#As Shadows Crawl from the Eclipse

[rosemaryhoney27]

Gotham's Sunshine child part 5

“The Day the Sun Went Dark”

It started with the eclipse.

A rare, total one, the kind that turned Gotham’s already dim skies into something unnatural. Shadows sharpened. Streetlights flickered. A hush settled over the city like it was holding its breath.

And Joker— Well, Joker looked at the sky and saw an opportunity.

Bruce was already on edge.

So were the others. Tim had pulled up emergency protocols. Oracle flagged Joker chatter on the darknet—gibberish mixed with phrases like “paint the moon black” and “snuff out the spark.”

Jason said what they were all thinking:

“…He’s going after Danny.”

Joker had learned just enough to be dangerous. Rumors of a boy the city adored. A kid who glowed with goodness and had every crime ring too afraid or too grateful to touch. A child who wasn’t just protected by Gotham’s underworld—but by its shadows.

So naturally, Joker decided to make it a joke.

A sick one.

He waited until the eclipse was total. Until Danny was walking back from a Narrows clinic, having just dropped off a box of donated socks. No backup. No witnesses.

Just him.

And the dark.

The Bat-Family wasn’t fast enough.

Not this time.

They were minutes late.

Danny was gone.

When he woke up, the world smelled like copper and chemicals. The floor beneath him was cold. Chains rattled. Lightbulbs buzzed.

“Wakey wakey, Little Light,” Joker sing-songed from the edge of a makeshift operating table, fingers twitching with barely restrained glee. “Do you know who you are?”

Danny looked up, groggy and blinking.

Then still.

Then—

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

Joker leaned in. “Tell me, then. Because everyone else seems to think you’re special. Sunshine Child, right? Gotham’s golden boy? Well, guess what—sunshine doesn’t exist without shadows.”

Danny didn’t flinch.

Didn’t panic.

Didn’t scream.

He just sat there.

Silent.

Still.

And then— something shifted.

It was slow.

The air dropped ten degrees. The buzzing lightbulbs crackled. Shadows grew longer, deeper—like they were watching. Waiting.

And Danny’s shoulders slumped.

When he finally looked up at Joker, the glow in his eyes was not sunlight.

It was ice.

“You made a mistake,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper.

Joker laughed. “Ooooh, scary. Did I break the sun?”

Danny’s next words were cold enough to silence the room:

“No. You eclipsed it.”

Outside, in the city, it started to snow.

In August.

Frost crawled up windows. Electrical grids shorted. Spectral energy readings spiked so hard that Constantine choked on his tea three cities over and muttered, “Oh, bollocks.”

The Bat-Family was mid-search when Barbara gasped.

“Guys,” she said through the comms. “He’s going ghost.”

Inside the warehouse, Danny’s chains shattered like glass.

The boy who had smiled at muggers, shared soup with thieves, and taught math to gang kids—

Floated.

His eyes glowed with eldritch green light.

The temperature dropped with every word.

“You hurt Gotham’s people. You used my name. You tried to twist it.”

Joker backed away. For the first time in years—he was confused. Not afraid. Confused.

“Wh—what are you?”

Danny didn’t grin.

Didn’t monologue.

He just unleashed.

The explosion of spectral energy tore through the building. Screams filled the air—not just Joker’s, but the echoes of every soul he’d ever scarred.

By the time the Bat-Fam arrived, the warehouse looked haunted.

Frozen graffiti on the walls.

Chains hanging midair.

Joker? Curled in a fetal position, babbling nonsense, his smile gone.

And Danny?

He stood in the center of it all.

Floating. Glowing. Crying.

“…I didn’t want to,” he whispered.

Bruce caught him as he collapsed.

It took three days for Danny to wake up again.

He expected panic. Anger. Rejection.

Instead, he opened his eyes to find Jason sitting at his bedside, polishing a crowbar and humming.

“Yo.”

Danny blinked. “…Am I in trouble?”

Jason scoffed. “Kid, you scared Joker into therapy. I think we owe you a medal.”

Later, Bruce came in. Quiet. Calm.

“Danny,” he said, “you didn’t lose control. You protected yourself. And this city.”

Danny’s voice was barely a murmur. “But the eclipse—what I felt—I didn’t even know I could do that.”

Bruce rested a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re not just our Sunshine,” he said. “You’re our shield.”

Gotham whispered, after that day.

That the boy who once smiled through everything had a storm inside him.

But they didn’t fear it.

They respected it.

Because when the sun went dark—

Danny Fenton shone brighter.

[swordgrace]

𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐞.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.7K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), porn no plot, pure filth, john walker is a munch, cunnilingus, oral sex (fem!rec), face-sitting, john walker’s praise kink, making out, beard burn from john, hair-pulling.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this is the face-sitting ficlet that was promised. don’t go into this expecting plot bc this got me freaked up ngl ,,, hope y’all enjoy. 🫶

Careworn palms mold themselves to the swell of your hips, threatening to snake over your ass, digits scratching across satiny cotton.

Through the gloam of a hushed dusk, you’re firmly slotted in John’s lap, one of his military shirts hanging from your frame, panties clinging underneath.

He quiets when his mouth is busy, bravado and swagger sucked dry, exchanged for a tangled snare of passionate kisses. Hips languidly roll against his, as if to test the limits, and he squirms.

A pleasant sting settles within his chest, dismissed through your mouth, clamoring over his, slick with spit and desperation.

Excited hands trace over his thick biceps, smattered in faint freckles and nearly-healed bruises, yellowing knots over sun-kissed skin. Digits hook against the nape of his neck, crawling into blonde tresses.

John wouldn’t confess to this, but you make him nervous — something to lose, as if you might dissipate between his fingers like dust in the wind.

Every drawn-out embrace of your mouth makes him ache in a way he never thought possible, ravenous for you, as if you’re the last thing he’ll ever have. Calloused palms drop to your thighs, kneading over pliant flesh, savoring soft skin.

His stamina outweighs yours, enhanced by the serum, giving him the ability to endure; he’s struggling when your hips grind against his.

Muscle envelops you, the brawn of his physique a canvas for your kisses, mouth untangling as you plant your lips over his jaw. A hitch forms at the bottom of his throat, subtle; you catch it, satisfaction rippling through you.

The shadow of his beard scratches your mouth, itching some lascivious part of your brain, the one that craves him like air.

“God, you’re beautiful,” John sighs with rapture, husky timbre vibrating beside your ear; he grips your thigh a little tighter, as if to accentuate his statement. “Drivin’ me crazy.” He whispers, nose ghosting over your temple.

Georgian drawls sink into his cadence whenever his voice lowers, and it’s effective, cutting into your belly like a hot knife. Heat warms the back of your neck, slithering throughout your body, leaving you aching for more.

Lashes kiss the soft skin beneath your eyes, gooseflesh spreading from where his thumb circles over your thigh, his caress grounding you.

He eases back, flattening against the mattress, arching one arm beneath his head. The position is comfortable, smug; something incendiary crackles beneath his cerulean hues.

Still perched within his lap, your head cants to one side, palms splaying flat over his abdomen. “Where are you going?” You hum, nonplussed as you prepare to give chase.

His bicep flexes behind his head, gaze eclipsed by desire as he rubs one palm over your thigh, hitching within the crook of your knee. “Nowhere,” John utters, chin jutting up. “Take those off.”

There’s a lack of staunch dominance within his tone, but you obey anyway, swallowing the swell of excitement that threatens to burst from your chest.

Eager fingers hook into your panties, worming from the snug material with ease. Cotton pools somewhere at the foot of your bed, bare cunt ghosting over the swell in his sweatpants.

“Come here.” The attractive rasp that clings to his purr makes your stomach tight with butterflies, arousal slick as you attempt to shove your legs together.

Wordlessly, you’re inclined to obey, body floating as you awkwardly climb up his chest, silky thighs straddling his chest. The full brunt of your weight neglects to sink onto him, gaze radiantly doe-eyed.

Between charged glances and an absent wetting of his bottom lip, you discern what he’s after, throat becoming unbearably snug. “John, I don’t think this is a good idea. What if I —”

“I can handle it, honey.” John placates, tone climbing with enthusiasm, pitched with an excitable sigh. Roughened fingers tense behind your knee, preparing to drag you closer.

The heady use of his affection pet-name for you makes you squirm, body caged within a coil of heat, spine quivering with a shiver. Still, you’re hesitant, rocked up upon your knees to redistribute the weight elsewhere.

Rough palms coax you closer, and he’s silently pleading, begging for you to bridge the gap and sit on his face. He’s itching, gaze burning right through you, still caressing your thigh out of pure reassurance, hoping to put you at-ease.

Coaxed, you kneel above his head, knees wedged on either side of him, beard prickling your flesh. Tingles crawl over your spine, electricity blazing through your nerves as he holds you.

“Still don’t trust me?” John murmurs, planting a reverent kiss against your thigh, cock throbbing with a sudden ache when your hand reaches down, tugging at his scalp.

Words work faster than your brain, “You’ll have to earn it.” As the wanton utterance slips past your mouth, his pupils dilate, black eclipsing blue, jaw beginning to slack.

Taking this as some sort of unspoken challenge, a fire burns within his gaze, as if he’s trying to win. He kisses a slow trail over your leg, beard scratching ragged, accompanied by an occasional scrape of teeth.

Lips flush against your inner thigh, brief, drawing a shudder from your spine, feeling his mouth climb to the warmth oozing between your legs.

His chest erupts with a shallow grunt, hands firm on the back of your legs. John pulls you lower, glowering at you from between your thighs, blonde brows creased with concentration.

Still, you’re hovering, perched; unwilling to relinquish your weight, your hand darts out to brace against the wall, sucking in a sharp breath.

The first lap of his tongue is broad, flat over your aching slit, beard stinging your silky flesh. He’s watching you, the smoldering eye contact enough to make your cunt clench around nothing at all.

Tonguing across your cunt, the bittersweet bite of your arousal floods his mouth, and he welcomes it, molding his lips to your core. It stirs a flame within your belly, pooling heat, making you writhe.

“Fuck,” In a sluggish, drawn-out exhale, your fingers card through his crown, nails lightly perusing over his scalp. John shivers, cock throbbing, straining against the front of his pants. “John, s’good.”

His tongue rakes embers across your cunt, nearly ripping the air from your lungs. The sensation is dizzying, and he treats it as if it’s a competition, striving to be the best at fucking you with his mouth.

The tip of his nose brushes against your folds, but even that isn’t good enough; he wants to be smothered, buried. He can feel you teetering above him as if you’re adverse to sinking down fully.

With slow, eager laps of his tongue, John made sure to savor you, letting the flat of his tongue fall heavy across your clit. His name plumes from your mouth like a prayer.

“Jesus, would you sit down?” With an impatient growl, the sharp command makes your thighs twitch, knees buckling as they collapse beneath the weight of his words.

Smitten, you drop all at once, as if you’re mere putty, malleable within his hands. Relinquishing your weight onto his face, he groans, the noise vibrating through your core.

He grips you like a vice, caging you firmly against his head, nose grazing your mound. Keeping you anchored to his mouth, he’s consuming you like a man starved, deprived of sustenance.

Pleasure jolts through your body in shockwaves, piercing your belly, slicking between your thighs as your hips urge forward. The friction isn’t unwanted with him; he’s messy, ravenous.

Sometimes, you despise how good he is at this — how incredible he makes you feel. You’re collapsing, gritting your teeth as your forehead becomes flush with the wall.

John seems too comfortable; if he had it his way, he’d stay between your legs and eat your cunt until you were trembling and screaming.

Rough-hewn palms manhandle your thighs, shaking, holding so tightly that it might bruise. It’s accidental, something to keep himself grounded while he’s burying his mouth into your cunt.

It’s the scratch of his beard against soft flesh that makes your stomach flip, stubble ragged when he’s lapping at your slit, a pleasant burn.

Lips part around your clit, tasting you, savoring you; his senses are all hazy, clouded by your scent, the taste, everything. A low grunt rips through his diaphragm, followed by a groan when your hips grind into his mouth.

