#hands stained with the shards of his heart | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

inkykeiji · 4 months ago

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purge me, purgatory

character: caleb warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, pseudo-cest, noncon that turns into dubcon, a hint of dacryphilia, toxic masculinity, reader is a bit of a brat, size difference, manipulation, praise, caleb can get a little mean, nightmares, toxic relationship, power dynamics, pet names words: 5.3k

notes: i started working on this piece before caleb had even been released and i am SO glad i finally finished editing it. this also wasn’t supposed to be nearly as long as it became but alas, such is my curse (◞‸◟；) please heed the warnings above and stay safe!

You know Caleb has nightmares. You’ve seen the toll they take on him: exhaustion hanging heavy over hunched shoulders, staining sunken eyes with rings of purple, face twisted into a grimace as he collapses in the chair across the table from you, an untouched bowl of apple oatmeal steaming in front of him.

“Another one?” you’d always say, voice so kind and cautious, so wan and worried, bottom lip caught between your teeth muddling the question.

“Yeah,” he’d always respond, dragging a hand down his face as if he’s trying to scrub the fatigue from his features. “But don’t worry about me, pipsqueak. I’m okay.”

You know Caleb has nightmares—but they’ve never been as bad as this one.

Because tonight, it wakes you from your slumber, roused gently from sleep’s embrace by the rough whimpers seeping through the thin drywall separating your bedroom from his.

They sound painful, terrified little noises that keep catching on the uneven hitches of his breath or splintering sharply in his throat, unintelligible pleads sprinkled throughout, too muffled for you to make out the content and chopped up by hiccups.

A dull, dense pang sears through your heart at his yelped out No!, emotion growing thick in your throat and stinging your eyes. Fingers curling in linen, you hug your blanket to your chest, a feeble attempt to quell the ache.

There’s nothing worse than hearing your big brother—your one and only protector, always—in such intense agony.

And it isn’t stopping.

It’s too much to bear, your nose beginning to twitch with the threat of tears, and you kick your legs free from your duvet, bare feet hitting cold hardwood a moment later.

“C-Caleb?” your timid voice soaks into the wood of his bedroom door, followed by a soft rap of knuckles. “Caleb, are you alright?”

You’re met with a deafening silence, so thick you swear you can feel it weighing down on your chest, lungs crushed beneath the force, ears ringing with it.

“Caleb?” you press your ear flush to the door, eyes squeezed shut in concentration—the ruffling of sheets, the quiet groan of a bedspring, and then, a sniffle.

Something cracks in your chest, splits itself open so big and so wide it has you hunching over in pain, shoulders curling inward as if your body is trying to keep from tearing apart, one hand flattened over your sternum, the other gripping the brass doorknob.

Another sniffle and the knob is turning, the door falling open, your body stumbling through the threshold.

Your breathing is laboured, ragged and unevenly shoved from your lungs by a rapidly palpitating heart, a choked version of his name mangling itself in your throat.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, but his voice is thin, weak, fragile, fingertips thumbing aggressively at his eyes, flesh mopping up remnants of teardrops.

It’s a tone of voice that you’ve never heard before, a tone that turns your blood to shards of ice in your veins, a tone that has unease blooming at the base of your spine, crawling up the notches one by one.

Because Caleb has never been afraid before; you’ve never seen Caleb afraid before. Out of the two of you, he’s always been the strong one, the brave one, the ‘I-can-and-I-will-take-on-anything’ one. He’s always been your guardian angel, your watchdog, your shield from all the bad and scary things in the world.

You thought he always would be—it is what he promised, after all.

But right now he looks so small surrounded by a crumpled sea of cotton, tufts of hair clinging to his sweat-drenched temples, muscles tense and rigid, like a predator ready to pounce at the slightest hint of danger.

It has you rushing towards him, falling into his waiting arms—trembling, but safe—and clutching at the collar of his worn t-shirt. Instinctively, your face nuzzles into the crook of his neck, cedar and peppermint streaming down your throat to fill your lungs with him. Your chest swells with his essence, held deep within your core, a natural sedative, your heart beginning to slow.

Home; your big brother will always smell like home.

You allow yourself another moment to steep in his scent before you finally pull back to look at him, hands clasped tightly around his neck, fingers toying with the strands of hair at the nape of his neck—a nervous habit for you, a calming sensation for him.

“What happened?”

“Nightmare,” he chuckles, but the word is shaky. “Pretty standard stuff. Nothin’ to be concerned about, pipsqueak.”

And his facade of nonchalant is good, but it isn’t good enough to fool you.

Frenetic eyes search his face, noting the sheen of cold sweat glazing his skin, the salt that has dried his lashes in thick spikes, the panic swimming in violet irises, concern weighting the corners of your lips.

“Caleb,” you begin slowly, “you woke me up.”

His brow furrows, eyes narrowing slightly.

“I…Did? Has that ever happened before?”

And that’s all it takes, really, to have Caleb switching into his Big Brother Mode, stern and straight to business, the need to know if he’s disrupted your precious sleep before much more important than the terror he was experiencing mere moments ago, as if your comfort matters more than his own.

“No,” your fingers push into his hair and his head dips, a hum vibrating in his chest. “This one was bad. I can tell.”

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, his neck curving more, his forehead nearly bumping against your collarbone.

“I’m worried it’ll come back the moment you close your eyes,” you admit, nails raking along his scalp, a shiver coursing through his body, following your ministrations.

“How many times do I gotta tell you? You don’t need to worry about me.”

And although it’s supposed to be a reprimand, it comes out soft, no heat to his voice as his head follows your touch, tilting to the side and allowing your fingers more room to move.

He has told you, many times before in many different tones, but that doesn’t mean you’ll ever actually listen.

It isn’t your fault; you can’t help how much you care for him.

“Just because I don’t have to, doesn’t mean I won’t,” you huff out, a bite to your voice. “It doesn’t matter how many times you say it; it isn’t going to stop me from caring about you, so you might as well—”

He looks up suddenly, brows knitted and eyes hard.

“Who’s the big brother here, huh?” violet scours your face, his gaze bright and sharp, searching for an answer. “Who’s job is it to take care of who?”

“It is our job to take care of each other,” you say, palms flattening to the sides of his head and inhibiting him from looking away. “It’s a joint effort, Caleb.”

The hinges of his jaw flex beneath your touch, a forceful sigh flaring his nostrils, his shoulders deflating a little in your stark stubbornness. An argument is nipping at the tip of his tongue, desperate to pry past his lips and reassert authority, but his teeth clench, molars grinding together.

“Why don’t I stay with you tonight?” you continue, thumb smoothing out that thick vein in his forehead. “Might make you feel better if you’re not alone—kind of like the way we used to make blanket forts in the living room during really bad thunderstorms.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that—”

“Come on,” you whisper, brushing a strand of damp hair back from his temple. “Let your little sister take care of you for once, yeah?”

“I’m fine—I’ll be fine—”

“You always say I make everything better, so…” you shrug, eyes searching his. “Let me make this better. Please.”

The sincerity straining your voice is potent, so much so that he swears he can feel it surrounding him in a suffocating embrace, soaking into his skin and permeating his muscles with something dense and heavy. It weighs him down, roots him to your aura, immobilizing him physically and mentally, the sweetest poison.

Swallowing, he looks away from your piercing eyes.

“It’s not—”

“Caleb,” you whine out, petulant, his name dripping out stringy and thick through a pout. “What is with this reluctance to allow me to take care of you every once in a while? It’s not fair.”

You sound like a fucking child, and for a moment Caleb is transported back to your shared youth, that telltale pout a lethal weapon he has encountered many times before, that telltale pout a lethal weapon he has yet to find a defence from, an antidote for.

And you, well, you know this—he knows you know this, your infamous brattiness finally making an appearance, usually a foolproof way to get what you want from him, even it if comes with a hefty dose of reprimand.

Your gaze, glassy and hard, is framed by furrowed brows, nose scrunched up in typical distaste.

His stare searches your own, and you hold your expression open for him—so willing, so wanting—his own eyes darkening with something you can’t quite place. A shiver skitters up your spine, but you swallow against the unease, continuing.

“I want to help,” you say. “Please.”

It isn’t right—he doesn’t need your help, shouldn’t need your help, fated to the role of big brother and, by extension, Man of the House; if anything, it should always be him comforting you.

Well, that, and the undeniable fact that having you in such close proximity—so intimate, sharing a bed after a nightmare—is tantalizing, and that makes it dangerous.

But he doesn’t know how to say any of that, how to thread those thoughts into sentences and push them from his disinclined tongue.

Or maybe he just doesn’t want to.

Either way, it doesn’t matter, because in the end you get your way, just like you always do—just like he always lets you.

“Alright,” he finally says, the word nothing more than a defeated huff of breath. “Alright.”

Disappointment sinks hard and heavy in his chest, and Caleb bites his cheek, disgusted with himself. It’s stupid to feel such dismay; he should be used to this by now. Maybe he had hoped that this time, he would be strong enough to deny you. How utterly silly of him to believe he was capable of such a feat.

“Gosh,” you roll your eyes, playfully nudging his nose with your own. “Don’t sound so excited.”

But your amusement is not contagious, Caleb’s expression steadfastly dismal, your smile fading as your brow crinkles in confusion.

“Hush, now,” he says, but his voice is gentle, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead. “You need rest.”

The numbers glowing on his nightstand indicate that yes, you do need rest, you both need rest, and you nod, allowing Caleb to manhandle the two of you beneath his blankets.

The delicate scent of warm toffee and fresh orchid engulf him, one of Caleb’s strong arms curled around your waist, slotting your back up against his chest.

“Sleep,” he instructs, the order rumbling his ribs, his voice low and gruff. “My little protector.”

“Shut up,” you mumble, but your eyes slip shut. “You’ll be thanking me in the morning.”

But Caleb’s not so sure.

Because despite your presence being warm and comforting and full of home, Caleb can’t fucking sleep.

Because you are too fucking close. Abnormally close; inappropriately close, and it’s driving him up the Goddamn wall.

He’s tried everything—first shuffling away a little, just to put a couple inches of space between your bodies; close enough for you to still feel his presence, and for him to still feel yours, but not too close to be considered indecorous.

When that didn’t work, when your body sensed the loss and instinctually sought out his own, Caleb shoved himself so his back was pressed flush to the drywall—as far as he could possibly get without physically removing himself from the bed entirely—but that didn’t help, either.

Because you’re like a little magnet, attracted to his body heat, burrowing through wrinkled sheets to glue yourself to his form as if it is natural, normal, entirely intuitive.

Even in sleep, you’re greedy.

Caleb supposes he’s even worse.

Caleb could, realistically, turn away from you—present you with his sculpted back and protect his front from your unconscious attacks; or leave the bed entirely, opting to sleep on the too-small, too-scratchy sofa in the living room downstairs so he doesn’t have to worry about hands with minds of their owns—hands desperate to touch and grope and mark, hands that can’t keep to themselves. Caleb could wake you up and firmly insist that you go back to your own bed, exercising his Big Brother Authority and overruling any and all of your rebuttals and arguments—but he doesn’t, because he can’t.

Because he’s fucking weak, weak to his own wicked whims, a slave to his sins, drowning in his own desire. It’s too good of an opportunity to give up, his deepest, darkest indulgences presented to him on a platinum platter, crafted by the devil himself. And Caleb isn’t strong enough to resist it’s enticing allure, ironclad willpower melted to sticky silver in the heat of your body, seeping from your flesh into his, poisoning his blood and his brain.

That’s what you do to him; you eat up his logic and spit it back out, mangled and gross, you consume his highly prized self respect and military-grade discipline and reduce him to something desperate and degenerate.

And eventually, finally, his worst nightmare comes true.

It’s stifling in his bed, the fabric of his t-shirt damp with sweat—yours, his, does it matter?—and plastered to his body. His tongue has turned to sand in his mouth, dry and grating and heavy. Swallowing does nothing to alleviate the discomfort, the action rough and sticky, the gummy walls of his throat sticking together with the motion.

Water would be nice, but there’s no way for Caleb to slip from your embrace—a thigh thrown over his hip, a palm pressed to his sternum—without ruining your peaceful slumber.

And you do look oh-so-peaceful; so serene, so ethereal, so fucking breathtaking that it’d be a crime to spoil such a sight.

Moonbeams stream through the window, painting you in strokes of translucent silver. It catches on the beads of sweat adorning your neck, dewdrops that glitter with the steady throb of your jugular, and Caleb feels saliva begin to flood the underside of his tongue, thick and slimy.

Sweat has water in it, doesn’t it?

It happens before he even has a chance to think it through, a primal desire his body knew needed to be met, tongue unfurling from its cavern slow and sick to trace along that jagged pulse.

Your neck arches into his taste, offering him more—such a good little sister, you are—and he takes, a slave to temptation, tongue flattening against your flesh and licking one long, wide stripe from the notch of your collarbone to the hinge of your jaw.

It’s delicious, better than anything he could’ve ever imagined, and Caleb laps at you again, harder this time, rougher this time.

Your essence, salty sweat and bitter perfume, explodes on his tastebuds, and something rattles, roars to life, deep within his chest. It ignites a hunger within him that cannot be sated— dark, desirous, depraved as it claws at his sternum, no matter how much he takes, it always wants more, his desperate attempt to feed it only working to make it more voracious.

It awakens the monster rooted at the core of his soul, a sordid creature borne of something illicit and sinister and wrong many years ago. It sparks the ever-simmering addiction kindling in his rotten, charred heart—a craving that flares higher, burns brighter with every passing second, leaving him intoxicated and stupid, drunk on your aura.

If he doesn’t cut it out he’s going to lick your skin raw—how many licks to get to your sugary sweet center?—your saccharine sweat staining his tongue.

His mouth latches over your collarbone and sucks, tongue swirling around the knob as his teeth scrape, nipping superficially. Tiny tangles of capillaries snap beneath the force, violet flooding the tissues beneath the thin barrier of skin—and oh, how sweet your blood must taste, how shameful to have it trapped beneath your flesh.

A soft moan vibrates in your throat as Caleb seals the mark with another heavy lave, pressing a singular kiss to the rapidly developing bruise. Pulling back slightly, violet eyes sweep across the mess he’s made of your flesh, fleeting marks that will fade much too quickly for his liking.

A callused thumb ghosts over the bloom, an involuntary whimper catching in his throat.

“So pretty,” he breathes to himself, caressing the mark again.

A delicate shiver quivers through your flesh, procured by his airy words, and Caleb coos, tongue washing over your skin again in a crude caress, his hot breath cool against the glaze of saliva he’s painted in its wake.

“Y’like that?” he whispers, the question barely more than a wisp wafting over your soaked skin. “Y’want me to do it again?”

You answer with the softest mewl and a groan rumbles his ribcage, his hips snuggling between your spread thighs, a dainty wheeze pressed from your chest as his weight bears down on you.

His tongue lolls out from between his teeth, thick strings of drool dripping off the tip to drizzle along your neck, sopped up a mere moment later as the slick muscle rolls along your flesh, following the scrape of his front teeth.

Another gentle tremble ripples through your form—such precious responses to your big brother’s mouth!—and he runs his teeth along the curve of your throat again, revelling in how such simple actions can pull such gorgeous reactions from you, entirely subconscious.

That must mean you like it, right? Such responses clearly connote your enjoyment, don’t they? You ought to know, on some subconscious level, that it is your big brother doing this—that it is Caleb’s lips and Caleb’s tongue and Caleb’s spit, that it is Caleb that you are reacting to.

It’s impossible to quell the slow gyrating of his hips as he feasts on your flesh, aching cock grinding against your thigh in messy little circles, fully hard and tenting flannel. He can feel the small pool of pre-cum steadily garnishing the slit, leaking through his PJ pants to leave shimmering smears of his perverted pleasure along the silky skin of your inner thigh.

He’s getting greedy—he knows he is, but he just can’t seem to restrain himself, your essence too alluring to resist; a compulsion, uncontrollable and unquenchable.

He should stop before you wake to your big brother gnawing at your neck and humping your thigh; really, that’s what any good, decent big brother would do. Your rest is important, after all.

He should do a lot of things.

But he doesn’t, because he can’t.

Or maybe he just doesn’t want to.

The sensations are overwhelming; something he’s spent several years denying himself, something he’s spent several years dreaming about—it doesn’t count if it’s just in his head, right?—and he finds himself drowning in it, embraced in the ecstasy.

“God, fuck,” he whimpers, curse cracking in his throat. “You feel so—so good.”

Forehead pressed into the crown of your head, his breath is sweltering and damp along your hairline, rough little moans spilling from his lips with each rut of his pelvis.

“Y’so perfect for me, letting me use you like this,” he manages to gasp out, eyes squeezed shut, imagining how stunning you must look in the throes of pleasure; dazed eyes glazed with lust and rolling back in your skull, lips licked raw and mouth dropped open as the sweetest symphony plays on your tongue, spine bowing off his mattress as pure rapture climbs the notched vertebrae.

Oh, what he’d give to see such a sight, just once.

He wishes he could trick himself into thinking that a singular instance of experiencing such beauty would be enough to keep him from committing such a heinous act of indecency ever again, but he knows that isn’t true.

Because already he wants more, gluttonous for your body, yearning to be buried in the warmth of your sweet little cunt; and he’s barely taken anything at all yet. Caleb can’t imagine what sort of creature this monster would evolve into under such circumstances. Too much is never enough.

Caleb sure as hell can’t trick himself into believing such nonsense, but he sure as hell can trick you.

He doesn’t realize you’ve awoken until he hears your tiny voice, muffled by his chest, fingers pressing into his tensing abs.

“Cae—Caleb?” his hips stutter at the sudden sound—so quiet, so scared—his cock twitching against your leg. “What are you doing?”

“Shh,” he hushes you, body sliding down yours so he can search your face, so you can see the sincerity, the desperation, shining in his gaze, his cock pressed hot and hard against your core. “Just—” his hips roll once, a groan catching in his throat as his shaft is enveloped by your swollen lips, so easy to feel through the flimsy fabric of your pyjama shorts. “—Enjoy it.”

“Wh-What?”

“Come on, just this once.”

“Caleb,” you begin, and the fear in your voice, tinged with a sick sort of curiosity, has another moan clawing at the back of his tongue, hips rolling into yours slow and purposeful. “This isn’t right…”

“No one has to know,” he slurs out, nuzzling his cheek against your temple in a crude form of comfort. “We keep so many secrets—what’s one more?”

“No, Caleb—” your hands furl into fists, pushing into lean muscle, and a dark, decadent sound of amusement drips from Caleb’s lips. Oh, how pathetically precious the you think you could ever shove him off.

But your squirming is beginning to annoy him, that telltale aggression building in his chest—an anger only you seem to evoke, especially when you’re being uncooperative—and he snarls, pulling back a little to fix you with an unimpressed look, his hips pinning you to his bed.

“Tell me it doesn’t feel good,” he glares at you, his words a cross between a growl and a whine, and it’s hard to tell if it’s a demand or a plead. “Go on, fucking tell me. Say ‘it doesn’t feel good, Caleb. Your cock doesn’t feel good, Caleb’. Come on.”

Your lids clamp shut in the face of his intense, invasive stare, tears blossoming along the seam of your lashes, a pitiful squeak catching in your throat as your head shakes.

“No? Why not?” A hand wreathes itself around your jaw, blunt nails biting into your cheeks, the pain causing your eyes to spring open. “Is it because you can’t?”

The question has that same taunting tone he’s used since you were kids—that infuriatingly blasé I’m-better-than-you cadence, the one that proclaims that you’re stupid and he’s superior, that he always wins—and a fierce flame of determination ignites within your ribs, eyes hardened and teeth barred.

“It—It doesn’t feel—Oh, oh, Cae—”

And you’re trying, trying so desperately to force those words from your tongue, to spit them from your lips and devour the smugness glinting in his eyes, but then he’s moving again, the slick head of his cock rubbing over your clit in precise movements—back and forth, back and forth.

That isn’t fair, but when has Caleb ever played fair, really?

He’s got you completely trapped beneath his body now, his knees digging into the mattress as he shifts his weight, forcing your thighs open wider.

“What was that? I didn’t quite catch it.”

“I—It’s not—It doesn’t—” A mewl of frustration slices your sentence, chased by a groan of defeat.

