-“ Ben paused. A few more stray tears left his eyes. “We need to leave.”

Ben knows I cannot handle seeing them take my beloved away. It would break me more. I slowly get up from my chair, gently placing Oscar’s hand back on his bed.

Finally, I pulled away from the hug. Our last hug. Wiping the tears on my face out of the way, I lean down and press one last kiss to Oscar's forehead. Ben's hand is upon my shoulder, and he is pulling me from Oscar. I wouldn't ever leave.

We walk slowly from his bedside to the door; each step feels like the world is being set ablaze. I stop at the door and take hold of the handle. My hand quivers on the handle

Do it, wimp. You are no good to him now.

You killed him.

Your fault.

Your fault!

Sobbing out, I wrenched the door handle open.

Step one. My right foot is out the door. Oscar is still gone.

Step two. My left foot is out of the door. My body follows.

I turn around one more time to see Oscar. He still lies on the hospital bed, in his scratchy hospital gown, under the all-too-bright lights that would give anyone a headache.

I turn around and take another two steps. And then three. Four. Five. The steps continue until I am at the front of the hospital. Turning to face Ben, I realized he was struggling to leave his brother in that room. How it hurt him to take me from that room, because it pained him to leave too.

We both understand how it's different now. How we have both had a piece of ourselves so crudely taken from us. How we are to move on is beyond me.

3 months. 3 long, loud, and wretched months since he left me. At every turn, I imagine him. He is everywhere, he is nowhere. Everything hurts too much without him near, so I tend to lie in bed for most of the time.

It is loud in my mind. At all times. It sounds like me, but it is not. It tells me I am to blame for my beloveds, and I believe it.

Look at what you have done. It speaks to me again. It is never not.

This is your doing. You are why he’s gone. Why must you go, and ruin others’ lives for your own greed? Hm? Why were you so eager to see what he had for you? He would be alive had you just not shown how desperate you were. Desperate for his time.

I roll over on my bed. The voice…the voice is correct. If I hadn’t been so needy, so desperate, Oscar would be alive. Oscar would be beside me and laughing, not dead and underground. The voice is quite good at letting me know this. It always reminds me.

Worthless.

How could he have ever loved you hm? How did he stoop so low just to be with you?

Look at you. You act like this even after realizing it was your fault. Why are you so pathetic?

I know. I know I am. I did this.

It should have been you. It should have been you in that crash. He should have lived, and you should have died. You show no worth to the world, so why stay? They all know it was you that killed him. It was you that allowed him to drive that night.

You’re right. You always are. It’s my fault. I should just end it. Ending it will relieve the others. Then they could move on. Ben and his mother could move on, knowing the murderer of their son was dead.

Yes. This is right. You’re worthless. They won’t care. They won’t miss you. No one will. Let them move on. Let them be free. Let them-

“Addam! Addam, are you there? Addam!!”

I come back to my senses. It’s Ben. Why is he in my room?

“Addam! What’s up dude! Hey, are you okay? You were mumbling to yourself, and it sounded kind of…not great.” Ben said. He sounded concerned. He shouldn’t be concerned.

“I’m fine Ben…thank you for asking.” I’m not fine. He knows that. Ben has been present for enough of the panic attacks and breakdowns to know I am not well.

The beep, beep, beep still echoes in my head. It’s like never ending static. The noise will forever bounce in my head.

“Addam, dude, it looks like you haven’t left your room in years-”

I quickly cut off Ben. “It’s only been a few days, Ben.”

“Whatever, the technicalities don’t matter…Here’s an idea! Why don’t we leave the dark dingey despair room and take a walk! Through the woods! You love the woods!”

You’ll only bother him. Decline

Decline and rot in here. Alone. Like you deserve.

“Err, I am going to have to decline your offer, Ben. I don’t exactly feel up to it…” Hopefully Ben will just leave me here. Here, where I am not a burden.

“It wasn’t a suggestion, Addam,” said Ben. “You need to leave this room dude, or it’s going to start messing with you mentally. That’s not what Osc… he would have wanted is it? He wants you to live Addam.”

It is what he wanted. It’s what you deserve.

“Ben I-“

“Addam. Please, just a small walk through the woods. One small, tiny, walk to clear your head.” Ben was pleading with me now. Why he wanted me from the room confused me.

I sigh out. “…if I go, will you leave me alone?”

A smile spreads on his face. “Great! Er- I guess I’ll meet you downstairs?”

And with that, Ben turned to exit my room. But, before exiting the room, he turned to look at the wall that my desk is on.

Above the desk are a multitude of things. Band posters, constellation identifiers, year-round star maps, and pictures.