Eyes flutter shut as if he’s content, drinking you in like some oasis, tongue working diligently across your cunt in broad, heady strokes. The bridge of his nose presses flush, imbibing you as if you’re the best thing he’s tasted.

A breathy, unfiltered string of babbled praise tears from your diaphragm, enamored with the pace he sets — nothing too rushed. Thighs quiver like leaves on either side of his head, hips canting forward.

“F—Fuck, fuck,” Spoken through a lascivious cadence, your voice splinters at the end, tapering off into a noisy moan. “Mouth feels amazing, John, so good.” Your slur, dizzy from desire.

It’s as if he’s struck with an aphrodisiac, flesh crawling with heat, and he preens when you lavish him with praise. John wants to bite back, answering your remark with another barrage of his tongue.

The heel of your palm digs into the wall, digits curling, body jolting with ripples of ecstasy. It only trembles further when his tongue ghosts around your clit, never fully making contact.

You urged him closer, hips rolling into the fervent heat of his mouth, thighs quivering as he treated you to a lap of his tongue.

Circled strokes dance over your cunt; once, twice, three times — you begin to lose count, succumbing to a mind-numbing euphoria.

Each keen of his tongue is reverent, lavishing you in rough kisses to your cunt as if it’s a thing of beauty, beard scraping raw over silky flesh, digits dipping into your haunches.

Whenever your hips happen to grind into his mouth, his cock twitches incessantly, leaving behind a splotch of precum from his own excitement.

He can’t fully explain why he gets off to you riding his face, but he does — so bad. It’s borderline agonizing, body rutting pathetically against nothing at all, lips applying pressure to your throbbing clit.

A crass burn singes his chest, labored groans echoed between your thighs like a prayer, sins lost within your cunt.

He’s smothered by your body, and he’s hoping that you stay, muscles spasming from the surge of ecstasy that scorches your veins.

A sharp groan blossoms throughout his sternum as you incessantly tug upon his blonde tresses, urging him closer, if that were even possible.

Tact leaves his body, replaced only by a feral hunger, and he’s messy, wanton; John’s pace adjusts to something all-devouring. His tongue flattens in broad strokes, a growl emerging from his mouth.

A white-hot bliss twists at your belly, everything set ablaze, hips rocking forward, again and again. Using the wall as an anchor, you let out a hapless sob into the cold surface, cunt throbbing with pleasurable pulsations.

“J—John, I — I can’t,” Crying from delight, you’re desperate to cum, his beard providing ample stimulation, rough and ragged. “Feels so good, dunno if I can …” Huffing in half-sentences, you try to pull into the wall.

As the stinging pressure begins to lighten, John immediately drags you back down, hands clawing, silently begging for you to stay.

Lips climb from your heated core to your clit, pressing a string of kisses there, tongue brushing over the clutch of nerves.

“Sit,” Through a husky groan, he’s urging you onto his mouth, lips pursing around your clit. The sudden stimulation almost knocks the wind from your legs, moaning without any consideration for the noise. “That’s it, that’s my girl.” John purrs.

Words turn to ash on your tongue, dying then and there when he encourages you to continue. You’re quivering atop him, but he steadies you, forearms taut, flexing as he holds you aloft without much effort.

John’s mouth is voracious, tongue endlessly greedy, eating you out as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Part of you wants to crumple, collapse in on yourself like a dying star, burning away.

Circling around your clit, he begins to lap over your pearl, feeling your legs tremor around him, muscles spasmodic, twitching. The needy tonguing makes your back arch, biting down on your bottom lip.

Between the pressure of your weight and being smothered amidst your cunt, John swears that he’s going to come — there isn’t any shame associated with it.

Cerulean hues sparkle with a glazed sheen, half-lidded, peering up at you, only to catch the blissed-out look on your face. He groans again, tempting you further as he suckles on your clit, unabashedly crass.

“John, John, m’close,” With a choked whimper, your hips continue to grind, and he’s content to lay there and take it, let you have whatever you want from him. “Fuck, need you so bad.” You sob, feeling as if you might combust.

He presses you further, a low hum tumbling from his mouth, still fervently revolving around your clit. The praise is blinding, and he’s crashing too, the both of you tangled in a supernova of ecstasy.

With another string of laps to your aching cunt, you’re fraying at the edges, splitting apart, completely and utterly destroyed.

A white-hot fever burns through you, bliss overwhelming, a buzz humming through your bones as if you’re floating somewhere else. Your jaw slacks, unhinged as you scream his name, gripping at his scalp, hunched over.

Feeling your body pulse around him, a low grunt splits his diaphragm, your legs trembling, muscles twitching in the aftermath. Even still, your mind is foggy, shrouded by a haze of desire.

He reacts in-tandem, coming untouched, snarling as he reaches his release. Everything feels unbearably hot, sticky — his gaze is glassy, visage splotched with scarlet.

Blissed-out and satiated, John’s brows pinch together, countenance a thing of unbridled satisfaction as he cums in his pants. He’s catching his breath, labored, attempting to ground himself again.

Conceding, he plants another kiss to your core, followed by a rough lap of his tongue, beard soaked by your slick, the sight obscene.

When you collapse in a heap next to him, your legs feel like jelly, muscles weak, still spasmodic as you plant a hand against his chest. He’s calming with you, gaze trained up at the ceiling, relaxed.

“Jesus.” John sounds happy, unable to bite back a grin as he wets his bottom lip. The taste of you is ingrained into his tongue, a bittersweet ambrosia that sates his craving.

Thoroughly and utterly razed, John is still mentally catching up, chest heaving as if he’s run himself ragged, burning in the best way.

With a soft grunt, he sits up just enough to peer at you through blonde lashes, wondering what exactly he’d done to deserve you. You’re beautiful, stunning in the afterglow as you caress over his bicep.

“I don’t know what to say.” Smitten, you notice the satisfied smirk that paints his features, tresses disheveled, beard saturated with your arousal.

“That good?” John teases, and you lightly smack his ribs, hand running over his arm again, urging him down. He seems surprised, but concedes to you anyway, hunching over as you kiss him hard.

It makes his head spin, throat tight, cock pulsing again as if he didn’t cum already. John groans low into your lips, and you can taste yourself on his tongue, taste what he did to you.

He crumples, hand seizing your hips, tracing circles over the bone. With another dizzying kiss, he withdraws enough to stare at you.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Through a sweet mumble, you’re kissing his jaw, his cheek. He’s flushed, unable to keep up the tough facade — and he doesn’t want to.

[xensilverquill]

The Mage-Moths (Magitineus sophonti) are a race of sophont anthrosects native to the deep temperate forests in the heartland of the Sunken Continent. Mage-moths are reclusive yet peaceful tree dwellers who make their settlements in the branches of the forest understory. Their housing, tools, and apparel are most often made from the bark and foliage of the leatherleaf tree and the silk of their children. The mages of their tribe are a respected guild who are prized for their prowess as lorekeepers as well as their extra-dimensional manipulation abilities.

An excerpt from an interview with Star-Crashing-From-The-Sky, Mage of the Westwoods Eclipse, and her apprentice/creche-son, Shadows-Under-The-Maple:

"Many are the peoples who dwell in this Land Between the Inner and Outer Reaches. Running and flying, crawling and swimming, awakened and unawakened -- they are all one and beloved under the eye of the Inner Sun. Come, dear stranger, come away with me a while. For the night is flying on, and I should love to share this wind with you."

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[doumadono]

Synopsis: Dabi finds unexpected solace and love in the arms of an ordinary woman he once saved, proving that even the darkest hearts can find their way home

A/N: this episode left me heartbroken for my poor Touya, so I decided to treat him with love he deserves. I'm utterly sad 😢

MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST - PART II

The wind whipped through Dabi's hair as he stood atop an abandoned building, leaning against the edge of the rooftop with his hands stuffed deep into his coat pockets. The city below was a mess of flickering neon signs and honking traffic, a world that moved on, unaware of the moments happening above it. For once, the usually calm and collected villain felt a knot in his stomach — a nervousness he hadn’t experienced in years. He hated this. Hated how you, a mere ordinary citizen, managed to make him feel things he thought were long dead inside him. But he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t help the way his pulse quickened when he thought about you.

"She’s not gonna come," he muttered to himself, voice rough, filled with doubt. He almost scoffed at the idea of you agreeing to this date. Why would you? You were sweet, kind, and everything he was not. And he… well, he was Dabi, the infamous villain with a reputation that made grown men tremble. It was laughable, really.

But then, like a flicker of light in the darkness, he heard footsteps approaching from the stairwell. He turned his head sharply, heart pounding in his ears. And there you were, panting softly from the climb, with that same fire in your eyes that had caught his attention months ago.

The first time you met him, you’d been terrified.

You were on your way home after a long shift at the café, your feet aching and your mind foggy with exhaustion. The streets were eerily quiet, shadows stretching under the dim streetlights, and an unsettling feeling crept up your spine. You pulled your jacket tighter around yourself, trying to shake off the chill, but it only deepened when you glanced back and saw him — a violent drunk man, staggering and leering, closing in on you.

“Hey,” he slurred, his breath reeking of cheap liquor, “why you in such a hurry, sweetheart?”

Panic constricted your throat, and you picked up your pace, desperately hoping he’d lose interest. But just as you thought you might be safe, you felt it — a rough hand gripping your wrist, yanking you back with an iron grip, alcohol-stained, heavy breath fanning your cheek. “Don’t walk away from me,” he growled, his voice low and threatening. “I’m talking to you.”

The fear froze you in place, every muscle locked up as you struggled against his hold, feeling utterly helpless. Your heart pounded in your chest, a drumbeat of despair echoing in your ears. The man leaned closer, and you could smell the sour stench of alcohol on him. Just when you thought things couldn’t get worse, he stepped even closer, his predatory grin making your skin crawl.

But then, out of nowhere, a brilliant blue light erupted in the alleyway.

The drunk man was thrown back with a force that sent him crashing into the wall, his body convulsing as tendrils of flame danced all over his clothes.

You gasped, your eyes widening in shock, your heart racing with terror and confusion.

And there he was — Dabi — stepping out of the shadows, his hand glowing with an eerie, azure fire. The sight was both mesmerizing and horrifying. You had seen his face plastered across the news, heard whispered stories about the villain who left nothing but ashes in his wake.

The drunk man’s eyes widened in shock, fear eclipsing his bravado as he scrambled back, trying to put the flames down. "S-stop!"

Dabi's lips curled into a smirk, and with that, he thrust his hand forward, sending a burst of fire that engulfed the man in a blinding flash instantly.

You dropped to your knees, trembling as the heat washed over you. Your breath hitched, and the world around you blurred as you tried to comprehend what you had just witnessed.

The man screamed — a horrific, animalistic, gut-wrenching sound that echoed in the night — before falling silent, consumed by the flames, reduced to a charred skeleton.

The fear that had gripped you was now compounded by the dread that Dabi might turn those flames on you next. You felt your heart race even faster, and you dropped your gaze, feeling utterly powerless, on the brink of fainting.

But then Dabi stepped forward, the fire fading from his hand as he turned to look down at you. His turquoise eyes searched yours as he grasped you by the elbow, firmly yanking you back to your feet.

“Ya okay?” he asked, his voice low and raspy.

You blinked up at him, initially avoiding looking into his eyes, more than a little surprised. A villain just asked how were you holding up. “I… I don’t know,” you managed, your voice shaking. The adrenaline surged through your veins, and the sheer intensity of the moment left you breathless. “You just… you just burned that man alive...”

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. He had it coming."

You felt a rush of conflicting emotions — fear, awe, and something inexplicable that made your heart race. “You saved me,” you whispered, your mind still racing. “Why?” a question followed, your voice barely above a whisper.

He shrugged, his gaze flicking away, an almost reluctant admission slipping through. “Maybe I just hate people like him,” he muttered, sounding defensive. “Maybe he pissed me off. Who knows, doll?”