“C’mon, angel, spit it out already if it doesn’t feel good.”

Squinting in the face of his mocking stare, you steel yourself, throat rippling with a thick swallow of resolve.

“We shouldn’t—” The sentence splinters with a whine, your words pulled taught between virtue and desire.

Tears cloud your eyes, rendering Caleb nothing more than a shimmering blur, and you blink rapidly in an attempt to clear them, tiny droplets caught by your lashes.

“You’re a terrible liar, y’know that?” he breathes, the question damp on the shell of your ear. “I can feel how turned on you are, silly little girl.”

His hips rock forward once in accentuation, the movement slow and purposeful, as if to prove a point. His clothed cock glides over your drenched cunt with ease and the head strokes your swollen clit again, another torrent of heat rushing to the apex of your thighs.

“And you know what this tells me?” his voice drops to a whisper. “It tells me you like it.”

Pins of humiliation erupt across your cheeks, tingling heat flooding your face. A soft sob stutters your chest, head shaking in weak denial—a denial that you like it, or simply a denial that this isn’t moral, neither of you can be sure.

“Besides, don’t you wanna take my mind off that stupid nightmare?” His voice drops an octave, deep and devious, chills skittering across your skin. “This—” he rolls his hips once in emphasis, “this will help.”

“Cae…”

And he can hear it; can hear the internal struggle reflected in your voice, a tug-of-war between the need to please and the obligation to do what’s right.

“Come on, be a good little sister for me—you said you wanted to make me feel better, right? This will make me feel better. This will make me forget all about it.”

This will bring him to the crest of bliss, the closest to Heaven he’s sure he’ll ever get.

“I…I don’t—”

“Why can’t you just enjoy it with me, huh?” Caleb murmurs, dragging the words along your jaw then planting a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Give in to it. Just this once.”

It doesn’t take much coaxing before you’re nodding into his neck, body gone slack beneath his own; you’ve always been so easy for him, so eager to obey even with venom in your mouth and fire in your eyes. Caleb supposes that’s just a big brother’s influence.

Because no matter how much you retaliate, how much you taunt and tease him, you have always wanted to be his good little girl. Praise from Caleb is sacred, precious, and rarely doled out. It must be savoured, protected, cherished.

And so you allow your big brother to find comfort in you, in the warmth of your body, in the melody of your moans, praying that this short-lived ecstasy will be enough to cleanse his mind of its nightmares.

“There’s my good girl,” he hums, pleasant and triumphant, the reverence sealed with a chaste kiss to the edge of your hairline.

Then he’s pulling away and sitting back on his heels, an arrogant little smirk materializing on his lips at the discontented whine that sounds at the back of your throat. Violet stares down at you with such passion it nearly burns, his callused palms pushing your knees open wider, following the V of your thighs until finally, finally, he reaches the apex.

“Fucking Christ.”

Drenched silk outlines the contours of your cunt—No undies, huh? How naughty—and Caleb reaches out, tracing the shape, pointer finger ghosting over every bump and dip and curve.

“Gorgeous,” he breathes to himself, gaze hungry and unblinking, enchanted by your body—enraptured by your arousal, captivated by your reactions; the way every graze of his fingertip sends a delicate wave of pleasure tremoring through your flesh; the way his touch makes your lashes dither, unsure if they want to stay open or snap shut. “Let me see it.”

Potent lust leaves his voice husky, and while his sentence is a statement, it comes out as a plead—desperate, desirous.

Vying fingers pull your sleep shorts aside to reveal your glistening cunt, a whine vibrating deep in the back of his throat. Chest heaving with yearning, his trance stays unbroken, his mouth parted and his tongue pulsing with each of his heavy breaths.

For a moment everything is still, silent, Caleb revelling in the radiance of your body.

Then something snaps, the final thread of thin resistance broken, and he’s surging forward, teeth catching on your upper lip as his mouth collides with yours, procuring the prettiest little yelp to crack in your chest. He swallows it down greedily, tongue breaking through the barriers of lips and teeth to lavish your mouth in his spit.

His hips are moving again, shoved snug between your spread thighs, sharp hipbones carving bruises into supple flesh. Each forceful roll of his pelvis has his cockhead catching on your hole—so close, so close—a vicious shudder coursing through his form.

And he can feel it, he can feel your cunt through the thin flannel of his pyjamas—teasing him, taunting him, tempting him, each gentle contraction begging for him to stuff it full—another groan rattling from his mouth into yours.

It’s all simultaneously too much and not enough, the soft breaths of his name exhaled hot and heavy onto his waiting tongue and the eager fluttering of your cunt desperate to suck him in and the nails scrabbling at the back his neck and—and Caleb feels like he’s going to burst out of his fucking skin, flesh starting to split at the seams, if he doesn’t get more, now.

He’s hardly aware of what he’s doing, moving on pure instinct as a hand snakes between your bodies and paws at the waistband of his pants, the heel of his palm pushing it down just enough to free his aching cock.

A faint Caleb, no, wait! tugs at the back of his consciousness, blotted out by sheer lust as his palm wraps around the base of his cock, head bumping purposefully against your hole.

The cry that shatters in your throat as he shoves himself into your cunt is nothing short of gorgeous, his own responding whine straining his throat. One quick, hard thrust to bury himself to the hilt is all it takes before his cock is throbbing, filling you with copious amounts of cum—so much, too much, and Christ, when has he ever cum like this?

It’s so intense that it has his whole body tensing, pleasure whiting his vision and wiping his mind and all he can smell, feel, taste is you, you, you—toffee and orchid shooting straight to his brain, your body knotted with his, hips rocking up in desperate little movements as you try to fuck yourself on his spent cock, your sounds of pleasure sweet on his tongue and he licks into your mouth, starved for more.

“Caleb, Caleb, Caleb!”

“M’here, baby,” he slurs against your mouth, rubbing his lips into yours. “M’here, come on, make a mess for me.”

He isn’t even sure you cum—something he’ll berate himself for in the morning—but in the moment it doesn’t even matter, his brain so poisoned by the pleasure that it’s turned to a pulsating mush, intoxication flooding his veins as he submerges himself in you. His hips stutter as his cock twitches with those last few ribbons of cream, almost as if he’s trying to fuck his seed deeper into you, before his trembling muscles finally give out, Caleb collapsing on top of you.

“God,” he gasps out, lips moving against the crown of your head. “Th-Thank you.”

The gratitude is punctuated by a kiss to your hair, his breath hot and erratic on your scalp.

“Thank you,” he says again, a singular arm twined around your waist as he manhandles you both onto your sides, your body cradled close to his chest.

And for the first time in a long time, Caleb falls into a peaceful sleep.

#caleb x reader #caleb x you #caleb x y/n #caleb smut #caleb lnds smut #lads smut #lads x reader #tw pseudocest #tw toxic relationship #inky.caleb

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iris-qt · 2 months ago

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What I Cannot Say

knight!theo | medieval au ⚔︎

The castle slumbers.

Rain patters softly against the high, stained-glass windows, and the candle at your desk burns low, its golden flame dancing across your ink-stained fingers. You shouldn’t still be here. The other court scribes have long since vanished, and even the guards are trading shifts beneath their breath.

But the scrolls before you whisper like old friends, records of ancient treaties, old languages curling across parchment like spells.

You don’t notice the door open.

Not until the floorboard creaks... the one you keep meaning to fix.

Your quill stills.

You look up, heart skipping.

He stands there, silent in the threshold, half-draped in shadow. Rain beads across the black leather of his shoulder guards, his hair damp, curling at the edges. A dark cloak slung across one shoulder. A blade at his hip.

Ser Theodore Nott.

He shouldn't be here. Not at this hour. Not in the library. Not with you.

“My lord,” you say softly, standing too quickly. You nearly knock over the candle.

He doesn’t blink. His gaze, sharp and unreadable, scans the room before returning to you.

“I was told you kept the original texts from the House of Gwael,” he says, voice quiet. Clipped. As if it costs him something to ask. “I need to read them.”

You swallow. “Of course.”

You bend to retrieve the scrolls, your fingers trembling. Not because you’re frightened. You’re not. It’s just—

He’s taller than you remembered. And even in the flickering candlelight, he’s beautiful in the way statues are beautiful: cold and eternal and utterly untouchable.

You hand him the scroll.

His fingers brush yours.

A mistake, probably. He’s wearing gloves, and yet the contact makes your breath catch anyway.

Theo notices. You can feel it... not in any expression (his face stays unreadable as ever), but in the slow, precise way he unrolls the scroll, eyes flickering toward you only once.

“I didn’t think knights cared for language,” you murmur, half to yourself.

He glances up. His voice is low and sure.

“I care for many things people assume I don’t.”

You don’t know how to respond to that, so you return to your seat, unsure whether to keep reading or flee to your chambers and scream into your pillow. The candle gutters. He stays.

Minutes pass. The only sounds are rain, your turning pages, and the soft scratch of his gauntlet against parchment. Then, quietly:

“Why do you work so late?”

You look up.

Theodore’s gaze is trained on the page, but his question lingers in the air, warm and unexpected.

You blink. “No one notices me here.”

At that, his eyes lift. Hold yours.

“I do.”

Your heart thuds. Loud enough that surely even a knight can hear it.

“I’ve noticed,” he says, more gently now. “You’re always the last to leave. Even in the cold. Even when your hands shake.”

You flush, throat tight.

“I like the quiet.”

He hums. “So do I.”

A long pause. A soft flicker of lightning. His hand drifts, without thinking, to the hilt of his sword, the motion absentminded, protective.

You wonder if he’s always like this, or just with you.

Theo rolls the scroll back up and sets it down but doesn’t leave. Not yet.

Instead, he says softly, “You read poetry, don’t you?”

You nod, uncertain.

“I remembered a line, once,” he says, still not looking at you. “When I was bleeding. I thought I would die. But it came back to me anyway. Something about stars. And the way some people carry light inside them.”

You stare.

He finally meets your gaze.

“I thought of you.”

And just like that, the room feels smaller. Warmer. Brighter.

Like a candle that refuses to go out.

...

The next time you find it, it’s tucked between the pages of your copy of Herbal Magicks of the Olden Kingdoms.

A shard of dragon glass. Real. Cool to the touch, with a small crest engraved at its center: not from your kingdom. Foreign. Ancient. Pinned beside it: a note. Neatly folded.

Your name is written in an impossibly tidy hand. You open it.

For the scholar who outshines the sun with her questions. This was taken from the ruins of Aelwyn, where the old queens studied spellfire and starlore. I thought of you when I saw it. —T.N.

Your breath catches.

He thinks of you. In battle. In ruins. In other kingdoms.

You clutch the note to your chest and spend a full five minutes pacing the length of the library trying not to combust.

You don’t get the chance to thank him. Not yet.

Because the court session that day is… a mess.

You’re summoned to bring the translated treaty notes, normal work, but the nobles are restless. They gossip, drunk on mead and power, casting eyes at the quiet scribe who dares sit in council.

And then Lord Durran (slimy, bored, and old) speaks up.

"Tell me, girl," he sneers, loud enough to echo. “When did scribes begin thinking themselves courtiers? Or are you simply warming Lord Nott’s lap in exchange for coin?”

The hall freezes. You do, too. Until the scrape of a chair. A deliberate step.

Theodore Nott doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. But when he moves, the entire chamber listens.

“I suggest,” he says coldly, “you keep my name off your tongue unless you’re prepared to swallow your teeth.”

Gasps ripple. Durran flushes, paling. No one challenges Ser Theodore. Not even fools.

He doesn’t look at the others. Only at you.

And then, in the shadows of the halls outside the courtroom, he walks over and places another small item in your palm.

It’s a pendant this time. Worn. Engraved with a script only three historians in the realm could read.

“I thought you might translate it,” he murmurs, quiet enough just for you.

And with that, he turns. Walks away. Cloak swirling. Sword gleaming. You remain frozen, your heart racing. It says something that you don’t even open the pendant until much later. You just stand there, cheeks burning, wondering how it’s possible for someone so silent to make this much noise inside your chest.

...

It takes you three days to crack it.

Not because you’re slow, gods no. You’re the only person in the castle who can read High Eltheric, a long-dead language that looks like poetry and spells had a lovechild.

But you hesitate.

You hold the pendant beneath your pillow, beneath your breath, fingers tracing the etched lines like they’ll whisper something before your mind dares translate it. Every time you try to begin, you think of Theo’s eyes on you. The way he placed it in your hand. Like it meant something. Like you mean something.

Finally, on the third night, rain against your windows, firelight low, you set the pendant beside your ink pot, take a steadying breath, and begin.

Word by word, the meaning unravels:

To the one whose mind is a thousand burning stars I offer what little heart I have. If you ever wish to claim it.

Your quill drops.

Your breath hitches.

You read it again. And again. And again.

It doesn’t change.

He gave you a coded love confession. In a dead language. That only you could read.

What kind of maddening, infuriating, devastatingly romantic knight—

You sit back in your chair, staring at the pendant like it might burst into flames. Because now you know. Now you see it. The pattern of his gifts. The books. The relics. The looks that lingered too long and the way he always stood between you and danger, like a silent shadow forged of steel and longing.

You bite your lip.

And you smile.

Because you realize: he thinks you haven’t noticed.

A/N: obsessed with this au | ty to @kiaxika and tagging @ladyblablabla

#theodore nott #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott fluff #theodore nott imagine #theodore nott one shot #theodore nott x you #slytherin boys

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lieslab · 22 days ago

Text

War of hearts

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Minho X gn reader

Summary: An argument with your boyfriend leads to you trying to prove a point.

Genre: Angst

Word Count: 2.1k

A/N: I'm back to writing requests and Minho is so black cat coded and this request felt like a great way to show that off. Thank you for requesting it, requestee <3

_ _ _

“This is all your fault,” Minho mumbled from the driver’s seat. Beside you, he crossed his arms over his chest and glared into the distance.

“My fault? This is my fault? Maybe if you wouldn’t have driven over a pile of glass in the middle of the street and went around it, we wouldn’t be sitting here stuck.”

“And maybe you should have put back my spare tire after you hijacked the one I had.”

“Fuck off!” You snapped angrily. “Is it too much to want to spend time with you? You’ve been so busy, all I wanted was one date with my-”

“And what kind of date is a movie? When we sit there at the screen, ignoring each other, pretending we’re enjoying our time together when we’re not? You’re bullshiting yourself.”

He leaned over to look at you. “If you would have waited until this weekend, I would have taken you out properly. Not to some stupid cheesy romance movie. I could have taken you out to dinner and we would have had a decent time together, but you’re about as stubborn as a goddamn mule.”

Your fists curled and your nostrils flared. Your blood boiled and in that moment, you hated him. You hated Minho and his perpetual need for razor-sharp truths. The arrogance that rolled off him in acidic waves when he grew angry.

You didn’t know how glass scattered all over the road, but you knew a piece embedded itself in one of the front tires. An angry hiss filled the air and he heard it because his window was down. He pulled over along the side of the road to find his tire slowly deflating. A sharp shard, covered in dust and grime, protruded from the tire.

At first, he considered patching the hole, but then he realized he didn’t have his tire patching kit. He gave it to Changbin when he hit a nail coming into the company’s parking lot. He headed around to the trunk to find a spare, but the empty space mocked him. Too swept up in life, you hadn’t replaced the spare. Your own car suffered from a flat two weeks ago. You replaced it, but you’d forgotten to replace the spare in the back of his car.

It sat at home, back behind the house, hidden away against the far wall of the garage. You planned on getting to it, but you hadn’t. Both of you were following your own career paths. It remained forgotten about and when you did remember, Minho had his car out and about. A never ending cycle that happened to catch up with you today.

So the both of you sat stuck in the car. An empty field to your left and your right. Craving something new, you wanted to go to the theater in another town. It sounded good, but now you were stuck here. Minho called a company to tow the vehicle, but they said it could be a while before someone arrived.

To make it worse, wind pushed gray misery-stained clouds above your heads. Your phone vibrated with a notification five minutes ago. A thunderstorm swept your way and the two of you were trapped in the middle of nowhere. You wanted to call someone to come get the two of you, but Minho refused.

Too stubborn and upset, he sat there glaring at everything, like the empty fields with tangled weed patches that pulsed with fine lines of dirt. Freshly plowed, they awaited a new batch of seeds and another growing season from farmers’ calloused hands. The rolling skies, hung with spring humidity, and scented with an approaching ozone.

He even glared at you and that hurt the worst. Too stressed and frustrated, sometimes he lashed out. He didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, but he couldn’t manage the whirlpool of his own. They built up and spiraled, raining down on both of you, and soaking you with misery. In the eye of his own storm, he didn’t know how to stop.

He never meant the words, but they came out and cracked through the atmosphere. Your physical feelings, they became an afterthought more than anything. You sat here, letting his words soak your brain, causing you to feel worse.

At first, it was a lingering hurt and a brush of sadness. His hand balled into a fist and slammed into the car horn. A sharp thud and brief beep. You flinched, sucking in a sharp breath. Hot tears built behind your eyes and then you swallowed the lump in your throat.

“I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I didn’t put the stupid fucking tire back, but I’m not sorry for wanting to watch a stupid cheesy romantic film with my boyfriend. I wanted to watch it with you because I hoped it’d remind you of what we’re supposed to have. So if that makes me a terrible and awful person then-”

“Are you seriously making yourself the victim in this scenario?”

“Go to hell, Minho.”

“If that means I’m away from you and your childish tantrum, then it will be my pleasure.”

You reached over, grabbed your car handle, and shoved the door open. You didn’t look to see if there was traffic, you just acted. Impulsive. Reckless. Foolish. Minho called after you, but you slammed the door, cutting off his words.

Your phone sat in the back of your jeans. Dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, you started to walk back from the direction you came. Minho watched you from the rearview mirror of his car and huffed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He shoved his door open and stuck his head from the car. “Where the hell are you going? Get back here!”

“I’m going home!”

“You’re going to be soaked and catch a cold.”

“I don’t care.” You kept walking, not bothering to turn towards him.

“So you’re walking away? What is this? Your way of breaking up with me?”

“Sure. Happily. Consider this my good-bye.” You reached behind you and flashed him the middle finger.

“You are such a brat.”

“And you’re an asshole.”

“You know what? Fine. Fine! You want to act childish? Go ahead. Have fun walking home. Don’t bother coming back into the car.” He jerked open the door, shoved himself inside, and slammed it shut so hard, it rattled the vehicle.

Grumbles filled the interior. He glared at the sky once more, cursing the slow tow-truck. He flipped off the pile of glass on the opposite side of the road. Despite his anger, he kept an eye on your wavering form in his rearview mirror.

He was right about one thing, you were stubborn as a mule.

~ ~ ~

You lost track of your trek. One foot in front of another. One step and then another and then another and then another. Icy rain fell from the gates of heaven at some point. It restricted your view and left you feeling like a disoriented victim of waterboarding.

Could a person drown while walking through the rain? Ice soaked your skin. It slipped down your bare arms. Your t-shirt clung to your torso. By the time you made it home, you’d barely be able to free yourself from the jeans.

You walked and walked and walked. Along that barren road, the fields ended a distance ago. How far had you walked? One mile? Five? You didn’t know anything, but the distant roar of thunder and the occasional flash of lightning from the corner of your eye. The further you went, the more you wished you would have shut up and stayed in Minho’s car.

The leather padded seats with the seat warmers. You could have played a game on your phone, or fell asleep while you waited. He would have cooled off and apologized. Things would have gotten better. Neither of you got into fights all the time, but when they happened, they were nasty.

He probably blew up your phone in your back pocket. You weren’t going to answer it. Would your phone die in the rain? Was there service here? Empty sprouts of faded yellow grass. Someone either forgot to fertilize, the soil was bad, or the grass had been soaked in something that killed its growth. Regardless, puke yellow wasn’t a great color to look at while you shivered from rain.

Your fingers shook and your teeth chattered. Droopy eyes and a tipped head. You hadn’t seen a car since you left him. Nobody passed by, so nobody stopped to ask you if you were okay. You shivered uncontrollably, quivering, trying to keep your organs warm. Why did cold rain do that? It chilled you to the bone.