Pictures of the three of us growing up, with the earliest one dating to 2 weeks after we met. The most recent was of me kissing Oscar on the cheek, while Ben was in the background, making a goofy face. My favorite ones were from when we were 15. We had gone and slept out in the woods so we could catch a super moon.

I had three pictures from that night.

The first one was of the three of us, roasting hot dogs as the sun was going down around our camping spot. Ben was pulling his burnt hot dog out of the fire and frowning in the back. Oscar off was crying from laughter towards the left in the picture, and I was smiling at the front of the photo.

The next one was of Ben sleeping, as Oscar drew a sharpie moustache on him. Ben would wake up the next morning and be so mad. His sophomore photos had showcased the last bit of sharpie moustache that wouldn’t wash away.

The final one was one of my favorite photos. It was of me and Oscar as we watched the super moon. Ben had woken up and took the photo of us while we embraced and watched the moon.

Ben touched the photo of his brother drawing on him and smiled. He proceeded through the door but stopped again.

“He loved you more than every star he ever saw. He loved you so much Addam, and it would hurt him to see you like this…so please come with me, out of this room. Take a break from the sorrows and live a bit. Breathe in the woods with me, please.” And with that, Ben left.

Leave him. Stay in the room while you’re full of your self-pity.

I don’t listen to it. I need to have some time. And so, I tied up my all-too-long black hair and grabbed the black hoodie that was at the end of my bed.

Taking a deep breath, I put one foot out of the door.

He will change his mind. He will leave.

Another breath. Another foot.

And one more.

Eventually, enough steps to make it down the hall. Then enough to make it down the stairs.

Ben is at the bottom of the stairs. He was waiting. He didn’t leave.

He should have.

Ben breaks the silence. “Are you ready?”

12 / 22

“As I can be.” I said back.

Out the door we went. Immediately, I am hit in the face by the smell of autumn in the air. It caused me to shiver a bit, which made me thankful for my hoodie.

Ben led the two of us to the edge of the woods. Almost immediately, I calmed a bit. Ben looks over his shoulder to see me. He cracks a smile and walks on.

The woods, for quite some time, were a safe place for the three of us. As we grew, it became an escape from the world. Somewhere where nothing nor no one could get to us. The three of us met in the woods. Oscar and Ben were building a small fort together, and I had accidentally stumbled upon them. In the 12 years that have followed, we made that small fort our little secret decompression area; it’s most common use being for when one of us needed a break from the world.

As we walk through the woods, I am reminded of those wonderful times. It doesn’t hurt to think about it. Out here, the voice can’t find me. We walk onwards, stopping occasionally to see things that we did over the years. A tree or two with carved names, a few more with arrows pointing one way or another. A tire swing that Ben’s mother had helped to set up when we were younger. A little pile of branches that we made as young boys around the time we were obsessed with making forts.

13 / 22

At last, we make it to the spot. Our spot. Where we practically lived for years. Our little spot, where nothing was nor could go wrong. Essentially, all time would freeze whilst in our haven.

Ben sat down with a huff on the fallen trunk of the tree that passed through the middle of the spot. That trunk had been subjected to many expeditions, shipwrecks, and blast offs. It saw us grow up.

"So," Ben started. "Are you feeling any better?"

I took that question into account. Am I feeling better? If I was honest with myself, I would say no. But, I do feel a glimmer of joy, something I hadn't felt since he died.

"Yeah, I'm feeling a little better." I say, in hopes that Ben wouldn't worry as much.

"Mhm. And how sure of that are you? How okay are you really?" Ben counters.

"Really Ben," I start. "I'm feeling better. This helped."

I gave him a weak smile to prove my okay-ness. Ben raised an eyebrow...but eventually let me be. We sat there for quite some time until Ben got up to search for something.

"Ben? What are you doing?"

"It's here...it's on this log I know it-"

Ben continued to search along the trunk of the tree until he found it.

"Here! He told me it'd be right here!"

14 / 22

With a sigh, I get down off the trunk and walk to where Ben is hunched over.

There, carved into the trunk of the fallen over tree, is an O+A with a heart carved around it.

Oscar and Addam.

I felt my knees get weak.

Run. Run now. Look at what you have done.

Get out.

Get out now.

I walk back from the tree, careful not to startle Ben. Just far enough so I can-

Run. Now. Go. You did this.

Far enough away now. Run. I ran through the trees, low hanging branches smacking me in the face. My heartbeat speeds up and my breathing got heavy.

What am I running from?

I was dead by paragraph two

“6/10” LIES

10/10!

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