That night had been terrifying, but it was also the beginning of something you never expected — an attraction to a man who was everything society warned you about.

"You’re late," he teased, though there was no malice in his tone. It was almost… gentle, for him.

You shot him a playful glare, smoothing down your white shirt that hugged your body in all the right places, and your skin-tight jeans that left little to the imagination. "You’re the one who told me to meet you on the rooftop of an abandoned building," you shot back, rolling your eyes. "It’s not exactly an easy place to find, you know."

He smirked, unable to hide the way his eyes roved over your figure, lingering perhaps a bit too long on your boobs. "Can’t blame me for wanting some privacy, doll," he drawled, the nickname slipping out effortlessly. It was a habit now, one that you’d come to expect from him.

A shiver ran down your spine at the way his voice deepened, roughened around the edges, and you swallowed, feeling suddenly self-conscious under his gaze. But there was no judgment in his eyes — only a heat that made your heart race.

"Why here?" you asked, motioning around to the empty rooftop. "It’s a bit… unconventional, don’t you think?"

Dabi shrugged, looking away from you, staring out at the city lights instead. "Thought you’d appreciate it," he said simply. "Away from prying eyes. Besides," he paused, his lips curling into that familiar, crooked grin, "I didn’t want anyone else getting in the way."

You stepped closer, drawn to him like a moth to a flame, despite knowing how dangerous he was. "I thought you’d be used to people looking, Dabi," you teased, trying to ease the tension. "You’re not exactly inconspicuous."

He chuckled, a sound that was more of a low rumble, and finally turned to face you fully. "Maybe I’m just getting soft," he mused. "Or maybe," his voice dropped, softer now, "I just don’t want to share this with anyone else."

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him. There were so many things you wanted to ask, so many things you didn’t understand about him. But the way he looked at you now, like you were the only person in this entire city that mattered — it made your questions scatter like ashes in the wind.

"You know," you started, trying to hide the nervousness in your tone, "I was really surprised when you asked me out."

"Yeah?" He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Why’s that?"

You took a breath, choosing your words carefully. "I mean… you’re Dabi," you said. "I didn’t think someone like you would be interested in someone like me. And we rarely spoke from the moment you saved me. If not counting you stalking me around.”

There was a beat of silence before he spoke again, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "You’d be surprised, doll," he murmured. "Turns out, even villains can have a thing for ordinary girls, especially as sweet as you. And I just wanted to make sure you were safe.”

You felt your cheeks warm, and you looked away, flustered. "You know," you said, trying to regain your composure, "when I first met you, I was terrified."

He laughed, a genuine sound that sent shivers down your spine. "I’d be worried if you weren’t," he replied, the corner of his mouth twitching up. "But you stuck around anyway."

"Yeah," you admitted, meeting his gaze again. "I did."

"Why?" The question slipped from his lips before he could stop himself. He needed to know. Needed to understand.

You hesitated, then took another step closer until you were standing right in front of him. "Because I saw something in you," you whispered. "Something more than just this villain persona."

He stared at you, his heart pounding so loudly in his ears that he almost couldn’t hear your words. And for the first time in a long time, Dabi was scared — not of being rejected, but of the hope that was blossoming in his chest.

"Is it… okay if I…" His voice trailed off, uncharacteristically uncertain. You knew what he was asking, and you nodded, a small smile playing on your lips.

"You’re really asking permission? " you teased gently, leaning in closer. "How polite of you."

"Don’t get used to it," he shot back, but his words lacked their usual bite. And then, without waiting another second, he closed the distance between you, capturing your lips in a kiss that was somehow both desperate and gentle, like he’d been waiting for this moment his entire life.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, and you felt him relax against you, his hands moving to rest on your hips. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the warmth of his body contrasting with the chill of the night air. It was intoxicating, the way he kissed you — like he was afraid you might disappear if he didn’t hold you close enough.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, Dabi pressed his forehead against yours, eyes still closed. "You’re not scared of me anymore," he murmured, and it wasn’t a question. It was a realization, one that made something inside him soften.

"No," you agreed, smiling softly. "I’m not."

"Good," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Because I’m not letting you go."

You laughed, the sound light and carefree, and he felt something inside him stir — something that he hadn’t felt in years. "I wouldn’t want you to," you confessed, and his eyes snapped open, staring at you with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat.

"Come," he said, pulling you towards the other edge of the rooftop. "I want to show you something."

You followed him, leaning against his side as he pointed towards the sky. "See that?" he murmured, his voice rough against your ear. "That’s Orion’s Belt."

You tilted your head, squinting up at the stars. "Mmm, look at you, are you keen on astronomy?" you asked, genuinely curious.

He shrugged, looking almost sheepish. "Had a lot of time on my hands," he admitted. “Thought I might learn a thing or two to woo girls.”

You laughed again, and Dabi couldn’t help but smile at the sound. It was infectious, the way your happiness seemed to bleed into him, warming the cold parts of him that he’d thought were beyond saving.

"I never thought I’d be here," he confessed, surprising even himself with his honesty. "Never thought I’d find someone who could make me feel this way."

You turned to face him, your expression soft. "And how do I make you feel?" you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper.

He looked at you, really looked at you, and for once, he didn’t try to hide. "Like I’m not alone," he uttered simply.

You reached up, brushing a strand of black hair away from his eyes. "You’re not," you promised, and when he kissed you again, it was softer this time — gentler, like he was savoring every moment.

As the two of you stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the city buzzing beneath you, the stars shining above, Dabi knew that he’d found something worth fighting for.

“You ever think about how things would be different if we hadn’t met that night?” you asked suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between you. Your voice was soft, contemplative, and Dabi felt his chest tighten at the thought.

“Probably wouldn’t have gotten this far,” he admitted, his tone laced with an honesty he rarely allowed himself. “Would’ve kept burning everything until there was nothing left.”

You turned your head to look at him, a small, sad smile playing on your lips. “You’re not just made of rage, Dabi,” you said quietly. “There’s more to you than that.”

He snorted, rolling his eyes, but there was no real heat behind it. “You always gotta be so damn optimistic?” he muttered, though his lips twitched upwards, betraying the fondness he felt.

“Someone’s got to be,” you teased back, nudging him gently with your shoulder.

Dabi’s gaze softened as he looked at you, his usual sardonic mask slipping away to reveal the raw vulnerability underneath. “You’re not scared of me,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Not anymore."

You shook your head, reaching up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over one of the patches of rough, scarred skin. “No,” you whispered. “I’m not.”

For a moment, neither of you moved, the world around you fading into the background as you stood there, lost in each other’s gaze. And then, without warning, Dabi slipped his arms around your waist, pulling you against him as he rested his chin on top of your head. He held you there, feeling the warmth of your body against his, the steady rise and fall of your breathing, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, Dabi felt safe.

"Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?” he whispered against your hair, his voice barely more than a breath. “To hold you like this?”

You closed your eyes, leaning into him, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. "I was scared at first," you admitted, your voice trembling slightly. "But now… I don’t want to be anywhere else."

He tightened his hold on you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the faint scent of your shampoo, the warmth of your skin. It was intoxicating, this feeling of being so close to you, of knowing that you weren’t going to disappear, weren’t going to leave him behind.

"I never thought I’d have this," he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple.

You turned in his arms, tilting your head up to look at him, and Dabi felt his heart skip a beat at the sight of your smile — soft, genuine, and so full of love that it made his chest ache. “You deserve to be happy, Dabi,” you said, your voice steady and sure. “You deserve to be loved.”

His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, all he could do was stare at you, his mind racing with a thousand different emotions. And then, before he could stop himself, he leaned down and kissed you, slow and gentle, like he was savoring every second. You melted against him, your hands tangling in his hair, and he felt something inside him break apart, something that had been locked away for far too long.

When he finally pulled away, Dabi rested his forehead against yours, his arms still wrapped tightly around your waist. "You’re gonna be the death of me, doll," he muttered, but there was no bite to his words, only warmth.

You laughed softly, leaning up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Maybe," you agreed, "but I’ll make sure you’re happy first."

He smiled, a real, genuine smile that made his eyes crinkle at the edges, and he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. "Promise?"

“Promise,” you whispered, and as the two of you stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, gazing up at the stars, Dabi felt, for the first time in his life, that maybe, just maybe, he was going to experience real love.

[corruptedcaps]

Total Eclipse

This story is for the incomparable @misseviehyde. Hope she and everyone else enjoys it!

Ally adjusted the tripod legs one last time, the soles of her sneakers sinking into the soft beach sand. She wiped the sweat from her brow and peeked up at the sky through thick rimmed glasses, the moon already beginning its slow crawl across the sun. She smiled. It would be a perfect view. Alone, finally, with her telescope.

She pulled out a small folding chair, scribbled a few notes in her weathered astronomy journal, and looked up again. Then laughter cracked through the air that made her shiver.

“Oh my God, look at her.” Came the unmistakable voice of Tessa. Ally tensed.

Tessa was the queen bee of their high school. All tanned skin, cropped tops, and cruel smiles. Her gang wasn’t far behind, beach bags slung over shoulders, phones out and recording.

Ally tried to ignore them, tilting her telescope higher. She knew she should have picked a more isolated spot.

“What’s that, your virgin detector?” Tessa kicked a little sand at the legs of Ally’s tripod. “Gonna find aliens with that thing, or just more losers like you?”

Ally flinched but didn’t reply. The eclipse was minutes away.

“I said.” Tessa stepped closer, eyes glinting, “What are you even doing out here? This is a beach, nerd. Not a science lab.”

Ally reached for her telescope again, but Tessa grabbed her wrist and yanked her away. The tripod tipped.

“No!” Ally cried, trying to catch it. The telescope hit the sand with a thud. Tessa snorted. “Oops.”

A sudden chill crept over the beach. The moon had almost fully covered the sun. Shadows warped. The air shimmered. Ally looked up, her heart pounding. “You’re ruining it.”

Tessa rolled her eyes and shoved her. “Relax dork, like anyone cares.” The light changed. Dimmed. A dark halo flared around the blackened sun. Ally could feel electricity in the air and watched as Tessa’s hair started to levitate.

Tessa’s smirk faded as her hands, still gripping Ally’s shoulders, started to sink into her like mist meeting water. “What the?”

Ally convulsed. A glow pulsed through her skin, violet and silver. Tessa cried out and tried to pull back, but her arms were stuck. Her face twisted in horror as she was pulled into Ally’s chest with one long slurping sound.

Ally collapsed onto her beach towel. For a moment, the beach was silent. Tessa’s friends, like everyone else on the beach, were transfixed by the eclipse to notice the weird science it was creating with Ally and Tessa.

Ally’s oversized hoody shrank and morphed into what could generously be called a bikini top, her old worn jeans turning into a matching bottom. Her skin started to glow with a golden tan.

Her body changed next, becoming curved, sculpted, with legs long and lean, breasts fuller, and a tighter waist. Her lips tingled as they plumped up, becoming instantly kissable.

She felt the heat of her new body. The strength. The power. And something else. Memories.

Not just Tessa’s. Not just Ally’s. Hers. A lifetime of being both. The hours spent stargazing and dreaming of more, followed by the day she decided to stop hiding and instead to start taking. She remembered being mocked… and then making them afraid to try. She remembered being invisible and then impossible to ignore.

These weren’t the memories of Ally or Tessa, but of someone new. The name came out of the ether and became as natural to as breathing. She was Alyssa. She had always been Alyssa. The bitch, the babe, the queen bee. Every dork’s nightmare and every guy’s wet dream.

She looked at her French manicure and rolled her hands over her body, feeling it as though she always had it. She was going to enjoy being the alpha from now on.

One of the girls turned around to see where Tessa had disappeared to but finding only a new beauty in her place. However after a moment the name Tessa seemed foreign to her, like it was someone she knew in a past life. “Alyssa? You okay?”

Alyssa tilted her head, letting the sun’s returning light gleam off her perfect physique. “Never better babes.”

They other girls looked at her for a long moment, as the new reality settled in their minds. Then they smiled and gravitated towards their leader, gaming over her.