Occasionally, a foot nearly slipped out from beneath you. Soaked grass and the sopping wet bottoms of your rubber soles didn’t help. Wind picked up and your eyes squeezed shut. The direction of the downpour changed and flicked to the side. You jerked to the side, trying to hide your face from the unforgiving water. It soaked the side of your head instead.

Beneath the roar of the untethered storm, a humming engine. You pulled back from the road, hoping the driver could see through frantic windshield wipes. You were a good distance away from the road, so hopefully, they wouldn’t hit you. With a sniffle, you stepped back further.

An engine idled and a window rolled. “Get in the car, you idiot. You’re soaked and working on catching a cold.”

“Leave me alone, Minho. I’m fine. I’m going home. I’ll get there at some point.”

“There are flood warnings and the wind is supposed to increase. Get in the car, so we can go home. Don’t make me get out of this car and come get you.”

“I thought the car was getting towed.”

“The guy had a patch kit, so I asked him if he could patch it instead.”

You sniffled and wiped at your face. It didn’t do anything, besides smear more water all over you. Turned away from his car, you still hadn’t faced him. He called your name and you hesitated, but finally spun around. Your eyes sat teary and red.

“Come on,” his voice softened, “come back so you can get warm.”

Your head tipped in defeat and you finally nodded. He pressed the unlock button and the doors clicked open. You headed around to the passenger’s seat and climbed inside. He didn’t lecture you for getting rain water everywhere.

“I’m sorry,” he finally spoke after a few moments of silence. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you for something so stupid. I know I haven’t been the best significant other lately.”

You stayed silent, blinking rapidly, and staring out the window. Freezing cold, your bottom lip trembled, partly because you were trying not to cry, and because you felt miserable. Your sass-filled ego had taken a nosedive as well. You were nearly twenty minutes from home by car, walking home would have taken forever.

The gear shift moved and Minho turned the wheel. You both rode in silence until he broke it again. “When we get home, do you want to order takeout? We can get food and watch one of those romance movies from a streaming service.”

“We don’t have to.”

“I want to. I want to make up for being so…”

“Dickish?”

“Dickish, yeah. I don’t want to break up with you. I’ve never wanted to break up with you. I’ve been having a horrible time lately, but I see that I need to manage it better. You shouldn’t have felt that you had to walk alone in a thunderstorm.”

“I don’t want to break up with you either. I should be apologiz-”

“Don’t do that. Calling me names was valid. I deserved that.” His fingers gripped tighter around the wheel. He flicked the turn signal and let out a sigh. “I deserve far more than that, honestly, but I’m glad I found you.”

“If I go home and dry off, can we cuddle?”

He glanced over, letting his eyes catch yours. “Is that what you want?”

“I mean, you don’t have to if you’re not feeling up to it.”

“When was the last time we held each other?”

You shrugged, unsure of the answer.

“Okay, but if you try to tickle me, I’m going to bite you.”

A small smile quipped up from the side of your lips. “I’m not going to tickle you. Not tonight, I don’t think I have it in me.” You reached a hand for his empty one, wanting to hold it.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

He let his fingers slip through yours, relishing in the coolness of your palm, silently thanking the universe that the rain washed away your temporary anger and he didn’t have to hog-tie you to get you back home.

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

Taglist: @lia-linny @seungnishi @stellasays45 @emilyywhyy @rockstarkkami @flightlessackerman @inlovewithstraykids @velvetmoonlght @chrizrizz @ari-hwanggg @m-325 @justcallmewhatyoulike

Masterlist

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#stray kids #stray kids fanfic #stray kids drabbles #skz fanfic #skz imagines #skz scenarios #lee know #lee minho #lee know fanfic #lee know x reader #lee know x you #lee know x y/n #lee know angst #lee minho angst

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evilgwrl · 9 months ago

Note

What abt 141xpregnant!reader (or not pregnant, ur choice, I dont mind!!) And someone gets into their house and reader is all alone so she calls the boys while they're out (somewhere idk)

can be angst or fluff <3

Thank you for this idea, I hope I did it justice for you anon <3

CW: Threats of violence (not against reader), break ins, fluff

You stared at yourself in the glossy reflection, soaked rag scented with the unmistakable smell of cleaning spray dabbing at the final fingerprint, a satisfied grin on your face. You hobbled to the kitchen, ankles slightly swollen as a hand rubbed against the plushness of your belly, a gentle kick answering you back.

You felt content. You were six months pregnant and surrounded by four incredibly devoted men (who were currently running all the errands you could no longer do). Gentle feet padded against the wooden floorboards, your back humming with a subtle ache as you groaned, your body flopping down against your comfiest pillow.

Wispy lashes fell over curled lids, the zip of a fan hushing you to sleep. You awoke to rustling, your window cracked open for fresh air.

“Stupid foxes,” you muttered, rolling towards the window to shoo the pesky creatures away from your vegetables. Your heart halted, however, face a pasty shade of terror as you watched a figure, much larger than a fox, break the glass to your back door, the stone floor of your patio humming against the shards of crystal.

Pesky fingers reached for your phone, a monotone strain coming from your throat as you phoned for Price, eyes now a glassy bowl of unshed tears.

“Hey love, you ok?” The normally comforting tone only spurred your anxiety as you choked out a sob, an instant call of your name blasting through the speakers of the phone.

“There’s someone inside the house,” you choked out, your voice a mere whisper as you huddled in the corner, fingers twisting the lock on your bedroom door.

“Call Gaz in the meantime; we’ll be home in 10 minutes.”

You were a whimpering mess, swollen body trembling in your ensuite as Gaz attempted to calm you down, telling you the police were on the way. There was a commotion downstairs, kitchenware clattering as you presumed, he was rummaging around. Timber creaked under a lead foot, stairs straining under the man's weight as he stomped upstairs.

“Kyle, he’s upstairs,” you trembled, your throat constricted with a coil of anxiety as your limbs tremored, a protective hand strung across the swell of your belly. The Sergeant’s voice brought you no comfort as you heard the door to the nursery swing open, the squeak of a baby toy rattling against the wood. Your gut was burning, tender hands clutching against the marble counter in a motion to hold yourself up, your knees locking up as you clattered to the floor.

Price’s hands were stained permanent ivory, his knuckles protruding from broken skin as he pulled down your street, head beams flickering at the cars before calloused tyres screeched down a turning lane, the bulky SUV swerving into the driveway. Simon had rummaged through the glovebox on the first ring of your call, massive frame bouldering out of the unparked car as his keys twitched in the door, the steady frame of Soap in toe.

Rough fingers wrapped around carbon steel, silent footsteps thrumming against wallpaper as you shifted in the bathroom, gentle sobs wracking through your body.

You were unaware of what was going on outside your bedroom, the faint sounds of a man’s voice, unrecognisable through the thickness of the walls only spurring anxiety shrill of terror through you.

You knew they would never let anything happen to you, but what if something happened to them in the process? Sure, they were trained for combat but that doesn’t make you invincible.

You clutched your stomach, humming to yourself in an attempt to calm down.

Simon was livid, they all were. The house you had built for them all years ago was now tainted. A place you should be safe in was no longer available.

Soap’s voice was sharp as he entered the nursery, enjoying the twisted satisfaction of watching the intruder still as the safety of the gun unlocked.

“You make a f’cking movement and I’ll put a bullet in ye head, ye hear me?”

There was a slow nod from the man as Ghost entered, slamming him against the wall with a crash, his hands tied behind his back as he lunged him down the stairs. There was a faint echo of sirens in the distance as you sheltered yourself, still unsure of what was happening.

There was a rattle against the door, a soft voice calling out to you.

“It’s just me, love. Open the door.”

The doorknob felt crumbly under your touch, fingers barely able to twist it. Price’s body was warm as he engulfed your shaking figure, wet cheeks staining his shirt in a soppy mess. Thick hands grabbed at the plush of your thighs, lifting you with ease into burly arms, the tickle of his moustache against your ears as he lolled a soft apology to you.

“Shouldn’t ‘ave left you alone dove, feel like I failed you.”

The captain’s heart was bleak, an ephemeral feeling of guilt worn on his shoulder before you nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck, soggy lips placing a feathery kiss upon the worn skin.

“It’s not your fault, John. Could’ve happened to anyone on our street.”

The night was slow, Gaz consoling the police as Soap and Price comforted you, tending to your every need as Ghost stood outside, dark eyes glaring into the back of the police van at the man. You assured them you were okay, delicate hands rubbing your belly as you cooed, your heart finally returning to its normal bpm.

Once the blaring of red and blue lights simmered to a halt, and Ghost had run out to get a replacement door (otherwise, he wouldn’t have slept from keeping guard all night), you could fully relax. Your body was flush against the comfort of your L-shaped couch and Simon’s calloused back, fingers running through the roots of your hair.

Your eyes succumbed to temporary slumber at the touch, scalp tingling from the simplicity of gentle tugs. You were carried to bed, arms balled at the soft cotton of Soap’s shirt you had stolen. You nestled quickly into the comfort of your bed, lashes flat against your cheeks.

They all watched you, hands folded as they watched the rise of your chest, a flutter of breath leaving your lips every time it fell.

“Beautiful, ain’t she?” Price mumbled, cerulean eyes lapping in the mere sight of you, a proud glow comforting him knowing you were theirs.

“Damn right,” Ghost grunted.

There was a creak against the floorboards as your eyes opened, your voice delicate with sleep, “Will you guys stay tonight? All of you? Please.”

“Shoot us in the head if we ever say no to anything you say,” Soap uttered, a gentle slap whacking around his head from Simon as Kyle leaned into the bed, heavy hands immediately wrapping around your swell belly.

The night ended with whispers of affirmation and one happy girl.

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theosang3ls · 3 months ago

Text

Why do you care?

part one; part two; part three

pairing: Theodore Nott x Female!Reader

Warnings: mentions of break up, smoking, mentions of consumption of alcohol, fluff (i think?), cheating.

summary: Theodore was always distant, reserved and cold, not just with you but with everyone, so when he comforts you at the Astronomy Tower you feel like you get the chance to explore a more vulnerable, more human side of him.

A/N: this is a bit short but I really liked how Theo showed a softer side of him. English is not my first language! Enjoy Lovelies!

��°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Your arms barely held up the weight of your head, trembling under the burden of your grief as tears cascaded down, staining the cold stone floor of the Astronomy Tower. Each ragged breath felt like shards of glass scraping against your throat, each sob a raw, involuntary

Your arms cradled your heavy, dizzy head as tears etched silent trails down your face, darkening the ancient stone floor of the astronomy tower. Each tremor of your body, each shuddering sob, was a raw outpouring of heartbreak—a painful replay of the scene that had shattered your world. The flashbacks from the scene before you replayed in your mind in a taunting matter, reminding you of the love you lost; your soon-to-be-ex boyfriend pinning a mysterious girl against the cool stone wall of the Ravenclaw common room, the party still raging around them.

The image seared into your memory: him, not just kissing, but hungrily consuming her in a way that mirrored the passionate kisses he reserved for you—only this time, it was her, not you.

Every detail burned itself into your consciousness. You fled in a desperate, heartbroken sprint, burdened by an avalanche of shame and betrayal. In that agonizing moment, the realization struck with brutal clarity: you had been nothing more than a fleeting amusement, a mere jest in his twisted game. The questions crashed over you—did you ever truly matter? Had his affection for you been a cruel illusion? These thoughts would haunt you indefinitely, gnawing at the remnants of your shattered self-worth.

As your anguished cries filled the silent gaps between your sobs, your body shook uncontrollably. Your lips, trembling and raw, echoed the fury and despair of your soul, while your eyes burned fiercely from the torrents of unrelenting tears.

Eventually, the physical pain of crying subsided, leaving you numb and exposed. In the stillness that followed, the creak of wooden steps echoed through the tower—a harsh reminder that, even in your most vulnerable state, you were not alone in your suffering. The mere thought of someone witnessing your devastation—puffy eyes, disheveled hair, and makeup smeared like the remnants of a battle—sent a fresh wave of humiliation crashing over you.

You barely had the energy to lift your head. Your body felt hollow, like something vital had been scooped out of you and left behind in that suffocating common room, along with your dignity, your trust—your heart. But the sound of slow, measured footsteps against the stone forced you to glance up, your breath catching in your throat.

Theodore Nott.

Of all people.

Why him?

You never spoke much, never exchanged more than fleeting glances in the library, polite nods in the common room. He was distant, untouchable, a figure carved from ice and shadows, too indifferent to be part of your world. And yet—he was here.

Standing at the top of the stairs, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight, Theo’s sharp gaze flickered over you, taking in the wreckage you had become. His eyes lingered on the way your arms wrapped around yourself, like you were physically trying to keep from unraveling, on the tear-streaked devastation painted across your face.

You braced yourself for a scoff, a sneer, the usual sharp-edged indifference. But it never came.

Instead, he exhaled—soft, measured—and stepped forward. His hands slipped into the pockets of his robes, his expression unreadable, as if he was weighing his options. Stay. Leave. Pretend he never saw you like this.

Then, in a voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it over the dull, agonizing ringing in your ears, he asked,

“Who was it?”

Your stomach twisted violently. Did he already know? Did it even matter?

You swallowed, but the lump in your throat refused to go down. “Doesn’t matter,” you croaked, barely above a whisper. It hurt to speak. It hurt to breathe.

Theo didn’t react right away. He just watched you, his gaze dark and calculating in a way that made your chest tighten. Then, slowly—cautiously—he moved again, stepping closer like he was approaching something fragile, something that might shatter if he wasn’t careful.

And maybe that’s exactly what you were.

He crouched down in front of you, and for the first time since he arrived, the mask of indifference slipped—just enough for you to catch a glimpse of something unexpected. Concern.

“You look awful,” he murmured. But there was no mockery in it, no teasing. Just blunt honesty, spoken so softly it nearly undid you.

A weak, broken laugh escaped you. “Yeah, well… I feel worse.”

The silence stretched between you, thick with something unspoken. You were waiting for him to leave. Because that’s what people did, wasn’t it? They left. They always left.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Theo exhaled through his nose and reached into his pocket. A moment later, something soft was pressed into your trembling fingers.

A handkerchief.

You stared at it, at him. The gesture was so unexpected, so strangely intimate that your breath stuttered in your chest.

“You—”

“Just take it,” he muttered, his gaze flickering away, as if the act of kindness itself embarrassed him. “Your face is a mess.”

Something inside you cracked.

No one had come looking for you. No one had cared enough to check if you were okay. But Theo had. And he didn’t just see you—he stayed.

Your fingers curled around the fabric, gripping it tightly as another tear slipped down your cheek. Before you could wipe it away, Theo sighed. And then—without thinking—he reached forward, his touch featherlight as his thumb brushed against your skin, wiping it away himself.

It was barely there. A fleeting, delicate moment. But his hand was warm.

Steady.

Real.

Theodore didn’t move away after wiping your tear. Instead, he let out a slow breath, shifting his weight before lowering himself onto the cold stone floor in front of you. He leaned back against the railing, long legs stretched out, his posture lazy—too lazy, like he was trying to seem unaffected by the way you were falling apart right in front of him.

You watched as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. The soft click of his lighter echoed in the empty space between you, and for a brief moment, the flickering flame illuminated the sharp angles of his face—the defined cheekbones, the slightly furrowed brow, the lips parted just enough to take in a slow drag.

He exhaled, the smoke curling around him before dissolving into the cold night air. The scent of it—earthy, bitter—drifted toward you, oddly grounding, though it shouldn’t have been.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Theo made no move to ask what was wrong, didn’t press for an explanation. He just sat there, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only movement besides the occasional flick of ash from his cigarette. It should’ve been uncomfortable, the silence. But it wasn’t. It was a relief.

“You smoke?” you murmured, your voice barely more than a whisper, raw from crying. Theo flicked his gaze toward you, raising a brow slightly before taking another slow drag. “Occasionally.” You watched the way his fingers curled around the cigarette, the way his lips parted to exhale another stream of smoke. He made it look effortless, like something he did purely out of habit, not addiction. “Helps with the noise,” he added after a moment. You frowned. “What noise?” He tapped a single, long finger against his temple before looking away. “The kind that doesn’t shut up.” Something about the way he said it, so casually yet so weighted, made your chest tighten. “You?” he asked, flicking ash onto the stone floor. You shook your head. “Never tried.” “Probably for the best.” His voice was quiet, but not condescending. Just matter-of-fact.

Another pause. Then, without looking at you, he asked, “Do I get to know what happened, or am I supposed to guess?”

Your throat tightened. Did you want to say it out loud? Would that make it more real?

Theo didn’t rush you. He just waited, his cigarette burning down between his fingers, his expression unreadable.

Finally, you exhaled shakily. “He cheated on me.”

The words felt like glass, sharp and cutting, even as they left your mouth.

His cigarette remained poised between his fingers, unmoving, as if even he needed a second to process the weight of what you had just said. Then, slowly, he brought it to his lips, inhaling deeply before exhaling a cloud of smoke that dissipated into the night.

“Bastard,” he muttered, his tone flat, but the edge beneath it was unmistakable. A bitter, humorless laugh escaped you. “Yeah.” Silence settled between you again, thick and suffocating. You wrapped your arms around yourself, nails digging into your sleeves as if you could hold yourself together long enough to make it through the night.

“Do you still want him?” Theo asked suddenly. You flinched, your fingers clenching. The answer should’ve been easy.

No, of course not. I’m not that pathetic.

But the truth was murkier, tangled in the ache in your chest, in the echo of the betrayal still fresh in your mind. “No,” you admitted, but your voice wavered. “But it hurts.” Theo nodded slowly, as if he understood something you didn’t. “It will,” he said, his voice quieter this time. “For a while.” You swallowed against the lump in your throat, your hands twisting the fabric of the handkerchief he had given you.

“I feel like an idiot,” you choked out, your voice barely holding together. “You’re not.” his response was immediate, not allowing this thought to unravel more in your mind. You flinched at the certainty in his tone, your breath hitching as you finally forced yourself to meet his gaze. His eyes—usually cold, distant—were anything but indifferent now. There was no pity in them, no empty reassurances. Just something solid, something unwavering. “You trusted someone,” he said, slow and deliberate, like he needed you to believe it. “That doesn’t make you stupid. It makes him a fucking fool.”

A sharp breath left your lips, something fragile cracking open inside your chest. You searched his face, half-expecting to find the usual detachment lurking beneath his words—but it wasn’t there. Not tonight. “Thank you,” you whispered, the words unsteady, like they might break apart if you spoke them too loud. It felt too small, too inadequate for what he’d just given you, but it was all you had.

His expression didn’t shift, but something in his eyes flickered—just for a second. You had spent so long memorizing the way he kept himself walled off, how carefully he measured his words, his presence, his warmth. But now… now there was no distance between you. No armor. Just him. Just this.

His fingers twitched at his side, like he was fighting some instinct to reach for you. Instead, he exhaled, slow and controlled, before saying, “You don’t have to thank me.” A pause. Then, softer, like it wasn’t meant to be spoken aloud, “You didn’t deserve that.”

Something heavy settled between you, something unsaid but undeniable.

The words hit harder than you expected. Your boyfriend’s touch was still burned into your skin, his betrayal still playing on an agonizing loop in your mind—his hands, his lips, his urgency, all for her, not you. And here you were, falling apart, while he was probably still at that party, laughing, drinking, touching someone else like you don't mean a damn thing to him. Your breath shuddered, a fresh wave of pain surging up your throat. But this time, something else was there too. Theo’s words, grounding you, anchoring you.

He didn’t tell you to move on. He didn’t tell you it would be okay. He just sat there, looking at you like you mattered. Like you were worth more than the way you were breaking. You wiped at your face again, the handkerchief damp with your tears.

“Why are you being nice to me?”

Theo stilled.

For the first time that night, he hesitated. His jaw tightened slightly, his fingers curling into his palm before he exhaled sharply, almost as if annoyed with himself. “Dunno,” he muttered, his gaze flickering to yours, something unreadable behind it. “Maybe I just don’t like seeing you like this.” you looked up at him, you were slightly shocked at the words coming out of his mouth. Theo had always been distant, unreadable, sharp edges and cold indifference. But right now, sitting in the dim light of the Astronomy Tower, his sharp edges seemed softer.

Your chest rose and fell unevenly, each breath shaky, as if your body wasn’t sure whether to cry again or collapse under the weight of it all. The cold stone beneath you bit through your robes, but it was nothing compared to the cold spreading in your chest, the hollow ache left behind by what you had just witnessed.