“Oh my God, Alyssa, you have to tell me where you bought your bikini.” One said.

“Totes, you look banging babe.” Another added.

“Wait till the guys see you.” The last sycophant said but Alyssa ate it all up.

Alyssa smirked. “Well, let’s not keep them waiting.”

She walked away, hips swaying, the queen of a world rewritten by the eclipse, leaving behind the broken telescope, now half buried in the sand. A relic from another life, a life she was about to totally eclipse.

[bamboozledbird]

oᥒᥴᥱ ι'm ყoᥙrs ι'm ᥲᥣᥕᥲყs ყoᥙrs //stiles stilinski imagine characters: stiles stilinski, fem!reader, mentioned malia tate pairing(s): stiles x you word count: 4k tags: exes to ???, hurt some comfort, set in s5 warnings: some light emotional cheating, i think that's it, sad boy hours, *pats stiles’s head* this boy can fit so much trauma in here

a/n: long time no see. i've missed you my babies, and thank you so much for all the love while i was gone. i'm back with my usual overdose of angst and em dashes. i can't help it; i have a sickness. also, the timing of when stiles and malia got together is a little fudged, so they probably started dating in 4b.

It’s an icy slice of fear that wakes you up. A white flash of ‘fight or flight’ behind your sleep-sticky lids. A rattling that doesn’t belong to the pitter-patter of sleet or the whiplash of wind against your bedroom window. You sit up on your forearm, peek out from behind your fleece blanket, and pray until you’re nauseous that there isn’t a pair of glowing eyes waiting for you on the other side of the glass. 

The sleet leaves angry rivulets in the dirt-smudged panes. Sad little lines of streaming water, flooding in time with the choppy squall—you can’t help but think it looks like weeping.

A soft sigh falls from your mouth and stirs the stilted air in the room: No skulking eyes…but a foreboding sense of unease still looms above your head like the plumes of steely clouds outside your window. They swallow every trace of starlight and shift every so often in your peripheral vision, almost like they’re alive.  

The rattling sounds again, soft but deafening in the darkness. It’s a familiar sound, someone scrambling on the loose tiling of your roof, but a forgotten one. It's strange, sweet-sharp, and out of place in your current reality.

A noise that shouldn’t exist outside of a memory. 

Stiles spills into your room and lands on his knees, dripping water onto the hardwood floor. His hair is plastered to his forehead from the storm outside, and the dark clouds are a mocking reflection of the look on his face. 

The moon has eclipsed all the sunlight in his eyes, and it feels so, so cold.

For a moment, you think you’re dreaming, or maybe you’re still stuck in that luminescent oil slick spill between sleep and consciousness. Stiles looks like something from a dream—from a nightmare. He’s a boy, but he isn’t. He’s there, but he isn’t. He’s lost to something you can’t see, swept up in the storm and turned into something else.

The glow of your phone illuminates the pinch of your brow, the squint of your bleary eyes. 3:27 am. Stiles used to sneak in through your window a couple times a week, even during the day, just to avoid the parental inquisition. He still does sometimes, rarely, only when Beacon Hills is on the verge of collapsing—and it always seems to be 3 in the morning. 

He only ever needs you at 3 in the morning now. 

It makes you feel a little sick, the reminder that the only string tying you together now is barbed wire.  

You sit up in your bed and wait for Stiles to say something—to move—but he doesn’t. He just sits there, soaked to the bone on his knees, and stares at something beyond the shifting shadows on your bedroom walls. 

“Stiles?” 

Stiles doesn’t reply. Doesn’t even make a sound. 

You crawl out of your bed and sit down on the floor next to him, draping a woven blanket over his shoulders. It almost matches his flannel, blue and checkered. It’s a little thing that would’ve made you smile before, mostly because Stiles would get this warm look in his eyes when you did: so fond it felt like worship. 

It’s fall. The air smells like apples and earth. You watch the shadows of little fish swim in jagged circles through murky lake water. Stiles is a warm presence against your side. 

He buries his nose in your hair and hums, “You like the pieces.”

A fish breaks from the group and bubbles near the surface. Its silver scales gleam in the setting sun: a piece of a fractured landscape, a detail that steals all the color in your peripheral vision. 

You watch the fish swirl for a moment, almost like it’s dancing, and then shrug with a little grin. “I guess.”

You feel Stiles smile against your temple.

“Me too.”

Now, the only color your retinas can detect is black. 

Stiles’s pupils swallow his face, and they stick to everything like tar. Seep into the room and stain the moonlight until the blue haze over his skin looks more sickly than luminous. He looks alarmingly corpse-like, so still on your floor, slimy from the storm keening outside—hollowed out from the storm rotting inside. 

You sigh after a moment; a soft little sound to break the surface of strained silence coating the room. “Come on.”

It doesn’t take much prodding. Stiles bends to your guiding hands mindlessly and sits down on the edge of your bed without so much as a grunt. Pliant and robotic in the same breath. Ever the paradox, your boy is.

Though. 

He’s not, really. Yours, that is. 

Not anymore. 

Not for a long time. 

“Everything’s so fucked up.” 

Stiles is quiet, but his whisper still startles you. His voice is raw—and maybe, you’d really convinced yourself that he was dead. It feels like he is sometimes. At least, a version of him. Stiles, in the mole-speckled flesh, he’s a ghost of the boy you knew, a killer of the figment boy you never lost. A paradox. So difficult to read. Impossible to hold on to. 

Stiles doesn’t notice that you’ve gone silent, but he doesn’t really seem to notice anything beyond the wet film over his eyes. 

“I don’t…I don’t see a way out this time. I don’t know…” he scrubs a hand over his face and looks infinitely older than eighteen, “I don’t think I can fix it—any of it.”

You’re reminded, briefly, of the night he broke up with you. When you looked up, saw the look on his face, and you knew. You have the same sick feeling in your stomach now, and you want to crawl inside yourself until the flip-flopping of your intestines stops—to wring them into little knots until there’s nothing left. 

Stiles looks like he feels about the same, so small on your bed for such a lanky man. 

“What?” You pull your knees to your chest and hold onto your shins so that you don’t reach for him. “The Nemeton? We’ll find it again…eventually, and—”

“No,” Stiles grits his teeth and closes his eyes, “I mean, yes, but it’s…everything. Everything’s falling apart.” 

“Not everything. You’ve always got—”

“Not anymore.” Stiles gets that dead-inside look behind his eyes again, and your stomach turns. “You and me…and Scott—”

Your sheets whisper against your legs as you shift towards him. “Scott?”

You’ve seen Stiles wear pretty much every expression under the sun—backlit by shitty diner lights, laughing; tangled up in navy sheets, panting; drenched in sweat, sobbing—but god. The way Stiles looks now, like his soul has been bleached from his bones, drained from his eyes with a power drill, it’s the worst thing you’ve ever seen. Worse than the when the Nogitsune stole his face, because it’s Stiles. Whatever this skeleton on strings is, it’s him.  

“I fucked up.” Stiles whispers so softly you can barely hear him over the cracks in his voice, “I fucked up so bad.”

It takes you a second to realize that he’s talking about Scott. Dumb, considering you asked, but you’ve imagined him saying that to you so many times it almost feels like a memory—like he’s talking about you. 

You clear your throat and pull at a loose string on your blanket until it snaps. “He’ll get over it. He always does.”

Stiles just shakes his head, keeps his eyes trained on his muddy sneakers. “Not this time.”

Your fingers twitch with the impulse to grab his hand. “What happened, Stiles?”

“I…” Stiles rubs his hand over his mouth, trying to wipe away the taste of his thoughts. He swallows and then stands, tugging a little on his wet hair until it sticks up in random tufts—it would be cute under any other circumstances, if Stiles didn’t have a disturbingly manic look in his eyes and a desperate tumble of words flooding from his split lip. “The ends justify the means was just a thought experiment, right? Machiavelli was an academic, not a soldier—you know what kind of people actually practice Machiavellianism? Stalin, Mao—Peter ‘fuckin’ killed my own niece’ Hale.”

Your brow scrunches as you try to find the invisible path connecting all his seemingly disjointed thoughts. “Stiles—”

“And I know I rag on Scott all the time for being too soft,” Stiles sneakers squeak against the floor as he continues pacing, without a breath or so much as a glance in your direction. He might as well be pontificating to the darkness. “I mean, fuck, how many times have I said it’d be easier if we just killed the psycho? A dozen? Definitely enough for one of those stupid fuckin’ ‘take a shot’ memes.”

Stiles stops abruptly mid-step and finally looks at you, really looks at you, for the first time tonight. His Bambi eyes look so big right now, completely open and boundless on his sweet face, like the child he hasn’t been since sophomore year. “I didn’t…I don’t really mean it, you know. I don’t actually want...” 

His voice is so small it breaks your heart.  

“I know,” you say softly, coaxing him to stay here with you, in the moment.

Stiles blinks at you slowly and hangs his gaze on your face like it’s the moon. “I know it would kill him…feeling like this.” He spits it out like ‘this’ is something vile, poison on his tongue.  

Your stomach sinks, and a prickling sensation of hot-cold settles through your sinew. You lick your drying lower lip and methodically rub your clammy palms up and down your thighs. “Feeling like what?”

Stiles’s momentary dip into the present fades with the next blink of his clumped lashes. 

He starts pacing again, bending and flexing his fingers with twitching gestures that clarify little and worry you greatly. “I get it, totally support it as a concept. I mean, the greater good outweighs a scumbag or two—conceptually, because how do you really define scumbag? And that’s if you use a qualifier; real consequentialists think it’s totally fine to kill whoever the fuck you want as long as it’s in the name of a good outcome.” 

You blink a few times and drag your tongue over your teeth, “Right…killing innocent people: bad. That’s the general consensus.”

Stiles’s eyes dart back to your face. “What if they aren’t?”

“Aren’t what?” 

Maybe, if it weren’t almost four in the morning, you’d be able to follow his tangential breakdown. Maybe, if you hadn’t become dependent on his quiet sleep-babbling to fall asleep at night, if he hadn’t become the only thing capable of bleaching the nightmares from your eyelids, your temples wouldn’t be throbbing so violently. But it is almost 4 am, and you haven’t fallen asleep next to Stiles in over a year—no matter how right he looks when he sits down next to you on your bed.

Stiles’s throat bobs with his swallow before he says, “What if they aren’t innocent?”

“Stiles,” you grab one of his hands and search his face, scan every solemn line and curve for some semblance of meaning, “what’s going on?”

Stiles chews on his bottom lip and lets out a ragged breath, going stiff—bracing himself for the fallout. His voice is thick with fear when he finally whispers, “What if they were going to hurt someone you care about?”

You let out a heavy sigh and study his expression, eyes flickering across the unrelenting question written in his pinched forehead and glassy eyes. “Do the ends justify the means?” 

Stiles nods and bites down on his jagged thumbnail, “Yeah.”

You hold Stiles’s gaze so that he can see your eyes, so earnest they almost look pained, and nod, slow and definitive. “Yeah.”

It takes a second, but when his body catches up with his brain, Stiles collapses in on himself. Turns into a ragdoll of relief and wet clothes, and drops his head into his shaking hands. 

“F-fuck,” Stiles exhales and wipes his face dry with cruel scrubs of his hands. “Sorry—I just…” he digs his thumbs into his temples and trembles, “I’m losing my fucking mind, and I didn’t know where else to go.” He glances up from his hands, looks so devastatingly lovely as he peers up at you through his wet lashes it hurts, and murmurs, “There wasn’t anywhere else…anyone else. Nobody…” 

Stiles shakes his head slightly and clears his throat, but his words are still syrupy with so much meaning when he says, “I don’t really feel like I’m…me anywhere else.” He pauses again, and you forget how to breathe when his gaze refocuses on your eyes. His tongue flicks over his split lip, and then he whispers, “I’m not me unless I’m with you.”

This boy. This boy. He can wreck you without even trying. 

You have to reorient yourself before you get stuck on the drizzle of honey in Stiles’s eyes. They’ve always been so…alive. There’s an entire ecosystem in his irises, savanna grass swaying under the glow of sunset. A blackhole in his pupils, bending and distorting your every thought to Stiles, Stiles, Stiles.  Stop. Breathe. Count your fingers. 

Your arms are around your shins, the air is cold, and Stiles has someone who isn't you.

You still wake up with the taste of him sticking to your teeth, sweet honey and sharp cloves, but it’s never enough. Lately, it lingers like a cavity.  

You spent so long thinking you weren’t supposed to be friends, and you weren’t. You were supposed to be together—now you don’t know what you’re supposed to be. How can you belong to a memory?

What does Stiles think when he looks at you now? Does a thought even come? 

Does he ache for who you were that Friday at the lake? Does he still love that girl in his arms–orange and warm under the setting sun, blissfully unaware of the end? 

Oh, he does.

Stiles aches for you, thinks of you, constantly. He meant what he said; he only feels solid when it's just you, him, and the shiny little bubble that keeps out the rest of the world. He doesn’t feel…real when he’s around other people, pretending like everything’s fine. Like he hasn’t lost every shiny piece of the life he had before his mind was stolen. 

That’s how it is for Stiles now; there’s before, and then there’s after. He can feel the schism widening with every single fucked up thing he does. Lately, it feels like that’s the only thing he does: completely and catastrophically fuck up. 

The thing is, when they finally got him—it—out, Stiles thought that would be it. Happily ever after. Evil expunged. Demon defeated. End-stop. No page turn. Cheers to the Nemeton. Stiles learned, very quickly, that you can’t purge darkness. It always leaves a mark. 

The days after…everything, Stiles discovered that rotting was a real human emotion. He still can’t believe people don’t smell it on him. The remnants of Stiles haven’t stopped putrefying in the Nogistune’s absence, and he just knows, somehow, that something this malignantly alive is contagious. He didn’t want to ruin you—doesn’t, Stiles corrects himself before he can finish the thought—doesn’t want to contaminate something so good with something so sick. 

Or maybe…maybe it was because Stiles knew that you’d see it. You’d see it, and you’d leave. 

The only clean thing he has is memories. He can’t stain the past. The figment girl in his mind can’t hurt. Can’t die. Can’t run. Stiles keeps you there—or, at least, some version of you, a you he can keep underneath the shelter of his ribcage, where you can watch the sunset turn fish scales into topaz in his maroon jacket, happy, forever.

Stiles can’t really remember the last time he saw you, the real version of you, happy. You must have laughed without him at some point, but he can’t think of anything other than when you were with him. Well, that, and the end. Stiles remembers the end with painful clarity. 

You were at a lake. The lake. Somehow, it only occurs to Stiles now how shitty that must’ve been for you. Anyway, you just sat there for a while, and he just listened to the silence wash over the world like a flood until the sun reached its peak. He remembers thinking: Holy fuck, this is what they meant. All those stupid songs and poems. This is what it means to break. Stiles couldn’t stand the way you kept your eyes closed, like you were afraid of seeing the inevitable car crash. If I kiss her, he’d thought, everything will be okay. If I kiss her, she’ll forgive me. 

Stiles didn’t kiss you. He just said, “I’m sorry,” and the words hung heavily over your heads. In the harrowing quiet, Stiles thought: I never realized cordial could sound so much like cowardly. 

“What are you doing here, Stiles? What is this?” 

Your voice drags Stiles from the gutters of his mind, and feels a fresh wave of shame when he hears how tired you sound. What is he doing here? Stiles knew it was a mistake before he even started his Jeep, but the flicker of doubt in Scott’s eyes drowned out his best intentions. 

“I just…” Stiles swallows, and his hand moves to scratch at his wounded shoulder reflexively. He…he just needed to be with the only person on the face of this planet that still knew him—who would get it.

You get tired of waiting, and when you speak again, Stiles feels about two inches tall. 

“You should be with her.” You say it nicely enough. Polite. No venom to fill the awkward hollowness. Cordial. 

Fuck. Stiles fucking hates cordial. He kind of wishes you would yell at him. At least, then, he’d know that you still cared. 

Stiles clasps his hands together between his thighs and leans his weight onto his elbows. He probably should be with Malia. No. He definitely should, but he’s not. And right now, like this, he doesn’t want to be. 

“She’s not good at…” Stiles clears his throat and sits up a little, “she tries, but she just…can’t.”

It’s not even her fault, and that’s probably the worst part about it. He doesn’t want to be another bad thing that’s happened to Malia Tate, but bad things just seem to be his specialty lately. 

“You know why you like her, right?” you say softly, not unkindly, but Stiles thinks he isn’t going to like the answer—mostly, because he’s sure it’s true. 

“No.” Stiles pauses and draws a circle on his knee with his pointer finger, “Well, I mean, yeah. Didn’t know you put so much thought into it.”

You don’t bother to dignify such a blatant lie with a direct response. That’s fair, Stiles thinks, and tries not to shrink in on himself.

Instead, you lift your shoulder like it’s made of marble and murmur, “She needs you.”

It’s innocuous enough—sweet, even, under different circumstances—but Stiles feels it like a blade. He clears his throat; it doesn’t help the dryness. He manages to arch a brow as he pushes out a raspy little, “So?”

The corner of your mouth lifts into a small smile; Stiles can still see it quiver. “You’re a control freak,” you bump his knee with your own, and it’s the first place on his body Stiles can actually feel, “and we both know she’s never going to be the one to end it.”

That’s just like you; even your jokes are wrapped up inside an argument. It always left him frozen in a maddening power struggle between quipping something snarky and kissing you. No one else has ever managed to keep him on the ropes like you, and maybe that’s why no one after has managed to keep his, admittedly, short-attention span for long. After all, Stiles has always liked his sweetness with a little bite. 

Of course, now there’s no sweetness between the two of you. It’s all uncomfortable silences and unspoken thoughts that leave his teeth aching for something more

Stiles’s jaw goes tight as he brings his lips to his knuckles, feeling a bit like bearing down on the bone. “That’s what you think happened?” He glances at you, eyes a little haunted, “I couldn’t control you, so I ended it?”

You tilt your head to the side, so sympathetic it makes Stiles a little nauseous, and murmur, “I think you realized that I didn’t need you; I think it scared the hell out of you.” You say it so softly, carefully—and it impales him in the heart, right through the fucking center. 

It would be one thing if you were angry; people say stupid shit they don’t actually mean when they’re angry all the time—but this? You look like you mean it. You look like you mean it, and you’re saying it for his own good. The look on your face, it looks a whole lot like the truth 

And.

Maybe it is. 

It’s not like you’re wrong. Stiles remembers thinking it, more than once. He remembers more than a few mornings where he woke up to the sound of your breathing, your warm breath washing over his neck, and he thought he’d probably die if you ever stopped. It felt like an epiphany every time, the reminder that without you his world would be irreparably changed. 

Dark. Without you, Stiles’s world would go dark. 

Maybe, the Nogistune was just an excuse. Maybe, Stiles had been leapfrogging over his heart since the moment you met. Avoiding the future. Wrapping the present around your body and constantly thinking: I can’t believe it's not over yet. 

Yet. Yet. Yet. 

Maybe, Stiles thought about it so much he tempted fate. Maybe, that’s why the Nogistune chose him. Maybe, he should stop scapegoating the devil. He did end up with Malia after all. 

It’s different with her. Not bad necessarily, just different. He takes care of her, and he’s good at that. Making the plan. Having the answers. 

Being in control. 

With you…that was different. 

Stiles is a cynic at heart, but when he looked at—looks at—you, he felt less lonely. When he was with you, he kind of got why his dad used to show up to work 15 minutes late because he got distracted by the way his mom made coffee and did the crossword at the same time. The simple domesticity, the comfort of a morning routine for the rest of his life, the concept of tried and true blue love: Stiles got it all when he saw you.  

You saw his happiness, and you gave it back to him. Every single time. That kind of love…it’s become abundantly clear to Stiles that kind of love is hard to find. Like maybe, once in a lifetime hard to find. 

Stiles swallows hard and shakes his head. “Whatever it was that I was afraid of,” his voice drops to a whisper, “this is so much worse.”

You’re still the only person he can really cry in front of. Stiles is reminded of that when his eyes burn and something wet drips onto his lips. He sniffles quietly, feeling so incredibly small when he realizes the sound is coming from him. 

Stiles can’t look up from his shoes—won’t—and then you speak. You’re so quiet he almost misses it. 

“Life’s a lot better when you’re in it.”

The corners of Stiles’s mouth twitch into a small smile. The first one in about a week. Feels like much, much longer. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

[naffeclipse]

Charm Brought It Back

Reader x Witches!Sun, Moon, & Eclipse

Commission Info

I am so excited to present this Hocus Pocus inspired AU requested by the lovely @jackofallrabbits! The boys star as the witchy brothers who return once a fated reader lights the starry candle. They simply must show their gratitude! And what better day to post such a spooky and fun fic than on Friday the 13th?!

Content Warning: Suggestive themes, heavy kissing, and heavy touching.

———

You turn the key and cut the engine of your car. With a flick, you turn off the headlights. The beginning of a sunset swoops down onto your ill-adjusted vision. The horizon is drenched in purples and oranges as shadows begin to crawl off of trees and their yellowed leaves. It will take a minute or two for your sight to adapt, but you have tilted and revolved the structure waiting just at the edge of the forest within your mind’s eyes for days now. It’s beyond the dirt road you’ve pulled onto the shoulder of.

Blinking slowly, you find the house’s dark silhouette through the boughs of clustered trees, and you sigh at the beauty of its preserved history.

The building is an artifact dating back roughly to the 1630s. A post-medieval English-style home, it contains two stories with an overhanging jetty and stunning clapboard siding that has survived a little under four centuries of existence. Your eyes catch on the windows and your heart sings at the sight. Diamond-paned casement. And there, decorative pendants of celestial bodies, including iron-casted suns, moons, and overlapping symbols of the two. The steeply pitched roof is common for the era and is more renowned in its descendant the saltbox form, but this style boosts its spooky aura.

The Puritan colonists were the ones responsible for importing the style to America as they landed here on the eastern coast. 

It’s no stretch of the imagination to think of witches and execution trials while gazing over the beautiful home. You’re particularly intrigued by the history of the Salem witch trials, and as a historian, you couldn’t deny yourself the chance to enter the building and feed the gnawing need to stand within a piece of history.

Stepping out of your car, a gust of wind carrying the bitter edge of autumn cuts through your brown sweater. You shiver and shut the door as quietly as you can manage. This is hallowed ground. This will supply your ever inquisitive mind which is always looking to the past with a curiosity most insatiable.

You face the home. A footpath lightly serpentines between the trees. Hooligans with destructive tendencies and teenagers on dares will venture here for a spooky, fun time, but are usually caught by the police because the building sits on private property. You asked for permission from the owner of the hundreds of acres of forest land that includes the so-called “Witch House” if you might enter the premises. Given your credentials, you were certain the owner would trust you with exploring the home.

Much to your relief, the owner agreed. 

You look up, arms clutching your knitted sleeves to fight the chill of an October breeze, in awe and reverence. 

From your pocket, you slip out a wrought-iron key with the symbol of the moon overlapping the sun to form a black eclipse and marvel again at the intricacy of ancient beauty. Your fingertips grow chilled in the late hour. The sun shifts from orange to dark, bleeding red like blood from a heart spilled across the horizon. You walk towards the home. 

Perhaps you should have arrived sooner. You were caught in another historical journal depicting the specific timeframe of when this home would have been occupied by its original inhabitants. 

The rumors even now speak of curses and cursed artifacts within the building. Some of it is true—you have confirmed with your own scholarly sources. The original owners were a trio of brothers. They were accused of witchcraft and hanged for the crimes. That much is historically documented and verified. 

What is fantasy is the tale of the brothers casting a curse with their dying breaths, declaring they would one day return if a virgin lit a starry candle on the anniversary of their executions.