Theo watched you for a moment longer, his gaze unreadable. Then, with another sigh, he leaned his head back against the stone railing, eyes flickering up toward the night sky. “You should hate him,” he said, almost lazily, but there was a sharpness beneath the indifference. Your fingers clenched the handkerchief tighter. “I do.” It wasn’t a lie. You hated him for what he did, for throwing everything away so easily, for making you feel so small. But beneath the anger, the betrayal, the heartbreak—there was still love, twisted and broken, but love nonetheless. And that was the part that hurt the most.

Theo hummed as if he didn’t quite believe you. “Good,” he muttered, exhaling slowly. “Because if you went back to him, I’d have to kill him myself.” Your head snapped up, startled. He wasn’t looking at you, still staring up at the stars as if the words he just mouthed weren’t something sharp and violent, as if they didn’t leave a strange warmth curling in your stomach.

“That’s a bit… extreme, don’t you think?” you murmured, your voice hoarse but laced with something close to amusement.

Theo shrugged, finally glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “Not really.” Something about the way he said it sent a shiver down your spine. He wasn’t joking. Maybe he wouldn’t actually kill him, but he meant it. If your ex walked up here right now, Theo would have no hesitation in making him regret it.

Why?

The thought sent a fresh wave of confusion through your already-overwhelmed mind. “You’re acting like you care,” you muttered, turning your gaze back to the floor, tracing the cracks in the stone with your tired eyes. “You never even talk to me.”

Theo didn’t answer right away. You expected him to brush it off, maybe throw some sarcastic remark back at you, something to keep his distance intact. But when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter.

“I notice things,” he said simply.

You frowned, looking up at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Another slow inhale of smoke, another exhale. “It means I’ve seen you,” he said, finally looking at you fully, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp. “I’ve seen the way you hold yourself together even when people don’t notice you breaking. I’ve seen the way you laugh at your friends’ jokes even when your eyes don’t match. And I sure as hell saw the way you ran out of that party like you couldn’t breathe.”

Your stomach twisted painfully.

He had seen you.

You thought you had been alone in your heartbreak, thought no one had noticed the way you fled from the party, shattered and humiliated, choking on the betrayal. But Theo had. And now, sitting here, offering you quiet comfort in the way only he could, you realized he had been paying attention this whole time.

“I don’t know why I came up here,” he admitted, his voice low, almost hesitant. “But I did. And I’m not leaving unless you want me to.” and with those words for a few moments the world stopped spinning, as simple as it was as a phrase, it held a lot of weight, it was a form of confession you couldn’t completely grasp.

Theodore Nott, cold and distant and unreadable, had come here for you. And in a world that suddenly felt unbearable, he was giving you a choice, a sense of control when everything else had crumbled beneath your feet.

𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

A/N: should I make this a slow burn series????

!Reblogs and Likes are highly appreciated¡

masterlist

…until next time lovelies💋

#theodore nott x reader #theodore nott #theo nott #slytherin boys #harry potter #slytherin #fluff #hogwarts #blaise zabini #draco malfoy #lorenzo berkshire #mattheo riddle #written by ria

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crusty-chronicles · 6 months ago

Note

If you write smut for Sebastian and the airheaded reader, My life is yours.

Smut Week: Day Three

Devour

NSFW: MDNI

Warnings: Dub con, oral sex, cunnilingus, doggy style, unprotected sex, cum eating, overstimulation, Sebastian being a demon, afab reader

The sound of glass shattering was never a good one. Especially when it was accompanied by one of your ��oops’. A shame May-Rin was sick today. At least then there was still half a chance everything wasn't broken. Maybe he should’ve told you to work on the garden with Finny.

There was a resounding ‘boom’ from outside.

No, Sebastian had made the right choice.

He let out a drained sigh before making his way towards you. As he rounded the corner, he could see you frantically try to pick up what you dropped. Crimson steadily leaking from your palms.

Your pain tolerance was higher than most humans. It makes him smile to see you continue on like nothing's happened. To ignore the vast amount of cuts on your hands.

He's next to you within seconds, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapping one of your hands. Making sure to apply pressure in order to stop the bleeding. The white fabric being stained with splotches of red.

“Did you break another glass, pet?” He questions.

His tone is cooing as you stare up at him. He begins to tend to your other hand, watching a pout make its way to your face.

“I told you I wasn't good with anything fragile,” you reminded.

“It would seem everything is fragile when it comes to you.” He muttered under his breath.

You and your brutish strength.

“Perhaps you should busy yourself elsewhere. We wouldn't want the young lord blowing a fuse, now would we? Why don't you tire out the dog?” He suggested.

Immediately your eyes lit up. Giving the demonic butler a smooch on his cheek before running off.

“Ohhhh Pluto!!!!!” You called out.

He doesn't understand you and your brother’s connection to that mutt. Scratch that, he doesn't like your connection to that mangy beast. Especially when it takes on a more human appearance.

However, he can't afford to dwell on that now. There's a mess that needs cleaning. The broken shards you'd left behind. He picks up a piece and inspects it.

He can smell your blood. The sweet metallic aroma infiltrates his senses. A scent that's marked with his. All thanks to the sigil over your heart. It takes everything in him not to hunt you down and sink his teeth in.

You've left him wanting and you don't even know it.

Your soul calls to him in a way that others don't. It's pure. So very sweet thanks to your naivety. It's a beacon of light compared to his master’s. But it's also strong. Pumped full of your determination and need to persevere.

It's…Delectable.

It has him yearning for the feast. When he inevitably bores of you and devours your soul. He'd have his meal, and in a few centuries he'd have his desert too.

He discards the mess you made into the bin. Catching a glimpse of you outside from the window. You and Finny were laughing while you played fetch with Pluto. The two of you tossing a tree back and forth as the demon hound tried to catch it.

Sebastian doesn't mind your closeness with Finny. But he doesn't exactly like it either. It means he has to earn the gardener’s respect when courting you. A pesky human custom.

If he had it his way, he'd have already swept you away to his nest. Where you'd remain for all eternity until he's had his fill of your antics.

He wonders then, if your soul would darken seeing your loved ones wither away. How you'd feel being frozen in time whilst those around you changed with age. Watching until they were nothing but dust.

Would it become tainted by grief seeing your brother’s lifetime pass by before your very eyes?

Would it weep with sorrow?

Would it brim with fire and hatred when the young Lord's contract was up? Witnessing him scream in agony whilst his soul was ripped from its mortal flesh.

Or would you be none the wiser?

He would expect nothing less from you. You precious naive fool. No matter. Whether your soul remained sweet with ignorance or steadily darkened with anguish, he'd enjoy his meal all the same.

For now, there are other ways to satisfy his hunger.

—----------------------

It was a long while before he got you alone. The end of the day in fact. When both yours and his duties had been completed. Such a shame, he was hoping to ravish you sooner. Oh well, he supposed he would just have to make due.

He enters your shared room, courtesy of the young lord. You turned around and beamed up at him. You're so cute he could just devour you whole. Like a dog whose master has just arrived home.

“Getting settled in for bed?” He asked.

You nod, still in today's uniform. A clean set of clothes in your hands.

“I was just about to change. I'm all dirtied up from earlier. Maybe even take a shower.” You informed before making your way towards the bathroom.

You're stopped just before you reach the door, feeling Sebastian's presence from behind you. There's a flash of white from your peripherals. Before you realize what's happening, your breasts are enveloped by a searing warmth.

He holds your chest firmly, squeezing the pliable flesh between his fingers. He gauges your reaction. And when there's nothing besides shock, he grins. It's become one of his most favorite games as of late. Seeing how far he can push boundaries before you catch on to what he wants. Or before you give in to your own desires.

“My sweet pet, it seems your uniform has grown tight on you. Hardly the appropriate look for a Phantomhive servant.” He tuts disapprovingly.

You turn your head up at him, catching his dark gaze. None the wiser yet to his true intentions.

“Really? I think it fits just fine,” you brush off.

“Will you allow me to inspect further?”

How he enjoyed this game of cat and mouse. Your naivety made it all the more enjoyable. And like the moth to the flame, you'd agreed without a second thought.

“I don't see why not.”

He turns you around in his grasp, carefully unbuttoning the front of your uniform. He reveals your bodice that laid underneath first. And layer by layer he exposes you. The sight of your bare skin finally greeting him. His eyes can't help but glow seeing the sigil over your heart.

Such a good pet you were being for him.

He gropes you once more. The only thing separating him from your bare flesh are his gloves. They'd be gone soon enough. You lean forward on him, arms resting on his shoulders while he continued to toy with your soft skin. He can see your face heat up. Unsure about the sensations he's giving you.

“Your bust seems to have grown a few centimeters.” He noted.

“Has it?” You questioned.

It's getting harder and harder for you to focus on his voice. A feeling of want starting to course through you.

“Why don't I just make sure?”

Without warning, he sinks down on his knees in front of you. Eyeing your breast with a certain hunger. He takes one of your nipples into his mouth and sucks. The feeling has you letting out a noise of surprise. Arousal beginning to pool in your stomach.

“S-Sebastian!”

He pays no mind to your cries. Running his tongue over the perky bud and taking in your skin's taste. It hardens in his mouth while his hand kneads the flesh of your other breast. He can smell your slick from his place on the ground. He knows then that he's won. The dots finally connecting in your brain.

“Oh! Is this-Do you want to-!” You gasp out, gently bringing a hand to tangle in his hair.

He gives an approving hum against your skin. Releasing your nipple from his mouth before attaching to the other one. You were much quicker than the previous time. Last time he had to place your hand against his hardened cock for you to get it. Seems you were getting better at understanding his cues.

He pulls away completely at the feeling of your fingers tightening against his scalp. You'd hurt him if you weren't careful. As if. Your expression is flustered when it meets his. Truly you were an adorable little thing.

“My dearest pet, will you allow me to bed you.” His eyes burn a bright shade of fuchsia, beckoning you to say yes.

The word is barely a whisper under your breath, but that's all he needs. His fingers quickly looping under your bottoms and tugging them down. You step out of the rest of your uniform, leaving you in only your underwear.

Sebastian can smell you fully now. The sweet scent your slick gives out. He thinks he'll start there first. He'll prepare you nice and slow for him. Get you worked up until the only thing you know is his name.

“Lay down for me.” He orders.

There's something about the way you respond so obediently to him. Getting on your mattress and slightly spreading your legs. Perhaps it's being able to hold power over another after being reduced to nothing but a servant. Or maybe it's just the way you submit to him. Your strength and reliance going out the window with a mere look from him.

He relishes it all the same.

Your eyes staring wide at him while he undresses. The way your pupils seemed to dilate when he took off his coat. There's a certain innocence despite having done this before. It's refreshing.

He unbuttons his vest before moving on to his dress shirt, the crisp white distorting on his frame. He knows his appearance is one desired by women and men alike. Lecherous stares followed him everywhere he went. Yet you always looked at him differently. As if he were an equal. Nothing less.

It's one of the many reasons you're so entertaining. Especially when you self-consciously cross your legs at the sight of him pulling his gloves off with his teeth. He wants to chastise you for getting shy on him now, just to fluster you impossibly more.

On his left hand is his master's sigil, on his right is yours. He uses both to engage in this act of sin. Unbuckling his belt and pulling his trousers down. With his aching shaft free, he crawls towards you on the bed.

He places his hands on your thighs and slowly pulls them apart. A notable wet splotch in the middle of your underwear. He thinks he'll have his meal right now.

“May I?” He asked. His fingers looping under the thin fabric.

“Please,” you responded.

Oh how cute. You were begging for him. Well since you'd asked so nicely~

He rips the flimsy fabric off of you, tossing your legs over his shoulders and diving in. He laps at your sweet hole first. Letting your juices cover his tongue entirely. Your taste is absolutely divine.

He hears you cry out at the sudden stimulation. Your hands once again finding their way to his hair. You could push and pull to your heart’s desire, but he wasn't stopping until he got what he wanted.

Feeling like you were slick enough, he stretches you open with two fingers. Redirecting his attention to your clit. He laps on the sensitive nub with fervor, giving a harsh suck when you let out a moan.

His fingers work in tandem. Thrusting in and out at a steady pace. Every now and then curving up into that spongy spot inside you. A noise of satisfaction escapes him when your hips raise to chase after his digits.

Such a needy thing you were. Grinding against his fingers to seek out more friction. He feels you start to clench around them. Your cries rising in pitch as you gave his scalp a tug.

He wants you to cum on his tongue. He wants to taste you in full. Your sweetness that was only for him. He lets you continue to ride his fingers, crooking them up to repeatedly hit your sweet spot. Not a second later, you're cumming on his face.

He eagerly removes his fingers and cleans them with his tongue. He wouldn't be wasting a drop of his hard-earned meal. He pulls you closer by your hips when he's done. His tongue darting out to finish the rest of your release.

“W-wait! I'm sensitive!” You plead, arching your body away from him.

He parts from you briefly, watching as you squirm from under his gaze.

“My dear, the night has barely begun. I suggest you find a little of that endurance you have in battle. I don't plan on finishing with you anytime soon.” His voice is stern, as if lecturing you.

He quickly dives back in to finish cleaning you. This time, lapping a little more softly to soothe the waves of overstimulation. Humans are fragile in every sense of the word.

He lifts himself up when he's satisfied. Eyeing you with a look that only spells out danger. Such a shame you couldn't see it.

“Be a good pet and get on your knees for me.” Sebastian coos, cupping your cheek and lightly slapping at it.

Wordlessly, you do as he asks. Turning over and resting your hands and knees on the bed. The sight of your glistening cunt makes him feral. Displayed so prettily for him.

He'll have to make you take the day off from tomorrow. He doubts you'll be able to walk when he's done with you. But then again, you were always full of surprises.

He lines himself up to your entrance. Rubbing the tip of his shaft against your hole to tease you. And when he hears the hitch in your breath, he pushes in.

He doesn't bother stretching you inch by inch. He knows you can take everything he gives you without complaint. You always do. Still, he lets out a hiss feeling your cunt envelop his cock. Your walls wrapping tight around him.

He didn't usually take pleasure in these sorts of things. Using his body as a means to gain information in some cases. But you- you made it worth his while. Thinking in that dull little head of yours he was making love to you.

Fool. Demons didn't have hearts. They could not love…That doesn't mean he won't indulge in your innocent fantasy.

He leans his body over yours until his chest touches your back. Wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you near while he thrusted into you. His pace unrelenting.

You can practically feel him in your stomach. The way his cock makes a place for itself inside you. Stretching you out deliciously before disappearing. You can't help but want to chase after the feeling of being completely stuffed. For him to stay snug inside you.

If anybody were to see you now, you'd be dubbed a harlot. Sleeping with a man who was not your spouse. Shunned from society for engaging in such a promiscuous act.

And it makes you tighten around him. Moaning filthy into the pillows while he fucks you into the mattress. A coil starting to form in your stomach.

Maybe you understand now why he's so desired. You'd admit Sebastian was beautiful. But you were never tripping over your feet for him. Turning into a stuttery mess in his presence. No, you were not with him for his appearance, and you don't think you'd ever be.

But now you just might be with him for his cock.

You can feel his pace stutter. His arm tightening around you. You can even hear him let out a few soft grunts. He was close. You both were. The coil in your stomach wound with tension.

Then you feel it. Sebastian moving his mouth right over your pulse before biting down. The pain mixing with pleasure was enough to send you towards the edge. Clenching and spasming around him as you came.

A white hot pleasure overtakes you, making you blank out. Sebastian keeps moving inside you in an attempt to chase his own high. Feeling his cock throbbing and pulling out before he has a chance to finish inside. He cums on your back, sticky ropes of white staining your skin. Marked so nicely for him.

He can taste your blood on his tongue. Watching as you collapsed on the bed. The crimson on his taste buds makes him want more. Your dazed out state lets him know of what.

He flips you onto your back, ignoring your protests about laying in his seed. The candlelight flickers into nothingness. A telltale sign of what he's about to do.

Sebastian lets himself become bare in every sense of the word. He wants to know. He craves seeing your reaction to his true form. The way your debauched expression would surely turn into one of fear.

He wants to push the furthest he can. To test the utmost limits of your sanity. He wants to frighten you. Show you exactly what you're messing with. A lowly demon.

You stare up at the figure of darkness above you in shock. Black wings unfurling to cage you in. And despite the hunger, the unmasked malintent in his eyes, you can't help but think he's beautiful. This monster who had presented himself as otherwise.

“What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghoul.” His voice is deep and mocking.

It feels like it's rumbling off the walls. You've never heard anything like it. Nothing quite as…foreboding. But you've always been one to ignore warning signs.

“Have you always been so pretty Sebastian?”

It's said with so much honesty that it gives him pause. Your eyes had been filled with wonder instead of fear. The grin he gives you then spells out nothing but danger.

He won't ever let you go now. Not until his very being ceased to exist. And even then he'd find a way to drag you into damnation with him. He's going to keep you as long as he can.

“I'll devour you whole if you keep talking like that. My precious sweetling. Let's see if you'll be able to keep up with me.” He warns before hooking your legs over his shoulder and sliding in once more.

—---------------------------------

An: Me seeing Book of Atlantis’ Sebastian’s collarbones: I'm no better than a man 😞😞😞

Also, I got this request when I was halfway through with the Hiei smut. Brilliant minds think alike 😈😈😈

#black butler x reader #black butler x y/n #kuroshitsuji #black butler #kuroshitsuji x reader #sebastian x reader #sebastian michaelis x reader #sebastian x y/n #sebastian michaelis #x reader #sebastian smut

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ohproserpine · 1 year ago

Text

for valentine's day, i thought i'd buy a gun.

synopsis: you make your husband mad on purpose tags: fem! reader, married couple, blood&injuries, demi alastor, suggestive/steamy, just a short kinda bad drabble to break my writer's block, ooc-ish alastor, soft alastor at first, vox mentioned don't like? don't interact.

"Cher!"

Alastor greeted you with a smile, his lips curved into a charming yet slightly crooked grin that softened the rugged edges of his appearance.

Leaning against the door frame, he looked every bit the rogue hunter returning from a hunt. His once-neat attire bore tears, burns, and scratches, with both knees of his pants ripped and scuffed thin. His monocle hung loosely on his chest, the glass broken and shards glinting in the light. Tousled strands of crimson hair fell haphazardly across his forehead, framing his rugged features, while a trickle of blood from the cut on his lips dripped down his chin, staining his deathly pale skin.

"Christ!" You jolted off the hotel bed, propelled into action by concern, your heart racing with worry. You began running around, collecting towels, extra clothes, and a first aid kit in a frantic rush.

Alastor moved into the room and stood in the very center, observing your frenzied activity with an amused smirk.

Finally, with all your materials in hand, you rushed to your husband's side, your footsteps echoing against the cold carpet.

"What happened to you?" you asked, filled with concern as you assessed his injuries, your eyes scanning his form for any more signs of distress.

"Just a little scuffle on the hunt, my doe," he replied with a cheer in his tone, spinning his staff in his hand. "Came across a feisty, moronic beast. But nothing I couldn't handle."

"A scuffle?" Disbelief colored your voice as you got on your tiptoes, straining to reach up and dab at the blood on his chin with a damp towel.

Alastor grinned down at you, his eyes tracing your features with tenderness. Always such a pretty view, but seeing you so domestic and sweet for him made him begin to feel hot below the collar. Leaning down, he reached out to sweep a stray strand of hair from your eyes, his long, sharp claws grazing against your skin.

"That can wait," his voice crackled with low static as he pulled you flush against him, chest against chest. "I've missed you dearly."

“Good heavens, Alastor, you’re insatiable,” you chided him playfully with a swat, though the warmth in your tone betrayed your affection. Your fingers lightly brushed against the rough fabric of his torn shirt as you urged him to let you continue tending to his injuries. "Let me fix you up first."

Alastor's ears twitched back as he rolled his eyes at you, but his grip remained firm as he pulled you closer and closer until you were practically dragged towards the bed, falling into his lap with a gentle thud.

"Love," you began to protest, but before you could continue, he silenced you with a deep kiss pressed upon your lips, a low chuckle vibrating against your own, melting any further protest.