Superstition. Most likely, the fear of the townspeople transcended to their children, and their children, down and down until it became a tale to spin on Halloween night around these parts. 

The door is black as you approach it. A stray branch catches on your sweater, pulling on a thread, and you yank yourself free and silently mourn the roughen fabric before returning your attention to what really matters. You must be careful. This entire place is iconic and in need of preservation. 

You slip the key into the lock hole and turn it with a thick, heavy click before the black wood door groans and slides inwards as if inviting you into its sphere. You take a breath. Your boots cross the threshold and you enter the home. 

As is typical of some homes built in the early seventeenth century, an open hall greets you. In the far back is the fireplace with a cauldron still sitting upon an ashy bed. An original wood-carve table and chairs are set to one side as a staircase climbs up into the darkness of the second level. What little red light leaks inside is narrowed and cut up into diamonds by the panes. To one wall, shelves contain dusty and forgotten cooking utensils, once glimmery copper pots, and dinner dishes with designs considered much too gawky in the Puritan era but it causes you to softly gasp.

Your hand covers your mouth as you gaze around you, overwhelmed with the beautiful intricacies of metallic chandeliers holding half-burned tallow candles, and to the other wall lies a bookshelf covered in cobwebs as if the spiders refuse to let anyone examine such precious reads. Your fingers already itch to gently pry out one manuscript and gaze at the original script of whoever wrote it.

But the light—it’s far too dark now. The red has given way to blue and pale indigo. You squint. You reach into your other pocket for a lighter and flick it on. The tiny flame spouts a delicate light. Never would you dare admit this out loud to a living soul, but you so desperately wish to see the home in its authentic state, lit only by the technology the brothers had at the time: fire.

There are thick, yellowed candles lying on the table and clustered together on the narrow window sills. You have no hope of reaching the metal chandeliers but you do spy a candelabra positioned near the bookshelf on a small end table. You light it first with a careful touch of your lighter flame. The wick catches, even after all of these years. You smile softly, your heart warm within your chest as you bask in the essence of this beautiful place.

A few more candles should suffice. 

You slip to the table to light the thick and tall candles. The flames bloom and warm the space in rich light, casting thick shadows from support beams. You almost set your lighter away when you spy one last candle set upon a golden candle holder. The fashioned metal twists and twines with elaborate engravings of shooting stars and slices of sun rays were placed in the corner of the room almost out of sight. The curiosity within you urges you to take a step, then another, and another. You stand in front of the almost forgotten candle.

The tallow is black as midnight. Strange. How did they color this? Embedded within the darkness are speckles of white, splattering the candle like an array of stars. Your eyes stray in search of constellations before shaking your head.

It’s true. There is a starry candle. Perhaps the brothers did dabble in the occult, playing with cards and fortune telling, and being punished with death for their interest in unholy magic. 

The wick is dark and untouched as if it were never lit before. You bring the lighter flame closer. Superstition might worry another, but you concern yourself with logic and reason—explanations of humanity rather than inexplicable forces beyond comprehension. 

Something stirs from a nearby corner shelf. Two long ears twitch. You catch a glimpse of a rabbit with creamy white fur just before it leaps off of the shelf and directly onto your arm. You yelp. Nearly dropping the lighter, you scramble back as the rabbit hits the floor, collects itself, and sits on its haunches.

Green eyes glare up at you. The rabbit, small and bunny-like, stays firmly between you and the starry candle.

You stand with your chest heaving and your lungs scraping out air, almost burning your thumb on the lighter flame before turning around yourself. Where did the woodland creature come from? Did it crawl its way inside like a rat and become trapped within the colonial home? The shot of adrenaline still flowing through your veins leaves your hands shaking.

The rabbit is still watching you with uncanny eyes. Prey animals so rarely stare back at bigger, larger threats. Perhaps it’s a pet. A runaway pet that somehow ended up here, of all places.

You slowly offer out your hand, keeping the lighter away in your other, as you take a step towards it.

It thumps a foot once, as if in warning, then bounds away. You watch it disappear into the house, still reeling from the fright it gave you. 

If Michael was here, he would have laughed and told you to leave with him, now. He never wanted you to go here, especially alone, but you shake such ominous warnings away. He said curiosity killed the cat. You disagreed. This house is a part of history, not a curse. Witches are mere stories, conjured out of historical unrest and the longing to blame bad luck and tragedies upon an individual or three. 

There’s always an explanation for fear superstition or mistrust. It’s far more sad than it is spooky.

You shake your head, smooth out the creases in your sweater, and face the starry candle again. The lighter flame flickers softly as you draw near it.

It is the anniversary of the brothers’ executions. You remember now as the shadows from other candles drape over you like a veil. You are also a virgin.

You laugh to yourself, covering your mouth as you do so. Look at you! You’re getting so worked up because a rabbit jumped at you.

It’s only hocus-pocus.

You tilt the lighter until it engulfs the wick. The flame catches, and you at last snap the lighter shut and return it to your pocket. Your eyes squint slightly at the candle. The wick snaps and bursts into sparks. The flame is not yellow or orange or even blue—it’s pure white like a comet streaking across the sky.

A crack of thunder splits the night sky with a bellow so monstrous, you feel like a child again, fearing a storm. You drop low to the ground, shielding your head as if the very world was going to fall upon you. A spark cracks in the fireplace, conjured out of ash underneath the cauldron before it burns hot and bright. The cauldron immediately begins roiling and bubbling with water. Laughter, great and terrible, and filled with the most jester-like joy sweeps over the room.

The pulse in your ears drowns at any sense but the need to hide. You scramble into the corner, tucking yourself behind the stand of the starry candle and hunker down. Holding your breath, you grab a fistful of your sweater while clutching your chest, and watch the door to the almost 400-year-old house fly open.

Three figures stride inside, looking about the place with wide eyes and disk-like heads framed in jutting adornments not unlike sun rays or shrouded in a heavy, dark blue hood.

“Brothers! We’re home!” The first one, tall and dark with deep red hues to his form, accent in sharp orange sun rays and an eclipse upon his face, turns to face his brother with bright, cat-like yellow eyes. “Isn’t it glorious?”

Another figure steps forward, yellow and off-white. Pale eyes beam. His head is crowned in bright sun rays as well. His spindly fingers twindle together in exuberant energy while he glances about the room eagerly. “Oh, yes, yes! More than anything! It’s as if we weren’t gone for more than a day—though the dust and cobwebs beg to differ.”

He draws a claw—you suck in a sharp breath—along the table’s edge and rubs his taloned fingertips together in disappointment. 

“We must get to cleaning at once.”

“No,” the last figure fixes his hood with silvery digits. Golden jewels hang down the back of his unusual skull, the last and most prominent adornment a thick, golden star pendant. His eyes cast around the room, scarlet, and searching. “We must thank the little mouse who lit the candle.”

He flashes sharp teeth within his wide mouth, shaping it into a hungry grin. You gulp.

“Where are our manners?” The red and dark one twists back to the room with a flourish of his arms. His yellow gaze sweeps over the shelves and floors with a blade-like glint. “Of course, we must thank one so lovely.”

A dark cape drapes about his person. Underneath, a white flowing shirt hangs loosely to his lithe and slender figure, causing you to balk upon staring at such an exposed chest. The other two are no different, wearing similar shirts and dark trousers, but the hooded one bears a thick, longer cape while the sunny figure shares a cape similar to the first.

The yellow one lifts his wrists and frowns at the red ribbons tied around them. Golden bells jingle softly in an ominous chord. 

“How terrible a reminder of our current impermanence,” he growls low in his throat, all cheerfulness lost and causing you to squeeze your ribs in fear.

“Patience, Sun,” the red one speaks, though he too casts a narrowed glance to the black ribbons and golden bells adorning his wrists. “We will affix ourselves back to this world in due time.”

“Eclipse, what a delicious creature I smell.” The hooded figure steps deeper into the home. Blue claws scratch at equally blue ribbons knotted to his hand bones but his attention is terrifyingly fixed on the candle stand just above your hiding spot. 

You shrink further into the corner.

“Yes, Moon? And how lovely?” Eclipse, you assume, asks. His yellow eyes flash.

“As lovely as the stars,” Moon answers.

You watch claws curl around the wooden side of the candle stand, scratching deeply into the wood before a half-moon face emerges from behind, teeth set like a predator’s upon the sight of a wounded animal. Your heart flutters like a bird with a broken wing.

“Hello, little mouse. Won’t you come and play with us?” 

You scream as he leaps behind the candle stand, takes you by the arms, and pulls you to your feet. You struggle to free yourself, crying out as he grabs hold of your wrists and fixes you firmly in place. 

“My, how sweet,” he purrs in a dangerously low voice that rolls in the back of his throat. “You are the darling virgin who lit the candle, no?”

“Let me go!” You thrash but Moon grins in delight, as if you’re simply too precious. 

“You deserve proper thanks,” He lowers one hand, forcing you to submit with slightly bent knees. “Here is my gratitude, little mouse.”

You freeze as he brings your hand towards his mouth, and a hundred, horrifying visions of him biting your fingers off or sinking his teeth in your palm send your blood into a frozen sludge of fear.

The witch, however, presses a kiss to the center of your palm. The softness catches the gears in your mind and jerks them to a halt.

“Thank you for allowing us to return once more,” he rasps. His scarlet eyes find yours between the space of your thumb and forefinger, and a strange stirring takes hold of your middle.

“This isn’t real,” you breathe. Dizziness begins to take hold.

This must be a dream, a thought gone wild, or inhaled bacteria triggering hallucinations.

Moon’s grin widens. He lowers your hand, loosening his hold for one precious moment. You rip your hands free of his grasp. A low growl escapes him but you’ve already slipped away, your eyes upon the door and spilling with the need to rush out into the night, away from the impossibilities standing before you—

Arms snatch your waist and lift your feet from the ground. You gasp. 

Held in the air, you squirm before a hot breath dusts the shoulder of your sweater. You fall still, your throat bobbing as a mouth presses into the corner of your neck and lays a kiss on the sensitive spot. Gooseflesh prickles up and down your body.

“I assure you, I’m very real, little mouse,” Moon purrs. His hands squeeze your hips once. “And as nice as this… attire is, I would dress you in blues and silvers. You would look proper and powerful, like my brothers and I.”

A squeak escapes you. You shrink against him, caught in his embrace.

“Brothers?” The word rattles out of your throat. 

“This is our home,” Moon whispers. “And you are our most honored guest.”

You manage to pry off his hands from your waist. With a sinister chuckle, the blue and silver hands release you. Without looking back, you run, ignoring the twinge in your stomach that whispers it was too easy to get away.

You hardly get a few steps before the sunny one—Sun—steps into your path. He catches you in his arms and spins you in a waltz at breakneck speed, your feet never touching the ground, before stopping without warning as he dips you low. He looms above you, his smile filled with sharp teeth.

“Let me get an eyeful. Oh, yes, you look good enough to eat,” he simpers. His hand splays along the small of your back and you gawk up at him, still trying to regain your balance after the sickness-inducing whirl. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you.”

“I just want to leave,” you whimper. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

“Hurt you? Sunshine,” he laughs, and it echoes with all of his heart—do once-hanged witches have a heart? There is no historical journey to give context to this very moment, you fear.

He lowers his sultry gaze to you. “I wish to only thank you. And I intend to.”

He pulls you back to your feet. You’re still clasped in his embrace like lovers on a ballroom floor. His hand hooks tight to your hip, and his other catches the side of your face. Heat spreads through the marrow of your bones.

On the tabletop beside you, something white moves across the plane of its surface, hunkering behind the thick stack of candles still burning.

His head lowers to your neck. You stiffen as he tilts your head away, opening you to his parting teeth. A tongue, dark and sinuous, flicks out of his maw. A gasp slips from your lips at the wet lick up the column of your throat. Eyelids fluttering, you start to sag as weakness fills your knees. He drags his tongue higher to taste your jawline and finishes at your cheek with a swipe for good measure. 

Your hands find him and clutch tightly to his slender arms. He presses his lips to your ear and with a misty warmth, whispers.

“Thank you for—Gah!”

The white rabbit leaps up from the table, squirming directly between you and his chest, breaking you apart. Instinctively, you jump away just as Sun snarls. The heart-wrenching sound shakes your entire frame as he snatches the rabbit by the scruff before it can scramble back from his wretched claws.

“I’ll boil you alive!” he thunders. He steps towards the cauldron, back where Moon leans against the wall, watching the spectacle with an amusing twitch of his grinning maw. Behind you, Eclipse stands at the door like a sentinel, his eyes still hungry and even furious as he follows his brother’s movement to the cauldron. 

Sun dangles the rabbit, now struggling and kicking but unable to find purchase against the witch’s hold, above the boiling water of the caldron.

“No!” you cry.

Sun’s eyes widen. He turns back to you just as you close the distance and scoop the rabbit in your arms. His claws, pale-boned and wickedly curved, clench around emptiness. Without thought, you turn and run again though there is little hope as you come to the door. Your boots stamp against the wooden floorboards.

The rabbit in your embrace turns its face up to you and mutters in a woman’s voice, “You have no idea what you’ve just done.”

You gawk, stunned before hands catch you by the shoulders. You’re brought to a dead halt. The rabbit leaps from your arms, drops to the floor, and races away into a shadowy corner of the room with only one glimpse of its fluffy tail before you’re left alone.

You twist and face the eldest witch’s attention. Eclipse. His yellow eyes go up and down your body, and you watch in muted shock as two additional arms emerge from the shadows of his cap. He forces you backward, one step after the other until your back is pinned against a dusty wall.

You stare into his eyes, chest rising and falling rapidly. Your pulse pounds in your eardrums.

“I don’t believe this is happening,” you utter.

The witch tilts his head with a wicked grin.

“We’ll make you a believer yet.” He promises, and his deep cords vibrate through your form. “My dear, we simply must thank you for all that you’ve done for us.”

His claws slip over your collarbones. Your breath quickens, a stirring you cannot name unfolding deep within your middle. His extra set of hands fall to your hips and begin caressing the bones. Daintily, carefully, his warm fingertips slip just underneath the hem of your sweater, touching your bare flesh. A shiver runs down your entire body, leaving you to squirm.

“Be a good little comet,” he says softly, “Let me pour my gratitude all over you.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t know it was true,” you stare into his face, marked with a red crescent over a dark shadow, and his eyes pierce into the very nature of your being. “You’re back.”

“Because of you,” he rumbles softly in his chest. His grin pulls higher at the corners.

His claws slip over the nap of your neck and card gently into the small, sensitive hairs at the bottom of your skull. You breathe in. His eyes brighten in pleasure before he slips his sharp but controlled talons over the shells of your ears and follows the arch of your cheekbone. His gaze drops to your lips. Your heart thumps and thumps against your sternum so powerfully, you fear he may hear it.

His lips pull over his razor-sharp teeth and you stop breathing.

His other set of hands begins working up the sides of your torso. He rubs slowly and gently, but you squirm despite this. He touches you far too intimately when you have never experienced such affections before. A mewl escapes your lips. You wriggle as he refuses to relent. 

In answer, his upper hands lower and capture your hands together in one, and pin them above your head to hold you in place. He coos, chastising. A great roil starts in your stomach and expands upwards until your face becomes pink and flushed.

“Hold still, little comet,” he chuckles, and you whimper. “I’m not finished with showering you in all my adoration.”

“Eclipse,” your breath is harsh and hot.

“It is good to hear my name upon such lovely lips,” his voice lowers, husky and scorching. “I knew a virgin would light the candle. I swore it to my brothers as they set us on the gallows and draped nooses around our necks. You are our light, our savior. How could I ever thank you?”

In his words, his burning stare that singes with sincerity, it clicks into place. All at once, you believe what you are seeing with your own two eyes. 

It’s true. He’s back. He and his brothers have returned with magic.

“I have questions,” you say hesitantly in your demureness, “I want answers.”

“Of course,” Eclipse agrees easily. “But first…”

A dark claw brushes your hair back from your face. The flutter in your heart can’t seem to hold still. Eclipse’s grin widens and his eyes soften.

“You have freckles like constellations,” he murmurs in the manner of one gazing at the night sky or one studying an ornate painting.  

Before you can shape words to reply, to say anything that might free you from his grasp, his mouth is upon yours. A sound softly catches in the back of your throat. You fall still under his caressing hands still moving below your sweater. He traces the row of your ribs. You have just enough mind to wonder if he feels your skin prickle in your sensitivity. His other hand clasps your wrists tighter. You gasp against his teeth. 

He pulls gently, hungrily, taking you as if a bite of honeycomb. You become melted honey, easily malleable between his teeth and then molded by his mouth. His tongue invades you. You moan softly at the claim he lays upon you until you become weak in the knees and almost fall. His kiss seals your fate.

He releases you from his maw. You sink slightly, and his arms fall out from under your sweater to properly catch you. He lowers your wrists, returns your hands, and brushes your hair once more from your face.

A chuckle emits from his lips, and you burn.

“You’ll stay with us, won’t you?” he asks, but he waits for no answer as he scoops you into his arms. Feet dangling, you have no choice but to cling to his shoulders and endure his brothers’ attention as he twists around and faces them.

The rabbit’s right. You are in trouble. Michael warned you. He said curiosity killed the cat.

But charm brought it back.

[peggyao3]

Relic - Pt. 17 "Equinox"

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: ✧ Dreams are messages from the deep ✧ A woman from the unknown comes to Feyd in his dreams and his nights become his days as he flees to the dreamscape to escape the nightmares that haunt his waking hours.

TAGS: Third person POV, she/her AFAB FMC, explicit sexual content, smut, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, Porn with Plot, Feyd-Rautha's black cum and big cock, Praise Kink, Body Worship, angst/hurt and comfort, drama, fluff, plans within plans, implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced abuse, Trauma, mentions of suicidal thoughts, Healing, Strangers to Lovers, falling in love, Vulnerable/ Emotional/Possessive Feyd, Feyd is a sweet baby who did nothing wrong and I WILL pamper him, nurture not nature, Stockholm Syndrome but in a consensual way, lucid dreaming, Implied/Referenced Cannibalism, murder, teaching the universe about feminism, female rage, Frank Herbert would frown, No actually he would kneel in front of me, putting the science and the porn in sci-fi, angst with a happy ending

WORD COUNT: 5k

A/N: Wow, we're really, really getting there now and I feel so conflicted about it 😭 I don't want it to end, but I'll also be so happy to wrap up their story ❤️ Thank you for every motivating comment along the way, you're the reason why I kept going ❤️

Reposted from my Ao3💕| Masterlist | Relic Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

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Day 140

Lurid clouds are chased across the roiling skies, stripped apart by the fierce winds of the high troposphere. Through the cracks in the clouds, the guests and bridal pair witness a macabre glory in the firmament.

God's inverted eye is glaring down on the altar and everyone in its frayed shadow becomes dancing motes at the center of the universe.

Today marks not only the spring equinox and the wedding of Feyd-Rautha and his alien bride, it is also a solar eclipse and Giedi Prime's white moon creeps in front of the black sun like a wandering pupil.

Past the smog-polluted urban canyons of Barony and even past the endless trenches of mines and factories of Gyed are the tasu aurinkosesti — the planes of the ever-sun, closer to the equatorial belt than any Harkonnen-built settlement. While not safe enough for permanent residents, the majestic landscape is just safe enough for festivities overlooked by the full glory of Giedi Prime's volcanos who crane their tapered maws proudly to the black sun.

Here is where nature breaks through the cracks of bleached Earth, dry, short grasses and creeping inkvines. The active volcanoes are gentler masters than the human settlers.

Today, delicate, black garlands flutter from the temporarily erected poles, seats and slender archways which mark two aisles down a semi-circle of hand-picked guests, one thousand of them — Harkonnens only for this special festivity. Stirred by the hot winds from the south, the garlands look not unlike human entrails strung up for a carnival. 

The aisles meet at a slightly elevated pedestal, on it a massive, roughly cuboid slab of obsidian. An ancient altar dented in the middle by the thousands of brides who had laid on it, or been forced to, and spilled their maiden blood onto the stone with the sun as their witness.

Feyd-Rautha's bride won't have to spread her legs on the ancient ceremonial site today. She is an off-worldler and her delicate flesh would be burnt to crisps and become a cornucopia of tumors if she spent but a minute unprotected in the open air. The radiation is strongest near the equator and only her wedding gown keeps her sheltered from it.

Panels of scintillating material shift heavily around her legs, hard but bendy, each layer painted with lead to isolate her flesh from the lurid sun's gamma rays. The gown tapers in at the waist and breasts and crawls over her shoulders, arms, and hands, covering her wholly. Her head is crowned by a veil of the same iridescent panels, protecting hair and face, only the face-panel is see-through. From afar, her shape is entirely otherworldly.

She will be an alien to the populace first, in her looks and in her ways, and then share her humanity. But first, she wants to enjoy the company of her husband and not think about anything for a while, no world-changing battles, no masses in arms.

Her gaze trails along the twisted, black archway that connects both sides of the elevated pedestal, Crowns of Thorns around it twining, Giedi Prime's only native flower. Skywards, God's inverted eye stands directly over the altar, filling her heart with horror and beauty, a feeling she can appreciate because it's not malicious, unlike the many human workings she has encountered in this universe.

Her eyes' appreciative journey ends at the man who will soon be her husband. On the other side of the pedestal, three meters away, stands Feyd-Rautha, the counter-image of her. His bare skin is as white as the chalky terrain and the glaring skies, only his loins are covered by a cloth that is wrapped in ceremonial manner, leaving the sides of his hips and strong thighs exposed. His hands are bare, ringless, and his hip weaponless.

On his exposed belly and chest, she will later be painting the markings of fertility and eternity, a winding symbol like a serpent devouring its own tail.

Feyd-Rautha bares his ink-black teeth, smiling when he sees his woman doing the same beneath her veil, white teeth between her painted lips. While she looks a hundredfold more pompous in her scintillating gown, to her, Feyd-Rautha is the most glorious sight in the world; the way he presents himself to the universe freely now and with no fear.

The drums begin to play and deep-throated chanting soars from the crowd who have risen from their seats, each of them clutching a hand over their hearts. They too have come in ceremonial robes, heavy fabric that reaches down to the knees and a strap of fabric that stretches diagonally across the chest and over one shoulder, leaving one side of the chest exposed — men and women alike.

Feyd and his bride turn to the crowd whose feet raise and stomp down in unison and whose hands mimic the drum beats over their hearts. The ceremonial chanting claps across the planes like thunder from a thousand throats. In the front row are Mikhail Kyelug and Lilia Bauer, the groomsman and bridesmaid by old Earth tradition.

On Mikhail's other side is a man who Feyd-Rautha would have stabbed on sight a week ago. Glossu Rabban looks up to his little brother by the altar, and the Count of Lankiveil is smiling.

Six days prior

"Can't believe you're tired already — hick! — na-Baron!"

It's Baron by now, but Feyd doesn't bother correcting Mikhail as they slouch through the array of corridors which will eventually lead them to the concubines' wing where Feyd has moved in with his wife-to-be, his old quarters burned down together with the Baron's. That is unless they get lost, liquor-blurred eyes blinking into predawn darkness.

"Not tired," Feyd-Rautha protests, shoving his comrade into the nearest wall. The guard bounces right back, sending Feyd staggering.

"So, lovesick?"

"I can go a night without my woman."

"Yeeaah, but you don't wanna." 

There is not a single club in Barony that doesn't have poles for strippers and slaves of every shape, size and age at their disposal, yet neither of the two men have indulged in anything other than alcohol and the occasional pill or pipe tonighr. The physiology of anything living on Giedi Prime is much harder to poison. Common alcohol is barely a challenge for Harkonnen livers, hence why booze from Giedi Prime's distilleries can kill an off-wordler after just a glass.

"It's Bull's Night, so 'course I want my prize at the end of the night."