He drew back briefly, only to dive back in, his lips tracing a delicate path along your neck. With a familiarity born of passion, his hands roamed, each touch igniting a cascade of sensations that threatened to consume you both.

"Al," you whimpered, unable to resist the intoxicating allure of his touch. As his lips began to trail up your jawline, you found yourself melting into his arms, the tension of the earlier encounter gradually dissipating in the heat of the moment.

He let out a dark chuckle, the sound echoing in the room, as he threw off his ruined coat and loosened the tie around his neck. Gripping onto your hips with a firm hold, he all but threw you off his lap and onto the bed.

The smug bastard. He knew all too well that his affections could smooth over any trouble he found himself in.

"Alastor," you murmured, your senses cutting through the haze of desire, "We really should attend to your wounds first."

Alastor began to move towards you, his claws digging through and tearing the mattress beneath him. "In due time, my heart."

"I am serious," you insisted, ignoring the wide smile you received in return. Alastor merely hummed, a low, melodic sound, as he moved to press himself against you, encasing you in an embrace that felt simultaneously comforting and confining.

You leveled him with a glare. Gritting your teeth, you continued, "What did you even do? I know damn well you didn't get these," you gestured to the charred edges of his shirt, "from an animal."

"Well, dearest, it was from an overlord meeting. You understand how tense politics can become," Alastor countered with a laugh.

"Bushwa," you scowled, jabbing your finger into his chest. "I know a lie when I see one."

"Rather accusatory," Alastor hummed, his tone dismissive.

"Well, I apologize for worrying about my husband, who looks to be on the verge of collapse any moment now," you snapped, frustration seeping into your voice.

"So enough of this," you scolded, your expression hardening. "What did you do?"

"What was necessary," Alastor scoffed, a mirthless chuckle following.

"I'd say he deserved it. You should have seen the way he looks at you," he continued, his voice low and tinged with a hint of warning, the air around him crackling with static.

"Who?" you asked, leaning down to meet his gaze. "There are plenty of people. Plenty of looks."

"Don't act as if you don't notice that pompous television bastard hanging around the hotel nowadays," Alastor's voice crackled with dark intensity, the radio static grew stronger, prickling against your skin and nearly making his words incoherent.

So this is what it's about?

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at Alastor's jealousy, though a small part of you felt a flicker of flattery at his protectiveness.

Your husband's irritation simmered beneath the surface, evident in the subtle set of his jaw and the way his normally smug gaze turned icy. But a mischievous spark ignited within you, tempting you to push his buttons just a bit further, to dance dangerously close to the edge of his patience.

"Are you talking about Vox?" you asked with a smirk playing at your lips. Tilting your head coyly, you met Alastor's gaze with a glint of mischief in your eyes. Your voice was laced with honeyed sarcasm, dripping like molten gold from your lips.

His expression darkened at the mention, a flicker of raw anger crossing his features before he regained his composure.

"You know well who I'm talking about," Alastor's grin was uncanny, his voice carrying the same tone you'd heard the night he faced death. "Don't toy with me."

Despite the seriousness of his tone, you couldn't resist the urge to tease him further. A playful smile danced on your lips as you reached out, gripping onto his tie and pulling him closer, closing the distance between you with a pull.

“What if I found him charming?” you breathed out against his lips, your voice a tantalizing whisper as you ran your hands up the fabric of his undershirt. Your touch was featherlight, fingers smoothing down the wrinkles of his torn button-up with a teasing caress. “I might have let him have me right then and there.”

A sudden sharp pierce of a distorted screech, like a radio malfunctioning, cut through the air, shattering the moment. Claws flying up to grip your face, Alastor broke the kiss and stared down at you with glowing blood-red eyes, their intensity piercing through you. Your breath caught in your chest at the sight, your heart pounding in your ears as you were overcome by a mixture of fear and anticipation.

Alastor called out your name. It was the first time you had heard him utter it in a while. Throughout the years, he had always addressed you by endearing nicknames, leaving you half-convinced that he had forgotten your actual name.

But as the sound of fell from his lips, despite the danger, you found yourself yearning to hear it once more, to feel the weight of your name on his tongue.

"My sweet," Alastor tutted, a screech of radio feedback following him as he cupped your neck in one hand, guiding your gaze back to him. His touch was possessive, firm, and demanding, akin to the control of a puppeteer manipulating his marionette.

"Never utter such words again," he growled softly, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. His grip tightened ever so slightly, sharpened claws a warning of the consequences should you dare to defy him. "No one else shall lay claim to you."

With a defiant tilt of your chin, you met his gaze head-on, refusing to back down in the face of his dominance. "And what if I refuse?" you challenged, your voice steady despite the fear that coiled in your belly.

Alastor's lips curled into a manic grin, his canines shining beneath the lights of the room, his grip tightening ever so slightly as he leaned in closer.

"Then you shall suffer the consequences."

#have this shite drabble sorry for no writing :P i had a competition yesterday and the results come out today + i have prom tonight lolol #sephiewrites #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #alastor imagine #hazbin imagine #hazbin hotel x you #alastor x you #hazbin x you #hazbin x reader #hazbin hotel #alastor #hazbin vox

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simonbrain · 9 months ago

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simon fucks up every good thing he manages to sink his teeth into because that's just who he is. he's haunted by nightmares of the torture he endured, of being cooped up in that fucking casket and clawing his way out. he can never unsee the image of his family laying on the ground, unfairly brutalised. it all swirls in his mind until all he can do about it is work his body until he can't think, until he's panting for just one gulp of air, until his heart and lungs feel like they're about to burst and his vision goes dark.

it's only expected that whenever the universe decides to grant him something nice, he ruins it. grips onto it too tightly and shatters it in one go.

it isn't his fault he was dealt the worst fucking hand. it isn't his fault that all the goodness that flows towards him like a peaceful stream suddenly becomes tainted, blackened by his own blood-stained hands because he doesn't know how to not squeeze the life out of anything. it isn't his fault that he tries so hard to hold the pieces of what's left of his heart together, only to cut his hands in the process.

he made peace with the fact that he will die alone a long time ago because no one saved him before, and no one's going to save him now.

but then you come into his life. and for some reason, you won't leave him be. every time he tries to push you away, you shove him over to make room for yourself. every time he puts his walls up higher than before, you leap over them with ease, even blowing them over with just a breath. every time he stomps down on the little bit of hope growing inside of him, you handle the poor withered thing with gentle hands and replant the roots.

your attention, your genuine care for him, the way you smile so sweetly at him as if he's the only person that matters—

it all makes his heart twinge. he doesn't think he's felt something so intense, so overwhelming since seeing the unfortunate demise of his family, but you've reintroduced a feeling to him.

something soft. tender. loving.

it's like you're not giving him a chance to ruin this one good thing too. like you're rewriting his fate of always ending up alone and inserting yourself beside him so that he has someone to lean on. someone to share his pain with. someone to keep fighting for.

he hasn't cried in years, but he thinks your endless love and devotion are enough to make him weep oceans.

it's not until much later in your relationship, when he has you under one arm, snoring away softly, that he realises he hasn't had a single nightmare since he met you.

he no longer feels weighed down by his grief and pain. you absorbed all that he had to give you and returned the love tenfold, more than he ever thought he was worthy of. you mended the shards of his soul back together and intertwined it with your own. you rekindled the flame in him that he thought went out a long time ago. you took this broken man who had lost everything, and you put him back together. no matter how grimy your hands got, no matter how violently he bit and snapped at you, you took him in and showed him what he needed his entire life.

simon feels an ache in his heart when he looks down at you, but it doesn't pain him. he welcomes it with open arms and allows it to wash over him like the gentle glow of the sun.

he has never felt so, so warm.

#i love this trope of reader saving simon if you couldn't tell #my man deserves a happy ending :(#ghost #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #rainwrites 𐙚

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nina-ya · 7 months ago

Text

you get hurt and luffy's mind flashes back to a certain moment in marineford

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

All Luffy could feel was cold, a numbing frost that clawed its way into his very bones, turning his entire being into ice.

In the blink of an eye you were standing strong fighting alongside him, and the next, you were stumbling towards him, hands clutching at your abdomen, fingers trembling as they tried- and failed- to dam the blood blooming between your fingers like cursed roses.

Blood. So much blood. Too much blood.

The color was obscene, staining his world in crimson streaks that ran like rivers of guilt. His body froze, rigid as the shadow of death stretched its skeletal hand over his heart and ripped open the scar that lay there. And then his mind fractured. The present unraveled, dragging him back to that battlefield of loss, to the smoke-filled air and the weight of Ace in his arms.

It was happening again.

His trembling hands grasped at you, desperate to pull him out of the impending storm, but his grip was clumsy and weak against the memories that swallowed him whole. He couldn’t see you anymore- only Ace. Ace’s blood. Ace’s voice whispering final words. Ace’s fading heartbeat slipping through his fingers like grains of sand that he couldn’t hold onto.

You saw it in his eyes; wide and glassy as if gazing into the abyss. He wasn’t there. Not with you. His soul had been dragged backward, shackled into a nightmare that he couldn’t escape. The terror etched into his features wasn’t for you. It was for someone he had already lost.

“Luffy,” you whispered, voice cracking with pain. He didn’t respond, the sound lost to the screaming silence in his mind. “Luffy!” you tried again, louder this time, each word a lifeline thrown desperately in hopes of helping you both.

Desperation clawed at you, drowning out whatever else you were feeling at that moment. Your hand, slicked with your own blood, reached for his face. The crimson smeared across his cheek was a cruel mimicry of the mark of a battle that neither of you had won. Your fingers pressed against his skin, forcing his gaze to meet yours and you saw the distant agony in his eyes- the ghosts of a past he couldn’t let go of.

“This isn’t the same,” you rasped, the words tearing from your throat like shards of glass. “The pain in your chest made it hard to focus, but you pushed forward. “I’m still breathing. Luffy, Look at me!”

For a single excruciating moment, he didn’t. He couldn't. But then your voice cut through the haze, the pain-laden scream of his name shattering the chains of memories past. His eyes flickered, frantic and wild as the present came rushing back.

You.

His chest heaved with a desperate breath as he clung to you, trembling hands pressing against the wound in a distressed attempt to hold you together. Blood seeped between his fingers, the heat of it searing his skin as though the very weight of your life was right beneath his fingertips. Tears began to fall, hot and unstoppable, carving rivers down his cheeks and landing on your face in tremoring droplets.

“I’m sorry,” he choked, his voice cracking under the weight of dozens of emotions attacking him on all fronts. “I’m so sorry. I won’t let you go. Please, I can’t lose you too.”

Each word was a plea filled with raw guilt and fear. His body trembled with each sob, the sound hurting you more than any physical wound could ever.

You wanted to comfort him. To tell him it wasn’t his fault, but the pain was dragging you into a haze of blurred edges and throbbing fire. Your eyes fluttered shut for just a moment, but even in that haze, you knew- despite the agony in his heart, he would never let you go.

Luffy couldn’t save Ace. But this time, he would save you.

#monkey d. luffy #luffy x reader #monkey d. luffy x reader #one piece x reader #x reader #nina writes~✦

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misswynters · 7 months ago

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Getting married to ekko

short drabble

requested by anon

There was a rare kind of joy that managed to push through the usual grime and chaos. Strings of mismatched lights. Some flickering, others glowing bright, were strung across the open square near the hideout. The firelight children had scavenged scraps of cloth and patched them together to create banners, their uneven stitching adding a charm no fancy Piltie celebration could ever replicate.

In the middle of it all, you stood on a small platform that the Lost Children had hastily constructed. Your dress wasn’t traditional, it couldn’t be. It was a creation, crafted lovingly by Zaunite hands. Pieces of old fabric, some shimmering with oil stains, others dyed in vibrant hues, came together to create something uniquely yours.

Ekko stood opposite you, his usual bravado tempered by something soft and awed. He wore his best—a patched-up jacket you’d once teased him about because he refused to throw it away. But it was clean, and you knew it meant something for him to wear it today. His hair was neatly made, the streaks of white bright against the locks. He had a grin on his face that was wide, even as he tried to play it cool.

Scar, who had appointed himself officiant, stood between you two. His wiry frame looked almost regal in the dim light, though his crooked grin betrayed his usual cheekiness. “Alright, settle down!” he called out to the gathered crowd of children and a few adults who had wandered in, lured by the unusual festivity. “We’re here for somethin’ special tonight. None of your usual fightin’ or stealin’, this is about family.”

The children, sitting cross-legged around the square, erupted in cheers. You caught Ekko’s gaze, and the two of you shared a smile, the kind that spoke of shared dreams and whispered promises.

Scar cleared his throat dramatically. “Now, I ain’t exactly licensed or whatever it is those Pilties do, but who needs paperwork when you’ve got love, right?” The crowd laughed, and he winked at you. “So, let’s get to it. You two got somethin’ to say?”

Ekko took your hands, his palms calloused and warm against yours. His thumbs brushed over your knuckles as he looked at you, his voice steady but soft. “I never thought I’d get to have somethin’ like this,” he began. “Not here, You—you’ve made me believe that we can make anything, even in grimy place. You’re my balance when the world feels too heavy, my fire when it’s too cold. I promise, no matter what comes, I’ll always fight for us.”

You felt your chest tighten, your heart swelling as the words you’d wanted to say fought to escape. “Aww!,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “You’ve shown me that even in a place as broken as Zaun, there’s beauty worth fighting for. You’ve given me hope, and I want to spend every day proving to you that you were right to believe in us. I’m yours, forever.”

The children cheered again, but Scar waved them down with a grin. “Hold on, hold on! We haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.” He nodded to a group of children at the side, who scrambled to their feet. The youngest among them, a tiny girl with oversized goggles slipping down her nose, held a small wooden box. She marched forward with all the seriousness of someone tasked with an important mission. Ekko knelt to her level, his grin widening as she opened the box to reveal the ring he’d made.

It wasn’t like any ring you’d ever seen. The band was crafted from a piece of scrap metal, polished until it gleamed faintly in the light. Set into it was a shard of green crystal, likely salvaged from some forgotten Zaunite machine. But the real magic was in the delicate etchings along the band—tiny gears and vines, symbols of growth and movement intertwined. It was unmistakably Ekko’s work, a reflection of his resourcefulness and heart.

“You made this?” you whispered, your fingers brushing over the ring as he slid it onto your hand.

“Course I did,” he replied, a hint of bashfulness creeping into his voice. “Nothing else felt good enough for you.”

Scar clapped his hands together, breaking the moment with his usual exuberance. “Alright, lovebirds, that’s it! You’re officially stuck with each other.”

Laughter and applause erupted as the children threw bits of torn paper and confetti into the air, creating a chaotic, colorful storm around you. Ekko pulled you into his arms, his laughter mingling with yours as the two of you spun in the midst of it all.

The celebration that followed was as Zaunite as the ceremony itself. Someone had rigged a broken radio to play static-filled music, and the children danced wildly, their joy infectious. A few of the older kids brought out food, whatever they could scrounge together. As the mismatched feast was laid out on a long, uneven table.

Ekko never strayed far from your side, his hand lingering on your waist or your fingers brushing against his arm. At one point, he leaned close, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “You know, for a thrown-together wedding in the middle of Zaun, this might be the best day of my life.”

You laughed, leaning into him. “Might be?”

“Okay, fine. Is the best day,” he admitted, his grin softening.

As the night wore on and the children began to drift off, Ekko led you to a quiet corner, away from the noise. The lights overhead flickered, casting his face in warm, uneven purple shadows. “Hey,” he said, his tone still soft. “Can’t believe we are official married now!”

You reached up, your hand cupping his cheek. “Unreal that i can officially call you my husband.”

For a moment, the chaos of Zaun fell away, and it was just the two of you. Two survivors, two dreamers, building something beautiful in the midst of ruin. And as he kissed you, the city seemed a little brighter, and the air a little lighter.

note. if there’s any mistakes let me know!

taglist. @diffusebread @xxblairslairxx @annybah @niredsw @stqrlxght @kriss-w @marilovz @blkmystery @multiverse-fandoms-2001 @turquoizxe @mishellii @kor-0suu @feelya @theamazingmilli @multim00n @m00nd0v3 @sodavrr @maialublmere @radtragedyarcade @spiderhook @night-fall-moon

banner. @anitalenia

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cupidsworstcrime · 2 months ago

Text

Kyle Garrick x f!reader

middle ages AU

very very fluffy | non descriptive smut

Word Count: 8,784

contains mentions of marital abuse (not kyle)

The castle walls were cold, but not colder than your husband's silence.

Duke Simon Riley was revered across the kingdom—war hero, iron-fisted ruler, silent shadow of a man with a gaze like flint. You were the jewel he’d claimed after the war, a marriage sealed with blood-stained hands and noble signatures. They called you fortunate. A lady. A duchess. A trophy.

But behind the stone facade, you were his maid. His mother. His wife. His burden.

The servants knew better than to look you in the eye when you dragged the tray of food down the hall, your silks dusted with ash from the hearth you stoked yourself. They whispered as you limped from the cellar with buckets of wine, sleeves rolled, dignity unraveling thread by thread. The noblewoman who still scrubbed blood from his armor. Who kept his books and raised his bastard nephew. Who was expected to smile when he returned late, stinking of drink and war.

Simon barely spoke—unless it was to bark an order, or mutter thanks through gritted teeth. The only time his voice softened was when he needed you to serve him: in court, in chambers, in bed.

And you obeyed. Like a good wife. A good duchess.

Until one day, the shame turned to salt in your mouth.

When he dropped his boots at your feet without looking at you. When you poured his wine and watched him laugh with his men, never once thinking to ask you how your day was. When he dared to touch you in bed like you were a body he owned, a vessel, a duty.

Your love had died quietly, a candle snuffed out by indifference.

And one night, under a moon shrouded in mist, you packed nothing but what you could carry. Left a letter sealed with your ring. Walked past the guards who thought you were just one more servant finishing her chores.

The night air bit your cheeks as you crossed the threshold, barefoot and breathless.

No more.

No more bruised hands scrubbing floors you were meant to rule over.

No more gentle smiles for a man who never once said he loved you.

No more breaking your back for a crown that sat too heavy.

You ran into the dark, cloak whipping behind you, heart pounding.

The Duke of Blackmere would wake to an empty bed.

And for once—he could clean up the mess.

The forest swallowed the sound of your breath.

You ran.

The silk of your nightgown, once white, now clung to your legs—mud-slick and torn where the brambles snatched at it like claws. Twigs tangled in your hair, cruel fingers yanking your braids loose, but you didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Not even when the rocks bit into the soles of your feet, slicing skin and drawing warm blood that trailed behind you like a second veil.

The moon lit your path in shards—silver light piercing through the canopy, just enough to guide you forward, forward, forward.

Every step burned. Your lungs were raw. Your hands scraped against bark and stone as you stumbled, catching yourself, scrambling on all fours for a moment before rising again like a hunted animal.

Behind you, the castle stood still. Cold. Watching.

But the trees didn’t care who you were. The birds didn’t call you “Duchess.” Out here, you were no one. A woman with nothing but the fire in her chest and the echo of run, run, run in her ears.

Your gown snagged again. You hissed, yanking it free. The fabric gave with a rip, exposing your thigh to the night air. You didn’t care. You pushed on.

Until finally—lights.

Golden, flickering, swaying in the distance. Torches. Lanterns. Smoke curling from chimneys.

A village.

You stumbled over the threshold, barefoot and breathless, tears hot on your cheeks as you collapsed at the edge of a cobbled road. The world tilted. Voices called out, distant and muddled.

But you were safe.

For the first time in years—

You were free.

The first snowfall came early that year.

It blanketed the village in quiet, hush-white peace, and you watched it from the bakery window as the oven hissed softly behind you. The scent of yeast and cinnamon filled the small shop. Your hands, dusted in flour, shaped dough on muscle memory. You didn’t think much about the work anymore—it came easily now, like breath.

Months had passed since the night you’d run barefoot through the woods. No one asked why. No one pried. There was a sort of understanding here, a sacred silence shared between strangers who knew what it meant to begin again.

You were simply Miss, or darlin’, or love when Mrs. Price, the innkeeper’s wife, needed help minding her little ones and pressed hot tea into your hands. You cleaned the rooms at the inn, soothed fussy children to sleep, worked the early hours at the bakery in exchange for a roof and warm meals.

You slept on a straw-stuffed mattress beneath the rafters. It wasn’t a duchess’s bed. It didn’t need to be.

Each day blurred gently into the next. Until he became part of the rhythm.

Kyle Garrick, the farmer from just outside the village. Came into town twice a week with baskets of eggs and jugs of milk, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, hay in his curls, a dusting of dirt on his boots. He always called you Miss, voice warm as cider. Said it like a nickname, like a secret.

“G’mornin’, Miss,” he’d greet you with a little grin, arms full of crates, eyes kind. “Don’t suppose you’d let me carry those sacks for you?”

And you’d protest—always half-heartedly—as he hoisted the flour bags from the cart like they were weightless.

“I can manage,” you’d say.

“I know,” he’d reply, “but where’s the fun in that?”

He never asked where you came from. Not once. Just like the rest of them.

But sometimes you caught him looking at you—when your sleeves were rolled up and your face flushed from the oven’s heat, when you wiped sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist. Not lustfully. Just curious. Gentle. Like he was memorizing your edges.

You shared quiet moments. Small things.

He gave you the first apple from his tree that autumn. You saved the seeds.

One night, during a thunderstorm, he brought extra candles to the inn. Said he figured you hated the dark.

You did.

You hadn’t told him that.

And still—you stayed silent. You didn’t speak of the Duke. Of the silk gowns. Of the cold halls of your marriage. It belonged to another life. A different girl.

You didn’t know what this was. What it might become.

But Kyle’s hands were strong. His heart was kind. And maybe—just maybe—you were finally learning what it meant to be held, not possessed.

Kyle asked the first time in early spring.

“Got a new foal on the way,” he’d said, leaning his weight casually against the bakery doorframe, arms crossed, smiling just a little. “Thought you might want to see the farm sometime.”

You offered a polite smile, shook your head. “That’s kind, but I’ve got work.”

He didn’t push.

The second time, he tried again.

“Built a new coop for the hens. Clean lines, real proud of it. You could come see?”

You dusted flour off your apron, gave a soft laugh. “Sounds lovely, but I really can’t.”

He gave a little shrug. “Maybe another time, Miss.”

There were more offers—gentle ones. Shared like wildflowers laid at your feet. He never asked why you always said no.

Until one day, when the sun was soft and golden through the clouds and you were restocking shelves, Kyle stepped into the bakery looking just a touch more urgent than usual.

“She’s close,” he said without a greeting. “The goat. Her first birth. Thought of you right away—thought maybe you'd want to be there.”

You blinked, confused. “Why me?”

“Dunno,” he said with a shrug. “You just… seemed the type who might want to see something come into the world. Something good.”

And something in you—some fragile, buried thing—stirred.

So you nodded.

The walk to his farm was quiet, just the two of you on the narrow path between wild grass and scattered yellow blossoms. Your skirts brushed the earth, your boots muddied at the edges, but Kyle didn’t seem to mind. He pointed out things as you went—that tree’s been leaning since I was a lad, foxes sometimes nest there, there’s a hawk that lives near the well.

The farmhouse was simple. Warm. The porch sagged a little, and the door creaked when he opened it. The air smelled like hay and woodsmoke and something sweet—jams, maybe.

He didn’t ask you inside. Just took you to the barn.

The goat was already panting by the time you arrived, her sides heaving.

Kyle knelt beside her and showed you how to stroke her neck. How to speak soft. Gentle.

And when the kid finally arrived, slick and squirming and alive, you cried without realizing.

Kyle didn’t speak. Just handed you a clean cloth, his fingers brushing yours.

Later, when the goat and her baby were settled, and the sun had begun to set in streaks of amber and rose, he led you back toward the farmhouse porch.

“I can walk back alone,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

“You could,” he said, “but I’d rather walk you.”

And so he did.

That night, you lay awake in your narrow bed, remembering the way his hands moved—sure, patient, reverent. Remembering how he looked at you like you were real and here and not something to be claimed.

You still hadn’t told him who you were.

But maybe… he already knew there was something broken about you. Or maybe it didn’t matter.

Not anymore.

The sky was still tinted with the faint blue of pre-dawn when he arrived.

He always came early on Wednesdays—before the others, before the village stirred awake. Just him and the birdsong and the steam from the fresh loaves you made for him.

The door creaked as he entered. You didn’t look up at first, hands deep in the dough, sleeves rolled to your elbows. Your hair was braided back, wisps escaping to stick to your warm skin. The oven behind you flickered with a quiet fire.

“Morning, Miss,” Kyle said, voice soft, respectful, warm.

“You’re early,” you replied, not unkindly, still kneading.

“I like it here when it’s quiet,” he said, stepping closer but not crowding. “You working on mine?”

You nodded toward a proofing tray. “It’s rising now.”

He sat on the edge of the counter, just watching you for a while. Your hands moved like you were born to it—strong, steady, sure. You’d come to the village like a shadow, but now you glowed in the firelight. Familiar. Trusted. His, in some unspoken way neither of you had dared name.

He watched you in silence until, after a moment, he asked, “You ever been in love before, Miss?”

You paused, only for a second, then dusted your hands and went back to shaping the loaf.

“...Thought I was.”

There was no bitterness in your voice. No romance either. Just something hollowed out and carefully set down.

Kyle didn’t ask more. Didn’t need to.

He leaned back a bit, looking at you with something deeper than curiosity.

“Someone didn’t treat you right,” he said softly, not a question, not even a guess. Just a truth.

You looked up then. Just briefly. Your eyes, still tired from dreams you never spoke aloud, met his.

“No,” you whispered, “he treated me exactly how the world told him he could.”

Kyle blinked, slow. Then nodded. “World’s wrong about a lot of things.”

The air stretched between you like warm honey. The oven crackled. The dough rose. You turned your gaze back to it.

“I think I like making bread,” you said after a long silence. “It doesn’t ask anything of me. Just needs time. Patience. A steady hand.”

“I reckon you deserve the same,” he murmured.

You smiled, small and grateful.

When the loaf finished, you handed it to him wrapped in a linen cloth. His fingers brushed yours again. He didn’t linger, but he didn’t leave right away either.

“I’ll be by tomorrow,” he said. “Bring you something sweet. If you’d like.”

You didn’t nod. Didn’t answer.

But when he stepped outside, he saw your through the window, smiling to yourself with the faintest tilt of your lips.

And that was enough.

The moment the news reached you, you dropped a basket of rolls.

It passed from mouth to mouth like wildfire—a Duke, arriving tomorrow. One from the North. One with a name no one dared say but all seemed to know.

Your breath had hitched. Your hands had trembled. But you didn’t cry. You never did anymore.

By the time the sun began to dip low, painting the sky with shades of warning red, You were walking back from the bakery with your arms full of unsold loaves for the inn.

The air smelled like smoke and earth. Your stomach twisted.

“Miss?”

Kyle’s voice, always warm, always gentle, cut through the thick fog of your thoughts.

You hadn’t even heard him approach. But there he was—boots dusty, sleeves rolled, hands calloused and kind. He walked in step with you without asking.

His hand pressed lightly to the small of your back, and you startled just a little at the warmth of it. Not in fear. Just in surprise. You’d grown so used to holding yourself.

“You alright?” he asked, like he didn’t already see how tense you shoulders were.

You didn’t answer.

“Would you…” he started again, voice lower now, less sure. “Would you like to come by the farm again? Think the goats miss you.”

The question was simple. But it meant everything. A life raft offered in a storm.

You answered before you had time to think. “Yes.”

And it was the first thing that felt like a choice all day.

Kyle nodded once, like he’d expected you to say no, and the quiet joy in his eyes when you didn’t made you feel something you hadn’t let yourself feel in months.

Safe.

Not free yet. But close.

The loaves were still warm when you handed them off at the inn, your hands lingering on the cloth-covered basket like you might take it back and run. But you didn’t. You gave a soft nod to Mrs. and Mr. Price, mumbled something about being out late, and slipped through the door without another word.

Kyle waited just beyond the threshold, leaning on the fence post, eyes watching the fading sky.

Neither of you talked as you made the walk toward the farm. But it wasn’t the kind of silence you’d known before—the cold, stiff kind that always left you feeling like you’d said something wrong just by existing. No, this one was… easy. Like the earth didn’t expect anything from you but your steps on the road.

The goats came into view as the sun dipped further, casting gold over the hills. One of the younger ones bleated at you and stumbled toward the fence, nosing your palm with enthusiasm.

You laughed.

Not a pretty, courtly giggle. A real laugh. One that cracked something open in your chest, something you’d been pressing down so hard it left bruises.

You blinked fast, swallowing around the sudden lump in your throat.

Kyle didn’t say a word. Just crouched near one of the fence posts, adjusting a bit of loose rope like he didn’t notice the way your eyes shined.

But when you looked at him, he was already looking back. He smiled, soft and crooked.

“Stay for supper?” he asked. “I’ve been meanin’ to try that stew recipe you told Mr. Mactavish about. We can make it together.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to. But because it had been so long since anyone had asked you anything that didn’t come with a price.

And gods, it was hard to say no to eyes like that—gentle and open and not expecting anything more than what you’d give.

So you didn’t.

You nodded once, quiet, and when he smiled again, your heart ached in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

It was the first time in months you didn’t feel like running.

The kitchen smelled like thyme and onions, rich and warm as the stew bubbled low in the pot. Your sleeves were rolled, flour on your cheek from shaping the bread you’d offered to bake as a side, and Kyle stood beside you, peeling potatoes far slower than necessary just so he could sneak glances.

You caught him once and nudged him with your elbow. “You’re terrible at that,” you teased, grinning.

He shrugged, helpless and boyish. “Never had to impress anyone with my peeling skills b'fore.”

That made you laugh—really laugh—and you leaned over the cutting board, hiding your smile behind your wrist.

“Don’t go shy on me now,” he murmured, voice a little lower than before.

You glanced up.

He was closer than you'd thought. Still holding a half-peeled potato, but now his other hand was on your waist, firm and warm. Your breath caught. You could smell the firewood smoke on his shirt, see the soft scruff on his jaw, and then—

Your foreheads touched.

Like it was nothing. Like it was everything.

Your eyes fluttered shut just as his did, and for a moment, there was only the sound of the stew simmering and the quiet beat of two hearts, nearly in sync.

Then he kissed you.

Soft, patient, and certain.

And you kissed him back, your hands curling into the front of his shirt, grounding yourself in something that felt impossibly real.

A warmth bloomed in your chest, equal parts comfort and fear. Because the moment didn’t feel borrowed.

It felt like home.

You pulled back just a little, your heart racing as you caught your breath. A soft laugh escaped your lips, genuine and a little breathless. “Didn’t know it could... feel like that.”

Kyle’s gaze softened, like he was savoring the moment just as much as you were. He leaned in, his breath warm against your cheek as he spoke, his voice low but certain. “It does when it’s right, Miss.”

Your chest tightened at his words. For the first time in what felt like forever, something felt right. You had spent so long running, hiding, trying to outrun your past. But here, in this small kitchen with the scent of cooking filling the air and Kyle’s gentle presence in front of you, you felt like maybe—just maybe—you could stay for a while.

He smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, his thumb lingering against your skin. “You’re not alone here,” he murmured, almost as if he was reading your mind. “You don’t have to be.”

Your heart fluttered at that, but the reality of your past tugged at you like a chain, invisible but heavy. You forced a smile, trying to push the unease away, but the words tumbled out before you could stop them. “I’m not... running anymore, Kyle.”

He didn’t need you to explain further. His smile softened, understanding more than you expected. “I know.” His hand slid from your waist to your hand, intertwining your fingers. “And you don’t have to. Not from me.”

For a long moment, you just stood there, holding each other in the quiet of the kitchen. You could hear the faint rustling of the animals outside, the gentle breeze making its way through the open window, but for once, it all felt like it was in its place.

The weight of the past hadn’t vanished, but it felt lighter here, in this little corner of the world where Kyle’s touch made everything seem a little more possible.

He stepped back slowly, never breaking your connection, his hand still gently clasping yours. “Supper’s almost ready,” he said softly, his voice carrying a warmth that made your stomach flutter.

“Right,” you replied, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. You squeezed his hand, the action grounding you in the present, in the here and now.

“I’ll be right there,” you said, but Kyle didn’t move just yet. Instead, he leaned in again, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, a promise in that gentle touch.

As he stepped away, you exhaled slowly, fingers still tingling from his touch. Tonight felt different. For the first time in a long while, you felt like maybe you could belong somewhere again.

And maybe, just maybe, you could let yourself believe in that feeling.

You sat across from each other at the small wooden table, the flickering light from the lantern casting soft shadows around you both. The air was warm with the scent of roasted vegetables and the rich, earthy aroma of the bread you’d helped bake earlier. The goats had been fed, the kitchen cleared, and the simple supper you had prepared together was now in front of you.

Kyle took a bite, his eyes lighting up as he chewed. He grinned at you, a playful glint in his eye. “This... this is delicious.” He set his fork down, still smiling. “Thank you for making it with me.”

You shook your head, feeling a slight heat creep up your neck. “You did most of it,” you protested, but there was a warmth in your voice. “I just helped with the bread and the herbs.”

He leaned back slightly, considering you for a moment before his lips curled into a grin. “True, but your bits,” he paused, picking up a piece of the roasted vegetable, “are the best.”

Your cheeks burned at the compliment, but you couldn’t help the way your lips quirked up into a smile. “Flattery won’t get you more food,” you teased lightly, but there was a softness to your tone, an ease you hadn’t expected to feel so quickly.

He chuckled, clearly enjoying the exchange. “I think I’ve already got what I wanted,” he said, his eyes locking with yours for a brief, quiet moment. “You.”

The words hung in the air for a second, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was simple. Honest. The kind of honesty you didn’t know if you were ready for, but something about him made it easier to hear. To believe.

You stirred your food, not quite looking up at him, feeling a knot in your chest tighten slightly. But it wasn’t a bad feeling—it was just... unfamiliar. “Well, I’m glad you think so highly of my cooking,” you said, trying to keep the mood light, though your heart was beating a little faster now.

Kyle took another bite, but his eyes never left you. “I’m serious,” he said softly, his voice steady and warm. “You’re different, Miss. More than you know. You’ve got a way of making everything feel... right.”

Your heart fluttered at that, and you swallowed before meeting his gaze. “And what’s that?” you asked, though you had an inkling of the answer.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, his fingers loosely wrapped around his cup of water. “You make the world a little less heavy, just by being in it.”

Your chest tightened at his words. It was so simple, and yet it felt like something you hadn’t allowed yourself to believe in for so long. Maybe you did deserve to have something light in your life again.

You didn’t say anything at first, just took a slow breath and looked back down at your plate. There was a tenderness between you now, unspoken but clear.

The sound of the wind rustling outside was the only interruption as you both finished your meals. There was no rush, no tension. Just the quiet comfort of each other’s presence.

“Thank you, Kyle,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper, but it held more weight than you expected. “For all of this. For tonight.”

He smiled again, a soft, contented smile, before leaning back in his chair, settling in. “The pleasure’s all mine, Miss.”

And for once, you let yourself believe it.

The evening had unfolded into a quiet, comfortable rhythm, the soft glow of the lanterns flickering in the corners of the room. The meal had been simple, yet satisfying, and the air between you was easy, filled with gentle laughter and light conversation. But now, as the last of the dishes were cleared away, the weight of what was to come settled in.

You glanced toward the door, the thought of returning to the inn pulling at you. The routine you’d grown so accustomed to, the security of blending in, of being unnoticed. But tonight felt different. Kyle’s presence had been grounding, steady, and his quiet sincerity had created a warmth in your chest that you weren’t sure you wanted to leave behind.

Kyle leaned back against the chair, his hand resting on the table, his gaze soft but determined. “You don’t have to go, y’know.”

You hesitated, caught between the life you had built here and the life you had once run from. Your heart thudded in your chest at the vulnerability in his words, the earnestness in his eyes.

“Kyle…” you started, her voice trailing off. The question you had been avoiding, the fear that gripped you tightly, threatened to spill out. What if I stay?

“I mean it,” Kyle continued, his voice steady but laced with an edge of hope. “Stay with me. You don’t have to go back to the inn. You don’t have to keep running from... wha'ever you’re running from. You can stay here, with me. You’re already part of this place.”

You swallowed, your breath catching in your throat. The pull of his words, the sincerity in them, had your heart racing faster than you expected. It wasn’t just about staying for the night or sharing another meal together. It was about something deeper, something more permanent. A future you hadn’t allowed yourself to imagine.

“I—” Your voice faltered. You were afraid of what this could mean. Afraid of what it might feel like to let yourself fully trust someone again. But there was a part of you, buried beneath the walls you’d built, that longed for this. For him.

Kyle’s hand moved across the table, palm up, waiting for your, his expression softening as he watched you struggle.

“You don’t have to answer right away,” he said quietly, his fingers grazing over the table’s edge as if offering you a lifeline, a choice. “But I want you here, Miss. I want you here with me. Wha'ever you need, whenever you’re ready.”

The words hung between you, heavy with possibility. Your eyes flickered from his hand to his face, the conflict clear in your gaze. But then, something shifted inside you. Something told you it was okay to let go, to stop fighting it.

You stood slowly, your legs slightly unsteady from the weight of the moment, and stepped closer to him. Without another word, you placed your hand in his, the warmth of his touch spreading through you.

His fingers closed gently around yours, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Stay with me,” he repeated, a promise in his voice this time.

And for the first time in a long while, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, staying could be the right choice.

The night was quiet, save for the steady sound of your breaths mingling in the dim light. The sheets, tangled between you, were warm and comforting. In contrast to the nights you had once known, nights that had been harsh and demanding, this one felt like a revelation. Kyle was slow, patient, guiding you with a tenderness you hadn’t known you needed, but now couldn’t seem to live without.

His movements were deliberate, each touch gentle, coaxing you through every sensation. It wasn’t hurried or desperate—there was no frantic urgency. He savored you, as if every inch of you deserved time and care. His fingers traced the curve of your waist, the line of your jaw, memorizing the soft tremor of your skin. His lips brushed against your neck, soft whispers of praise against your skin, each word making you feel seen, wanted.

You let out a sharp breath when he finally met your lips again, the kiss slow and tender, his body shifting against yours, each movement carefully planned. He was slow in all the right ways, building you up before bringing you down, making you forget everything but him. It was a stark contrast to everything you had once known—his hands were not harsh, they were reverent. His mouth was not demanding, it was kind.

Your body responded, arching beneath him, his name slipping from your lips with a mixture of awe and longing. The passion built slowly, layer after layer, until it was a pressure you couldn’t contain. Your hands found his shoulders, his back, needing to ground yourself, to feel every inch of him.

His forehead came to rest against yours, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you heard words you never expected to hear again.

“I love you,” Kyle whispered, his voice rough but filled with sincerity.

Your heart stilled in your chest, your breath catching in your throat. Time seemed to slow. You closed your eyes, running your hands up his chest, needing to touch him, needing to make sure he was real, that this was real. You cupped his face, bringing him closer, your gaze locking with his.

“I love you too,” you said, your voice soft but unwavering. The words felt like a promise, like something that could anchor you in this moment, in this life that you’d never imagined for yourself but somehow found.

Kyle’s smile was gentle, the way he looked at you made you feel seen, cherished. And in that moment, with him above you, with his warmth surrounding you, you knew you had found something worth staying for. Something real. Something true.

It wasn’t just love. It was everything you had been searching for without realizing it—softness, care, and a connection you had once thought was beyond your reach.

The days had passed quietly, a rhythm settling between you and Kyle. The work, the shared meals, the laughter, it all became part of your new life, one you were growing more attached to every day. The tension from the arrival of the Duke had faded into the background, though it never fully left your mind. You had avoided the village center as much as possible, staying in the comfort of Kyle’s farm, but now, on the third night, as the Duke was about to leave, you could feel it all creeping back.

You sat at the small wooden table, picking at the remnants of your supper. Kyle was across from you, his usual easy smile a bit more subdued tonight. He didn’t press you to talk about it, not really, but he had known something was up.

"I was his wife once," you said quietly, almost too quietly. The words felt heavy, like they had been waiting to be spoken, but you hadn't known when to say them.

Kyle didn’t flinch, didn’t look surprised. Instead, he nodded slowly, leaning back in his chair, his gaze soft but steady. "I know, dove," he replied simply. His voice was calm, like it wasn’t the first time he had processed this.

"You knew?" you asked, voice rising in surprise. You didn’t know how you expected him to react—anger, judgment, maybe pity. But Kyle was looking at you like he had known all along, like it wasn’t a revelation, just a fact.

"Whole village knew," Kyle said, his eyes never leaving yours. His tone was matter-of-fact, and it made you realize something you hadn't thought about—your past, your marriage to Simon, hadn't been a secret to anyone. It was common knowledge, and yet, the people in this village had let you be. They hadn’t pried, they hadn’t pushed you to speak of it. They had accepted you without question, without curiosity.

"Oh," you whispered, a wave of surprise and relief flooding through you. It was as if the weight of the past had lifted slightly, knowing that your secrets had never been the subject of gossip, never turned into something for the village to talk about.

Kyle smiled softly, almost as if he had been waiting for your to realize that. "Didn’t mention it, wasn’t our business," he added, his voice warm but firm, like he was assuring you it wasn’t something that needed to be discussed. The Duke was gone now, and whatever had happened between you, whoever you had once been to him, didn’t matter anymore. Not here, not with Kyle.

You nodded, taking a deep breath, as if exhaling a burden you hadn’t known you were still carrying. For all the guilt and confusion you had felt about your past, here, in this quiet farm with Kyle, it didn’t have to be a part of you anymore. You could simply be yourself. You could be the woman you were now—someone who had found a life you never expected to have, but one you were beginning to truly love.

Kyle stood up then, moving around the table to where you sat. He gently cupped your face in his hands, lifting your chin to meet his gaze. "You’re safe here, dove," he said, his voice so full of warmth and care that it made your heart ache. "With me. Always."

The words, simple as they were, meant everything. And you realized, with a quiet certainty, that for the first time in years, you were free. Free from the weight of your past, free from the expectations placed on you, and free to live a life that was entirely your own.

With him.

Months passed, each day blending into the next with a quiet rhythm that had begun to feel like home. The days were simple but comforting—working at the bakery in the morning, kneading dough, shaping loaves, the warm scent of freshly baked bread filling the air. You had always found solace in routine, the predictability of it all, and it gave you a sense of purpose you hadn’t had in years. The steady pace of your work kept you grounded, kept your mind from wandering back to the life you had run from, to the Duke who had once claimed you as his own.

Kyle never pushed you to leave the bakery, even though he offered time and again. He insisted that you could stay home on the farm, help with the chores, and be with him all day. But you knew he understood. He never pried, never made you feel guilty for the hours you spent at the bakery. He simply smiled and kissed your forehead every morning before you left for work and again every evening when you came home.

The small village had become your sanctuary, the faces of the townspeople familiar and kind. The bakery was a place where you felt useful, where the simple act of making bread for others brought you peace. You didn’t feel the need for anything more—at least, not for now.

The mornings with Kyle were often slow and peaceful. He’d wake up early to tend to the animals, always making sure to stop by the bakery to bring you fresh milk or eggs from the farm. He would help with unloading the flour or carrying the heavy sacks, always with that quiet smile of his. You could feel the ease between you, the unspoken bond that had grown stronger over the months.

And in the evenings, after the long days of work, you would sit together at the small table in the farmhouse, a candle flickering between you. And you would talk about the small things—how the animals were doing, the weather, and what you had for dinner—but it was enough. You didn’t need grand gestures or endless promises. Just the warmth of his presence beside you was all you ever needed.

"Why don’t you stay home today?" Kyle would ask sometimes, a playful gleam in his eye. "You could help me with the garden. Or maybe just sit and rest."

You would smile, running a hand through your hair. "I like the routine, Ky," you’d say softly. "I like being there."

He’d never push further. Instead, he’d simply nod, understanding that you needed this. It was the one thing from your old life that you had held on to—the routine, the simple sense of purpose that came with it.

But there were moments, fleeting ones, when Kyle would catch you gazing out at the farm, lost in thought. He’d gently pull you back into the present, reminding you with a soft touch or a quiet word that there was no need to look back anymore. He had given you a new life—one that was free from the pain of your past—and all you had to do was embrace it.

And you were starting to. Slowly, but surely, the shadow of the Duke faded more each day. The nights were yours to cherish, spent in Kyle’s arms, where you felt safe, where you felt loved. It wasn’t a life of grand adventures, but it was yours, and it was enough.

The evening air was thick with the smell of hay and the soft rustling of the barn. The loft was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the setting sun slipping through cracks in the wood. You and Kyle had just made love, your bodies tangled in the soft bedding of straw. His laughter mixed with yours as you tugged at the strands of hay that had caught in your hair. The warmth of the moment lingered, a perfect silence settling between the two of you, broken only by the gentle rhythm of your breathing.

Kyle leaned back against the hay, his chest rising and falling with each breath. His eyes, always soft and full of affection, met yours, but there was something different tonight—a quiet intensity, like he was holding something in. You could feel the weight of it in the air, the anticipation, but you didn’t know what to expect.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, worn velvet pouch. Your heart skipped a beat, but you didn’t say anything. He opened it with his fingers, and there, nestled in the fabric, was a simple, delicate ring. His mother’s ring.

He took your hand gently in his, his calloused fingers brushing against your skin as he held it up to the fading light. "I know we don’t need any of this," he said softly, his voice low and sincere. "But I want you to know that I want you with me, always. I want to be yours, and I want you to be mine." He paused, his gaze never leaving yours. "Will you marry me?"

You didn’t answer with words. You didn’t need to. Your heart raced, and in that moment, all the pain of the past, all the fear of what came next, melted away. The weight of the world felt light, the uncertainty replaced with a profound sense of belonging. With a breathless smile, you slid your legs over his, straddling him as you bent down to kiss him, slow and lingering. His hands, warm and firm, gripped your waist as you pressed your body against his.

The ring was slipping onto your finger, but it wasn’t the ring that mattered. It was the way he held you, the way he made you feel like you were the only thing that mattered in that moment. You pulled back just slightly, your forehead resting against his, both of you laughing softly.

He kissed you again, and you kissed him back, your heart beating fast, and before either of you could say anything more, you did it all over again. This time, with a different kind of intensity, a deeper connection, as if everything that had led you to this moment had been leading you here.

His mother’s ring gleamed in the dim light, but it was Kyle’s love that sparkled brightest.

You giggled as Kyle carefully cradled you in his arms, bridal-style, his strong arms holding you close. The night air was cool against your skin, but the warmth of his embrace kept you more than comfortable. The crunch of the gravel beneath his boots mixed with your laughter as you playfully scratched at the itching hay that clung to your skin, your dress still speckled with the remnants of the barn loft.

Kyle chuckled softly, his voice low and affectionate as he glanced down at you. “You alright there, Missus?” he teased, a playful gleam in his eyes. “Got enough hay in your hair for the both of us?”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't help the smile that spread across your face. “I swear, Ky, I’m gonna be itchy for days,” you muttered, scratching again at the hay that clung to your arms.

His laugh echoed around you, warm and genuine, as he shifted you higher in his arms, making sure you were secure. “Well, you’ll just have to deal with it, Mrs. Garrick,” he teased again, his lips brushing over your forehead. “That’s what you get for marrying a farm boy.”

You pressed your face into his chest, trying to hide the grin threatening to overtake you. “Mrs. Garrick…” you repeated softly, testing the sound of it, the words feeling both foreign and perfectly right all at once.

He chuckled again, his breath warm against your hair. “Yup, that's you now. Mrs. Garrick. My missus.” His voice softened, turning serious for a moment, though there was still that playful glint in his eyes. “And you always will be, you know?”

Your heart swelled, the quiet reassurance in his words enough to make the moment feel even more perfect. You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding him a little tighter. “I don’t think I could be happier, Mr. Garrick,” you whispered, finally letting go of the itchiness and just letting yourself be in this moment with him.

He smiled down at you, and the warmth in his eyes was enough to banish any remaining doubts or fears you had. With him, everything felt right. Everything had always felt like it was leading here.

As you neared the house, he gave you one last squeeze, pressing his lips against the top of your head. “And you’re stuck with me now, Mrs. Garrick. Forever.”

The sun was setting low behind the rolling hills, casting a golden hue over the village. The chapel was small, but it felt like the whole world was gathered within its walls. The familiar faces of villagers, the baker, the farmer, the innkeepers, all gathered together to celebrate a love that had blossomed unexpectedly. You felt the weight of their smiles and the warmth of their well-wishes.

Standing next to Kyle, you could feel the fluttering in your chest, the way your heart seemed to race every time you caught sight of his handsome face, that familiar crooked smile. The same smile that had made you fall for him, over and over again, even on days when life was hard. He looked at you like you were the only one in the world, the way he always had since that first time you handed him bread. Maybe he did.

The Bishop's words were a blur in the background, a soft murmur of prayers, but all you could focus on was Kyle’s hand in yours, warm and strong. You couldn’t stop the heat creeping across your cheeks as he spoke his vows—so sickly sweet, so tender. The words tumbled from his lips with such sincerity, his voice thick with emotion.

“I vow to stand beside you, in every storm and every quiet night. I’ll keep you safe, hold you close, and never let you go. You’ve changed my world, my heart. You’ve made me a better man, and I swear, on this day and every day after, I’ll love you more than you could ever know.”

Your heart swelled in your chest, the words sinking deep into your bones, making your breath catch. This wasn’t like the vows you once heard from your former life—no, this was different. This was real.

You squeezed his hand tighter, your eyes watering as you tried to blink away the tears that threatened to fall. How had you ever thought you'd be content without this? Without him?

The Bishop turned to you, a gentle smile on his face. “And you, my dear, what are your vows?”

For a moment, everything felt impossibly still. You looked up into Kyle’s eyes, the love and trust shining back at you, and for the first time, you didn’t feel like the girl who had run away. You didn’t feel like the broken wife.

You stood taller now, the past a shadow behind you. With a soft smile, you spoke, your voice steady, clear. “I vow to cherish you, Kyle Garrick, as you have cherished me. I’ll walk beside you in the sunshine and the rain. I’ll love you with every part of me, for all the days of my life. You are home to me.”

There was a brief moment of silence, and then Kyle’s hand tightened around yours, and a small tear fell from his eye, the corner of his lip tugging upwards.

The Bishop nodded, satisfied with the vows exchanged, and the ceremony continued with all the joy and love that filled the air.

But you hardly heard a word after that. All that mattered was Kyle, his soft hand in yours, his eyes full of love, and the future that stretched ahead of you both—together, forever.

"You may now kiss your bride."

As the Bishop’s words echoed through the small chapel, the world seemed to pause for a heartbeat. Kyle’s hand cupped your face, his thumb brushing away a stray tear from your cheek as he leaned in. His eyes locked onto yours for a brief, tender moment, a silent promise passing between you both.

Then, without a word, he kissed you.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was everything. The passion of every moment you’d shared, the struggles, the laughter, the quiet comfort of everyday life—it all poured into that single kiss. His lips were soft at first, exploring, tentative. But the moment you kissed him back, something inside him shifted, and so did you. His grip on you tightened, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss, his lips hot against yours, claiming you in a way that was all his own.

There was no hesitation, no fear, no doubt—just the two of you, together, right here, in this moment.

The chapel seemed to disappear, the cheering from the villagers fading into the background as Kyle kissed you like he was trying to savor every second. His hand slid into your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss, and you felt yourself melt into him, everything you’d been running from, everything you’d been hiding, falling away.

When he finally pulled back, breathless, his forehead rested gently against yours, his chest rising and falling with the same frantic energy you both shared. His lips were parted in a soft smile, his eyes gleaming with the same love he had sworn to you just moments ago.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath, his words vibrating through you like the hum of a quiet promise.

You smiled, still lost in the aftermath of that kiss. “I love you too, Kyle.”

The room erupted into applause, but it felt like nothing compared to the warmth of his lips still lingering on yours. For the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel like the girl who ran away, or the girl with a past. You were just his, and he was yours.

And as the cheers of the village surrounded you, you knew this was the beginning of a life that would be better than anything you could’ve ever imagined.

Kyle’s grin was playful, his eyes twinkling with that familiar, mischievous glint. He walked with you into the house, closing the door behind you both with a soft click. His hands were already reaching for the delicate fabric of your wedding dress, eager to strip it away, but there was something more to the moment than just the anticipation of what was to come. The joy in his eyes, the way he couldn’t stop smiling as he helped you out of the gown, made you feel like the luckiest woman alive. "Gonna give you a wedding night to remember, love."

You laughed softly, your cheeks flushing at the implications of his words. “I like the love we always make,” you teased, your voice low, a little breathless from the intimacy of the moment.

Kyle’s laugh was low and throaty as he kissed your forehead, his hands gently guiding you toward the bedroom. “Been holding out on you, dove,” he said, his tone teasing. “Had to get a ring on your finger before I could show you what I can do with my mouth.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, your breath catching in your throat. You weren’t quite sure what he meant, but the thought of him using his mouth on you had your pulse quickening. You flushed, a shiver of anticipation running through you. “Your mouth?” you repeated, the word leaving your lips more breathlessly than you intended.

“Mhm,” Kyle murmured, his voice low and deep, laced with promise. He took his time, making sure the last few pieces of the dress were carefully removed, letting you step out of it and into the comfort of his arms. “I’ve got plenty of ways to make you remember tonight, Mrs. Garrick.”

You couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across your face as you let him pull you closer, your body pressing into his. His lips trailed down your neck, soft at first, then growing more insistent, sending shivers across your skin.

“I want to make you feel everything,” Kyle whispered, his breath hot against your skin. His hands, now bare, moved over your body, as if memorizing every curve, every inch of you. “And tonight, I’m going to show you all the ways I can.”

You felt your pulse racing, the familiar warmth of his touch igniting something deep inside of you. Tonight would be unlike any other night, and you were more than ready to see just what he had in store for you.

Kyle was a man of many talents, but nothing prepared you for the way he made you feel that night. Every touch, every movement, felt like a carefully orchestrated symphony of passion. He knew exactly where to press, how to move, and when to ease off, leaving you breathless, wanting more. His skill was unmatched, and every time you thought you might finally catch your breath, he’d take you to new heights again.

You must have died and come back five times that night, lost in waves of sensation that you never thought were possible. It wasn’t just the physical connection—though that was undoubtedly divine—it was the intensity of it all, the way his gaze never left yours, the way he seemed to be reading your body like a book, every page turning faster than the last.

And yet, despite all of that, he hadn’t even kissed you yet.

You were so caught up in the feeling of him that the lack of a kiss didn’t even register at first. But then, as his hands gently cupped your face, as he positioned himself just above you, you felt the shift—the tenderness, the deep connection that only he could give. His lips hovered over yours, barely grazing them before finally pressing firmly against you. The kiss was slow, deliberate, full of promise.

“I’m not finished with you yet,” he whispered, his lips brushing over yours before he kissed you again, this time with more urgency, more heat.

And even as you surrendered to his touch once more, you realized that every moment with him had only deepened your feelings. You weren’t just being ravished; you were being adored, in a way that no one had ever done before. It was overwhelming, but in the best way. This wasn’t just about physical connection anymore. This was about being seen, about trust, about love.

And Kyle? He was more than worth it.

UGH MY MAN MY MAN MY MAN , POOKIE @goatgoesmbe

#kyle gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick x you #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle gaz x you #kyle garrick #kyle gaz garrick #gaz call of duty #kyle gaz fanfic #mmmmmmmmmmm #need him #call of duty x reader #call of duty x you #call of duty x female reader

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iwaasfairy · 4 months ago

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┌─ “ ! „ LITTLE LIGHT

tw. vampire!iwa, noncon, pain play, cannibalism, blood

iwaizumi x fem!reader, for the ‘here be monsters’ event

The figure is hunched over another body like a gargoyle. Statuesque shoulders sculpted against the dark walls of the alley almost look beautiful. In their horror.

His teeth are sunken deep into their throat as blood pumps out of the veins he’s sliced open. It’s not pretty, or clean. It is not gentle nor sexual like in books, and more than anything, it douses you in a fear unlike anything else. You can’t feel your fingers, drenched in blood. You don’t feel the glass shard that’s sliced open your palm, only a dull thumping.

Red paints his face much like a lion on prey. The pulsing vein sprays blood with a desperate gurgle — dead limbs falling to the floor. There’s more bodies left in a heap behind him, icy, cold things stained with maroon. Your stomach twists, and bile rises in your throat. Sour that you swallow down, along with your spit.

Fear makes your heart bang too loud, as he bites, gnashing meat between deathly sharp teeth. Your back is slicked, stuck to the damp wall, no way out. You could try to climb, but the walls are so high, and- His stony features seem like marble as his lashes flick up only to regard you.

You scramble. You claw at the wall, trying and failing so desperately to jump high enough to escape. All you do is get tears stuck in your throat, as pitched, pathetic, prey-like whines come out of your chest despite yourself. “Please, god, please, please, please. I won’t do it again, I won’t ever do it again. Please.”

Before you have a chance to right your mistake, hands are on you. Cold nails that yank your head back as they tangle in your hair, as heavy puffs of air brush over your neck. Instead of screaming like you know you should, your whispers only continue. You don’t know why. You’re not particularly religious. “Please, please, please! Plea-”

The touch makes you choke. Your heart beats like a little rabbit mid-flight, and pumps so much adrenaline to your extremities it’s making you tingle. It smells like blood, heavy and thick and everything feels so much louder between your ears than it is and — the pain you wait for doesn’t come.

Your eyes slowly flutter open. With your head turned like it is, you can catch his jawline beside you, chin and neck dripping blood, exposed collar and chest pressed against your back. He’s still- panting like an overexcited dog into your temple. “P-please. I-” When you try to budge, the fingers holding your skull still tighten, and his nose buries deeper into your crown.

“You’re sweet.”

The deep, gravelly tone washes over you. Makes your back break out in goosebumps. Your fingers burn hot. Before you can respond, his other hand slides down your front along your body until it settles between your legs. “So fucking sweet, little bun.” His breaths are cold against you, and again you try and fail to escape the hold he has on your hair. Your hand hurts. Stings bad, a soaring pain that travels up your arm. Suddenly, your daze clears enough to feel the glass you’re still clamping your fingers around. “I don’t like my lunch so sugary sweet but-”

You slash at him. Wildly jam the glass where you can reach, and turn. It’s enough to release his hold on you and let you run back the way you came. Your feet splat on the pool of blood, hands reaching out to push yourself forward.

But it’s no use. You land hard, clattering teeth, as an impossibly huge, heavy body presses you to the cold floor. Your cheek scrapes the pavement when he forces you to look back, nails digging deep into your cheeks. “So cute… did that feel good?” His face is right on yours as he smiles, teeth all bloody. His tongue is stained a deep red. “Did you like hurting something for once? You wanna play rough?”

“No, no, please. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

He shushes you, presses his lips over your pulse point. “That’s okay, bunny. Shh, shh, it’s okay.” Hot hands glide down your body as he leaves small kisses all along your neck to the crook of your neck, before breathing out. “Keep pressure on it, m’kay?” Teeth break flesh. And immediately, a biting pain takes over you. It’s acidic, burning as you pant out against the pain— it’s all you can focus on even when his hands pull your pants over your ass.

“Hold it,” he grunts when he pulls back, revealing that devilish mouth with your blood. Your legs shake from the adrenaline, as you do as you’re told. Wet, hot blood pulses between your fingers as you hold the flesh together that’s been bitten open. Spilling down your chest, down your forearms, it coats everything maroon when you pull back. “Let me see that pretty, frightened face.”

You’re turned around like you’re a ragdoll, too easily tossed between his legs. Olive greens peer down at you, gleaming in the low light, as he breathes out a chuckle. You know you’re crying. You were crying for the second he was on you- but now you start to choke on it, constricting your throat- it doesn’t move him. It’s so much feeling that you go umb to it. “There she is.” He pulls your pants down your calves as he bites his bottom lip. “Doesn’t it feel good, baby? So full of fear, all that adrenaline?”

The pain fades, though you know it shouldn’t. You’re bleeding out. Yet all you can feel is the icy cold of his skin on yours, leaving hot trails in their wake. Your stomach turns, as you stare back at him. It doesn’t scare him. “It does, don’t it?” He licks his wet lips, before pushing your knees apart. “I’ll make you feel even better. Just gotta part these- uhuh, that’s a good girl.” You’re too weak to stop him from pushing you open entirely, as his nails hook on the wet crotch of your panties.

Almost mockingly, he pulls the fabric taught before leaning down. His eyebrow lifts, irises completely black now. “Sweet, with such a wet little hole. You must make all the boys crazy.” Your legs tremble, and your pussy slicks up under his patient, prodding fingers, raking the touches all over your bottom half until your vision goes blurry.

“I don’t- I- I-“

Only then does he push his only article of clothing down his meaty thighs, and wipes the back of his hand along his mouth. A loud pulse beats between your ears, and your hands are warm and sticky, but you don’t move. You’re frozen under him, extremities cold. Once he’s done undressing, he heaves himself above you so you’re face to face, and those soulless eyes glint amusingly. You’re staring.

His cock is big, and veiny, and almost mockingly, the only color left in his body is the red blood flowing under the skin. It’s cruel. The aching pain all over your body hasn’t faded, it’s just- less important when you meet his touch, allow him to cup your cheek. “Want it?” You want him to fill you up entirely, spill out into your body until you’re whole. He lifts one leg aside to wrap around his hips, before pushing into your unprepared pussy hard. It makes you squeak, head falling back.

“Oh, god. Oh my- fuck, agh-ah. No, no, please.” The push is too tight for only a few pumps before you start to melt, and his nose buries into your hair to breathe deep and overly loud. It’s gross, it is, but your body doesn’t comply. It only blurs the edges of pleasure and pain further, taking over your vision in wobbly black spots— and your body melts into his with each pump.

He’s so heavy. Heavier than any human has any right to be, crushing you into his touch and forming to his shape, as he takes your air and forces kisses onto your mouth. “Smell like fucking toffee apple, baby.” He presses another kiss to your lips as you’re mumbling pleas, then forces your hands away. “Let me see. You’ve made me all hungry.”

He licks his gums, before pushing your head further back. He tangles your fingers with his as he bites down, just enough to take you breath away as he fucks you open. The ache is soft as soon as his teeth pull back. The blood pools in his mouth, and spills over onto his chin. “Just a little more.”

#tw.noncon #tw.yandere #tw.dark content #here be monsters collab #💫ch.iwaizumi #haikyuu smut #hq iwa smut #iwaizumi hajime smut

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d3cay1ngst4tic · 4 months ago

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— scraped knees, watery smiles.

contents. suguru geto x gn!reader. angst to fluff. hurt/comfort.

★ jiah’s notes. pspspsps sugu ppspsps

you can feel him stare at you.

warm, honeyed pools gazing at the back of your head, steady and calm. even though he’s standing at the door, you can feel his wispy breaths which make the little hairs on your neck stand up in alarm.

(sunlight seeps through the windows, dancing its own little dance across the wooden flooring, going on and on and on— even if there is no one to see.)

“. . go away,” you murmur.

and as usual, all he does is sigh.

perhaps you feel a little selfish, perhaps you feel a little. . hurt. why wouldn’t he respond? why wouldn’t he argue? why wouldn’t he just. . say something?

(a pause.)

“at least tell me what i did,” and oh how your heart drops through your chest, falling into the arms of the sunshine lingering on the wood below, “i just don’t want us to fight.”

you know you’re being irrational. you know you’re being unreasonable. you know you’re being— well— god knows what other negative things you’re being what you shouldn’t be in an argument.

(but that’s what makes you human.)

suguru on the other hand. .

even though your back faces him, you can already picturise the expression on his face— which is none at all. just slightly pursed lips and a twitch on his brow, and those god—forsaken eyes that just stare at you.

(suguru’s just trying to sweep away the eggshells that you’ve accidentally dropped onto the ground.)

shaky little steps, trying to brush away dust from the cracked edges of the porcelain.

(he doesn’t realise that kissing the scratches won’t heal them and all he does is stain the white with his blood.)

“i know you don’t want us to,” you say, and your voice cracks a little, “but i do. okay?”

you want to fight. you don’t want to go back to normal and pretend eveything’s alright. you don’t want to look at him. you don’t want to be in the same room as him right now. you don’t want to, of course you don’t— when all he does is shake his head and huff out an exasperated little sigh, like he knew best.

(like, suddenly, you are a little kid once again, trying to understand what’s wrong with befriending strangers. like what’s wrong with talking to things that don’t talk. like what’s wrong with trying to plant a sapling in a rotting forest.)

(like your feelings are something so insignificant that they’re brushed off without an explanation.)

suguru’s eyes soften.

“okay,” he murmurs. “i’ll give you ti—”

your fists clench.

there he goes again.

why does he have to be so patient? it irks you, honestly. it makes you feel stupid every time you have an argument. why couldn’t he just. . fight back? like you. you, sitting here with a broken pot in your hands, and all he does is take your bloodied fingers in his and coo your tears away, rather than asking how or why you shattered it. it makes you mad. it makes you. . it makes you— why is he so understanding? why can’t he just—. .

(. . show that he’s mad at you?)

you might’ve said that out loud, because suguru goes rigid.

“. . .”

you finally break.

a small sniffle escapes you. it’s a tiny thing, barely audible over the cacophony of thoughts flowing in his head. and it’s enough to make him shatter.

“you’re so. . you’re so—” warm hands wrap around your torso, and you cry against his chest, clawing at his shirt, “insufferable. why can’t you just—”

“i’m mad at you,” he hums, rubbing your back. “i am.”

(a pause.)

“how would. . how would i know?” suguru swallows at how small you sound. “w—why can’t you. . say anything?”

“i can’t say everything i feel at the moment, honey.”

“but you can say something.”

(bless his little porcelain heart. it crumbles completely, little shards sticking into his lungs and making it hard to breathe.)

a hand cups your cheek, oh so gently that you might just melt. you brace yourself internally. now, just now he’s going to say something that’ll make you feel dumb. again. and you’ll be left standing with bandaged fingers and swollen eyes again—

suguru’s lips press against your forehead.

no matter how much you want to hate him, it always grounds you. always.

(like the hands which tie your shoelace for you when you’ve fallen over before, scraped knees and watery smiles.)

“okay,” he whispers. “okay.”

“. . .”

“i’m sorry,” you freeze a little, “i’m sorry, baby.”

@d3cay1ngst4tic on tumblr. do not copy or post any of my works without my permission.

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mondaymelon · 2 years ago

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— " 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲, 𝐢'𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧... "

art by @/kodokunoakashi on twitter, edited by me !! angst. an eensey weensey redemption at the end

xiao, zhongli, wanderer, neuvillette x gn!reader

[ centuries after their lover’s passing, they finally are able to rest in your ghostly touch. ₊˚ෆ ]

Perhaps the day he had found your lifeless body, eyes long fluttered closed and splatters of red decorating your throat was the day Xiao began falling apart.

He knew it from the start, that your death would be inevitable. You weren’t like him - a weary soul who had traversed these lands for thousands of years in search of a refuge that Teyvat had never provided for him. No, you were like the evening’s first star, brilliantly shining and setting the entire night sky ablaze. A warm glow that sparked flames wherever its light reached. He was one of many fortunate enough to be caught in your spiraling trap, those cursedly charming grins and a laugh with the innocence of a child. Your sweet warmth was addicting, and once he had a taste, he couldn’t get enough of it. Was that why the adeptus found himself leaving his corner of the inn more and more often, just to trail by your side? Maybe this was the reason he had found himself expressing something on his lips that he had never before?

Fragments split your face in his memory. Years, decades, centuries had passed. To the outside eye, all that could be observed was that the yaksha was particularly more elusive than before, only having briefly appeared once or twice before mortals. With ignorant and foggy minds, they’d declare that the Conqueror of Demons must feel despair over the sudden death of Rex Lapis, and they’d just leave it like that. An open question hanging in the air with no answer to pair it with.

Xiao didn’t know if he still had tears left to weep.

His brethren that he had lost so many years ago had robbed them with their passing, and they were nothing left but an empty remnant of once had remained. A shapeless echo… yes, perhaps that was what he was now. All that knew him were certain that your passing had stolen a part of him that would never recover. The fragments of emotion that you had left with him had only dissipated with time, and he despised himself for it. Shards that danced in his vision as he hefted his spear, whirling it with precision and slaughtering all in its path. They had dared lay hands on you. They had taken whatever resolve he had left. Now, he was but a shell, hollow without your embrace.

It’s cold.

Sometimes, he heard your laugh on the wind, and he’d whip around, expecting to see you there, but only to be met with the terrible, terrible silence, and all the adeptus could do was laugh bitterly. Crystalline drops of tears would threaten to roll past the barriers of his carefully crafted facade, and he’d curse at himself, grasping at his chest with heavy breaths and blown eyes.

He didn’t deserve to cry. No, not after he had failed to protect you. Guilt, self-loathing, karma, all of it… it bound him down with red tendrils that burned against his skin. Pain bloomed throughout his body, a brilliant crimson that stained his clothing, an anguish that he ardently welcomed. His vision dimmed, and his honey eyes which had long since lost their light slowly shut, embracing the darkness that reached for him.

Darkness, so how come when he opened his drowsy lids, all he saw was light?

“Xiao?”

A familiar voice, one that had blurred with time, yet now rang clearly in his senses. Those excitement-filled eyes, that mischievous curve on your lips, and the warmth of your fingers with his. The grass prickled at his back, and the scent of blooming wildflowers filled the air with its spring sweetness.

A smile tugged at his lips. His sorrow spilled from his eyes. He almost could’ve laughed at your concerned gaze, and with a bandaged heart he pulled you closer in his arms. His wounded voice was barely a whisper. “Thank you… for waiting for me all this time, love.”

He still remembers it. It’s a sight that’s been burned into his eyes. The way his composed expression had collapsed, how his disgraced self had fallen to his raw knees. Zhongli had held you then, feeling the precious warmth leave your body, listening to the thrum of your heart slowly ebbing away.

He had been seconds too late to hear what you had spoken in that moment, and only saw the wordless utter on your moving lips, the raspy, labored breaths, until they ceased to nothing but silence. How could something void of sound be so unequivocally loud? The silence rings in his ears, like a horrible testament of his broken contract. That bright moment the two of you had shared seemed centuries ago, an abstract painting of something that couldn’t have possibly occurred. With a beaming face, you had held his larger, gloved hand with two of your smaller ones, grinning at his touch.

“Let’s always be together, okay? No one can keep us apart!” You laughed to yourself at how red the man had grown at your words, and then stared fondly at the silver band he had placed on your finger a day prior, when he had kissed your hands and uttered his words of confession. Red dusted your cheeks at the thought, and to the wide-eyed man, you looked simply ethereal, with the way your lashes fluttered with every blink and the way your cheeks were warm with a smile.

“Yes.” Zhongli had been starstruck by you, so utterly breathless at how speechless a mere mortal could make him. It was astounding, how your smile seemed to steal his words away. He wanted to do nothing but to freeze those seconds, to place them in a glass and cherish them and relive them in a loop that lasted eternity.

Oh, what’d he do to see the way your lips curved upwards into a cheeky grin that you’d display just for him, the snarky comments leaving your mouth, and the way you laughed at his subtle reactions.

It’s only been two hundred years. Should he say “already?” Time passes slow, then fast, fluctuating without any thought of the man in mind. At times, when the clock strikes midnight and moonlight spills into the courtyard like liquid silver, the seconds slow into minutes and the minutes slow into hours, and he’ll gaze out onto the grassy fields where the two of you used to stroll hand-in-hand, and he’ll allow himself a moment of reminiscence. In other times, the world speeds up around him, and the incompetent man is unable to keep up. Your funeral was one of those times. How could he simply walk away from your framed portrait and declare, “that’s that?” Liyue had suffered a terrible loss, yet only he seemed to register that. How come?

Some days, he’ll talk to himself, as if you’re beside him. His words meet empty air and he smiles vacantly, holding a hand that isn’t there and kissing the lips of someone who is long gone. Your shadow is everywhere. He can’t escape it, but that’s okay. He doesn’t want to. Zhongli allows those remnants of you to linger and dance in the wind with the reddening leaves. By the bridge, excitedly petting the stray dogs, calling each and every one of them the name that you’ve bestowed upon them. A sight Ganyu would have loved to see. Or in the branches of a particular tree, laughing down at him with a giggle like birdsong, taunting words. “Would you look at that? Up here, I’m even taller than you, Zhongli!”

And every time he hears your transparent, faded voice, he can’t help but smile, despite how hopeless he feels. You’re gone, and that’s the truth, so where’s the harm in bathing in your afterimage just a moment longer?

He knows it isn’t you. It can’t ever come close. As centuries blur and whirl past, and he finds himself departing to the more secluded spaces of Liyue’s wilderness, he decides it’s time. His nation no longer needs him. The reason he had for living is gone, and the heart that had once been so lively has dulled.

Would it be too foolish to hope that when he opens his eyes, you’ll be there, waiting for him?

“Xiansheng? Come on, come on sleepyhead, wake up already!” Pause. “Oh, will this do the trick?”

And then there’s warmth on his cheek, the feeling of your lips against his skin, and he feels alive, for the first time in those archon-forsaken years. He knows what he’ll see, when he opens his gilded eyes that are shimmering with dew. “Yes, love. I’m here.”

Betrayal. Those sickening words you had spoken to him, sweet beyond belief… Wanderer hissed through his teeth, holding his hands over his ears as his tears fell to the earth and soaked into the dark earth.

Yes, at that time he should’ve known. The truth you spoke to him was simply too good to be true - a fantasy that could never be attained. Yet he had been swayed by your smile and fell for your warmth, and since then had been willingly trapped in a void that was you, with no intention of escaping. It amazed him, almost, how he can smile in this moment, albeit however sour it is. What more proof did he need? To be unable to stay somber in the moments of your passing, did that not just prove how flawed he was? How undeserving?

He detested it. No wonder why you had left this world. It was a pain to even be by his side. Words without “love” and a chest that did not thrum with flusteredness could never convince you to stay beside him. Once again, someone he yearns for has cleverly slipped through his fingers. From the beginning, he was a sinner. A worthless puppet incapable of feeling a shred of what you held for him.

Red dripped from his fingers as they clawed at the earth, as he bends into himself with ugly wails. Could you see him now, wherever you were? Tears flowed freely from his eyes, not heeding his mutters for all of it to cease. He wanted it to end, all of it, the suffering that he felt and the emptiness he could never fully elude. The fatui, his mother, they’d all laugh at him with pointed fingers if they saw him now, wouldn’t they? His flushed cheeks are stained with salt and his throat was raw from his shouts. The blood pooling around your body has already cooled, and your fingers that were intertwined with his had already grown cold to the touch.

“Woah, Wanderer, your skin is really cold! Aren’t you hot at all? It’s summer!” You had stared at him with a childlike fascination, holding his hand in yours, poking it for extra effect, only growing more astonished.

“It’s nothing to be impressed over.” He cleared his throat into his fist, yet did not let go of your hold. “If anything…” At the time, his words had not completed themselves, yet his gaze had trailed to your own hands, and he had kissed the back of them with a cheeky half-smile. I like yours. They’re warm. There had been an inkling of naive hope, that your life could fill the void in his, and perhaps that was what allowed his plastic expression towards you to grow into true ones.

“H-Hey, c’mon…” His voice broke, unsteady like the legs of a newborn fawn. He took your blood-stained hand and pressed it to his cheek, only further wetting it with his tears. “This isn’t funny, you know, you can… you can stop now…”

Look how broken he’s become, stooping as low as to speak to a corpse.

That was only a decade ago. Every morning, the ache of its recollection brings a fresh dose of misery. Every evening he lulls himself to sleep by repeating the words you once said, imagining the stroke of your hands tangled in his hair, imagining your sunbeam-like smile as you gazed down at him fondly.

Really, what’s the point of living with you gone? Could he really call it “life?”

Those questions still remain sharp in his mind as he sputters out a cough, glancing down at the blade in his shattered chest, positioned right where his heart should have been. Cold, unforgiving steel, driving down and tearing apart. Wanderer blinks up at the cursed heavens above and heaves out blood that leaves a lingering red on his lips, and he can’t bring himself to cry anymore. He spits out a final damnation at Celestia before slipping away, eyes closing as he finally-

“Wanderer? Where’s your hat? You aren’t wearing it today?”

Your voice. It breathes life into his empty soul. Warmth. He wants to hold it, hold you, ever closer like he never had the courage to. His violet eyes spring open as he sits up with a start, his disheveled garments flinging about. “Y-You-!”

“What’s with you today? You’re acting strange, silly. Did you eat something you shouldn’t have?” You grin stupidly, an idiocy he finds all so lovable. The twinkle in your eye - you’re alive. You’re breathing and you’re existing before him. A final grace that he can’t thank whatever for enough.

There’s the sound of wind, and then you find yourself tightly wrapped in his embrace, your shoulder stained with his tears that spill despite how much he doesn’t want to show you this weakness. He buries his face into you, and you can feel the ghost of a smile against your skin. “I’ve missed you. So, so much. Please, please, don’t leave me again.”

Lifeless, your body lay, along the shores and lapped by waves stained crimson. That day, Fontaine realized what it was like to truly rain, not a few drops, or even spring showers. Water fell endlessly from the skies, a downpour that may never end, an all-swallowing sea from the heavens that swallowed all unfortunate enough to be caught in its path. Irony clouded the skies, and Neuvillette found himself broken into pieces he didn’t know how to put back together.

His efforts to understand the human population were in vain. A complete, utter failure. How could he possibly judge, knowing the world despised him? Knowing that the scales were upturned and that nothing could ever be just? Your death, it was unfair. Unfair to the world and unfair to he who held you ever so dear. But what else could he do but continue his oversight? Quitting his position wouldn’t bring you back. Nothing would. He could hear your cheery voice in his ear, and the hint of a pout, a chiding tone. “Neuvi, you can’t quit! Let’s all try our best, okay?”

The days where you were by his side were the happiest. Fontaine had become akin to Sumeru’s desert, the sun blazing overhead and the moon shining brightly at night. Yet, how come the people of Fontaine had seemed upset at the skies for his contentment? They begged for rain, begged for their dying crops, to the point where you were forced to distance yourself from the man for days at a time, just the unrelentless sun would cloud over and perhaps a drop or two of rain would be squeezed from the heavens.

If he had known you would leave so soon, he would have never permitted you to depart from his side. If he had known you would pass this world and traverse to the next, he would have held you with every ounce of his soul, he would have declared his love for you over and over, he would have placed the ring he had been saving in his pocket, the one he slipped on his finger whenever he was at a particularly difficult trial.

So many “what if’s.” None of them would materialize. Once again, his efforts would fall short. Once again, he’d lose someone.

The tea was hot. It burned his tongue, yet he couldn’t feel a thing. You, the clearest of springs and purest of waters, had set his own sea into a never-ending storm. Lightning struck and its own surface churned choppily with enough rage to devour a nation. The second tea cup that was on the other side of his office desk remained untouched, the contents slowly cooling into nothingness. A something that could never be.

“Hydro dragon, hydro dragon, don’t cry~” He could hear it when he shut his eyes for what he hoped to be the final time, your voice from the mist that shrouded his mind, and he wanted nothing more than to embrace the owner of it. How could he possibly heed your words, when he felt his tears slip past his eyes, flowing as unperturbed as a river? Your back is facing him, but you know he’s there. You glance back with a fond beam, extending your arms outwards. An invitation. One that he’d readily take, any time, every time.

He would never enable you to slip from his grasp again. He allows you to engulf him in your arms, he allows you to stroke your thumb on his face and wipe away his salty tears, he allows you to brush his hair behind his ear and press butterfly kisses into his closed eyelids. Your warmth floods his body, and with a smile he takes the ring he’s saved for you out of his pocket, and fulfills his regrets as he slips it onto your finger, a final tear rolling down his cheek. “There’ll be no more reason to cry, not anymore.”

(a/n) this further proved to me that writing angst is so fucking mind destroying but at the same time provides this sort of quiet sorrow that you aren't able to attain anywhere else and for some twisted reason this is literally one of my favorite things ive like. ever written. holy shiiiii

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