"Point is you should take some other prize, ya know? Spread out your seed, eh?" Mikhail gesticulates with one hand, drawing complicated circles in the air.

"Did'you spread out your seed before you married Lilia?"

"Nah," Mikhail laughs and Feyd scoffs, grinning to himself. The night has been long and his cheeks are hurting.

The sudden echo of a shoe around the next corner snaps both men out of their drunken banter. These aren't guards' boots. Feyd-Rautha's blade hisses from its sheath and he barges forward, coming to an abrupt halt behind the corner. It is Mikhail who speaks first.

"Beast — hick! — Rabba-ban!"

The stocky frame of Feyd's older brother fills out the hallway. He wears dark brown, a cushioned pad on one shoulder and a sword belt around his hip. A comfortable uniform as it is worn on Lankiveil. He's gotten fatter, Feyd notices through the shock of finding his brother, whom he hasn't seen in over five years, in his palace, let alone while he is drunk and blabbering. 

The sight has burned him sober.

Under his arm, the intruder carries a gift box, beige with a crinkled but shiny, golden ribbon tied around it in sloppy loops.

"What are you doing here?" Rabban rumbles, mouth standing open in bewilderment. 

"It's early morning. What are you doing here?" Feyd snaps back sharply, muscled shoulder angled towards his brother who is still several feet away.

"I was on my way to your room."

"My room isn't that way anymore."

Rabban can't find it in him to close his mouth, but he does plod into Feyd-Rautha's personal space, uncaring of the way his younger brother twitches and how his long limbs tense themselves to lunge. Despite his drunkenness, Mikhail's fist is screwed tight around the handle of his half-unsheathed blade and the smaller man is poised like a guard dog behind his Baron and friend.

After a moment, Feyd exhales a slow lungful of air. "Go now," he orders and gives the tense guard a firm slap on the shoulder and a little squeeze. 

"Are ya sure, my Lord?" Mikhail hesitates until Feyd-Rautha squeezes his shoulder again.

"Go and mount your woman. She must have been waiting for you all night. And tell mine not to come here!"

Mikhail sheathes his blade with a noisy hiss and trails around Rabban in a curious half circle before wandering off into the hallway, a sway to his footsteps as he keeps muttering that he needs to tell Lilia about Beast - hick - Rabban.

Looking past Feyd's raised, wicked blade, Glossu's dark brown eyes find his brother's icy blue ones and Feyd is enraged when Rabban's cheeks fill up with laughter out of all things. 

"How did you get in here? You're not invited." Feyd rumbles, tilting the blade’s tip towards Rabban’s neck. “You should kiss your Baron's feet and beg him for forgiveness for trespassing.”

Still, the older brother disregards his sibling’s threat and merely tightens his grip on the curious box. He doesn’t even bother to draw his sword. Feyd is seething.

"I'm still a Harkonnen by blood. I don't need to be invited to attend my little brother's wedding."

Feyd-Rautha snarls at that. Being a few inches taller and considering himself considerably smarter than Glossu in every regard, he sees himself as anything but the little brother.

"You're not a Harkonnen, you're a Rabban and you're dressed like one too."

"You're a Rabban as much as I am! You would look good in a uniform like mine." 

Feyd's brows knit together in bewilderment. "I look nothing like a Rabban."

"You look just like our mother," Glossu barks and Feyd hisses through bared teeth, pupils shrunken to deadly pinpricks.

"What do you want?"

"I wanted to attend my little brother's wedding."

"I'm not your little brother, you dumb boar."

"You'll always be my little brother!"

"And you've taken the title of big brother literally as of late? You look fat. Have you been drinking?"

"A little," his brother admits. Now being way past fifty, Glossu 'Beast' Rabban looks old and bloated and Feyd finds it hard to believe that he could have ever looked up to his older sibling.

"Say what you want in my palace or feel my blade in your neck."

"I've only been truthful to you," Rabban insists. "I came to celebrate and to… talk.  I'm happy for you."

"Are you now?" Feyd tilts his head in cold mockery.

"I hope I get to meet your woman one day. I've heard plenty of rumors, ranging from heartwarming to mind boggling."

Feyd would rather keep his brother a thousand miles away from his wife to be. The last time they had seen each other, they had clashed with blades and teeth. Rabban, spraying spittle, had yelled that he would shatter everything his spoiled prince of a brother calls his own to pieces, and Feyd had made a gashing cut along Rabban's ribs, snarling with honeyed voice that even a pig had higher chances at success.

There was no love lost between the brothers.

"What's in there?" Feyd's gaze darts to the beige box under Glossu's arm and flits back up with resharpened coldness. But no icy glare can hide the fact that he's taken the bait, like a boy who can't resist a candy bar dangled in front of his face.

"It's for you," Glossu beams and offers the box all too freely. Feyd can't remember a time when his brother had ever willingly shared, let alone given.

Opening a mystery present from Rabban might as well be his last foolish mistake, but Feyd too may be a bit drunk, a bit drugged, and his curiosity kindled a bit too much by this irritating encounter.

"Open it," Feyd demands, holding the blade unwavering at Rabban's neck. His brother complies, pulling on the bow so it flutters to the ground, then wrapping one thick hand around the lid to lift it.

Feyd had expected many things, but not that.

From inside, a soft thing meets his incredulous stare and Feyd-Rautha's free hand lifts slowly, sliding into the box to pick up the item with pointy fingers. He holds it at arm's length, as if its soft fur might bite, and rotates it by the flipper. A stitched face with a little snout regards him, black marbles for eyes, handmade. It's a seal, its plush made of brown whale fur. Some spots are lovingly worn and matted by young, playful hands.

"Why don't you just go over there and say that you want it?" A man's droning baritone. "Because I don't want it!" Icy wind whistles around the fur hood of Feyd's coat, along with the scent of pines, roasted almonds and smoked meat. "So you tugged on my sleeve because you don't want it? You're a big boy now, you can go over there. Are you scared?" "Let's go! You're stupid!" Feyd yowls and the faceless man laughs as the little boy fruitlessly pushes against his thick leg to get him to move away from the market stall. Blades clatter when he throws himself against the man's hip. "No, no, no! I hate you!" A pair of muscled arms sweep up his body like he's only a doll and throw him over a broad, fur-clad shoulder. Feyd finds himself thrashing against the coat that covers the man's back with his tiny fists.

“You remember it?” Rabban laughs and Feyd hates the way a web of crow’s feet spreads around his brother's eyes. It makes him look aged.

“No,” he snarls like a dog. 

“But I do." Rabban points at the stuffed seal. "I got it for you.” 

"You?!" The muscles of Feyd's hairless brows tic upwards in perplexity. The man from that wicked memory was not his father then? But he had looked so tall and big and grown-up. The idea that his bull-headed brother had been kind to him once and did something as mundane as take him to the market and buy him a toy is one that Feyd viciously rejects. It stands out jarringly against the brutal colors that paint his concept of family.

“You acted like you didn’t want to have it. Thought I wouldn't see the way you looked at it, big eyes and all. You thought it was embarrassing to have a— a plushy thing.” Rabban’s voice falters, like there is more hidden there. Old anguish that hurts so freshly when he sees his grown-up baby brother with an old toy in hand. Baron now. “You really don’t remember?”

“I remember that you threw me over your shoulder like a big brute. So, you’ve always been a boar, even then.” Feyd’s eyes glint like his blade as the pale dawn that creeps over the horizon, shedding light through the arched windows between bulging pillars.

“Yeah, I did that!” Rabban dares to fill the quiet morning air with guffawing laughter once more. "You were so small and light. You were on my knees a lot, brother. Used to sit there and watch me whet my blades. You still whet them like I showed you back then, do you know that?" 

"I was never on your fat knees, brother, and if I was, it must have been by force." 

Feyd's left forearm ricochets into Rabban's chest, pinning him to the wall. The blade pokes into the side of the bulkier man's neck, sharp and glinting like a snake tooth and Feyd’s features are screwed into deadly violence. 

Rabban grunts in a way that Feyd finds downright pathetic when the back of his head hits the solid tiles, barely fighting against his baby brother's assault. His eyes are squeezed into crinkled lines. From up close, one can see the blotchiness of Rabban's puffy face. Feyd sneers.

"You'll die younger than our uncle if you go on like this," he comments on his brother's tumid appearance and scratches the blade tip against his cheek. “You embarrass your Baron.”

Rabban shrugs his shoulders and releases a puff of air from trembling lips. It bewilders him that even though he’s afraid, he wouldn’t mind if his little brother slit his neck right here. At the very least, he would die at the hand of the last person he had ever loved. “You’re no Baron to me, you’re just my baby brother.”

Glossu Rabban prepares himself for metal to sink into his neck in quick, searing pain, like he had seen Feyd do so often, a boy sharpened into violent psychosis by a violent man. But his brother's presence only grows deadly silent until Rabban opens his eyes. Feyd has never liked capable prey who doesn’t fight back. His younger brother’s expression is hard to read, shielded always by a wall of either fire or ice. Does that woman who he is to marry ever see him without? Glossu is almost jealous.

“Do you remember any of your childhood?” Rabban finds his own voice meek and brittle, thoughts drifting to a warm, cozy nursery, a round carpet on the floor, an arm chair and a toy chest on the floor, an ever-blue sky and icy hills covered in lush pines which seem to tickle the ivy firmament. The room is still unchanged in the Lankiveil fortress, a capsule of the past, waiting for the little boy who still lives somewhere in Feyd-Rautha.. "Our home?"

"I don't. Giedi Prime is my home," Feyd bites and his seething lips nearly brush against his brother’s. It is a home now that his uncle is gone.

"It is not!" Rabban suddenly bristles and shoves Feyd-Rautha’s blade aside, cutting his sleeve on it. "You know what's a good home?! Caladan. Or Kaitain. Or Lankiveil."

"You're not even a Harkonnen anymore, brother. You disgust me."

"And neither are you! We're half Harkonnen! I took after our father…" Rabban rubs over his ever-hairless skull and the many old battle scars there. "But you had blonde hair once, did you know that? And there would be snow on it when you came inside from playing."

"I wasn't playing!"

"Yes, you were!" Spit sprays over Feyd's chest, narrowly missing the stuffie which he has come to cradle unwittingly against his chest, and Feyd's eyes flash with offense. "You were a little boy, of course you were playing! You were three when I—" Rabban halts and anguish twists his aged features. He is fifty-five now and suddenly it shows. Suddenly, Feyd can only see his brother as what he is, an old veteran fallen from grace, drinking the rest of his brain away on Lankiveil. Rabban adds with a thick voice: “I always tried to be there.”

“Where?”

“With you! Everyone knew that our mother didn't want you. But I tried to be there.”

The vicious fire in Feyd's stomach dies to frozen ashes and his teeth are screwed into his bottom lip. The extended blade quivers and his fingers dig into soft fur. “What are you talking about?”

Rabban shrugs again and looks down at the stuffed seal like he hopes the magma channels will open up beneath the palace and swallow him whole. “Our parents had you under the premise that you would be given to our uncle as an heir. It was father’s and uncle's idea. A good deal. You don’t deny House Harkonnen when it offers wealth and reputation in exchange for something so…” So little.

So that’s what he had been all his life. A good deal and nothing more. Feyd wants to sink his blade into his own crunching bones.

Rabban’s face snaps back up with sudden vehemence. “Our mother could never look you in the eyes and it hurt me to see it! When you were born, I thought I would hate you. Who wants a sibling when they’re already past twenty?! But I couldn’t hate you. You were so little…”

Feyd can’t speak, his jaws clenched into a painful vise, so Rabban goes on. “You always tried to get her attention, but she never relented. She wouldn't even hold you to her own breasts for milk."

"Shut up."

"That woman you're going to marry, what is she like?" 

“I said shut up!"

Only Emmi Rabban knew the real reason why she couldn’t hold little Feyd-Rautha Rabban. It was not her husband's and her brother in law's idea, even though she let them think it was. It was the Bene Gesserit who needed her little Feyd for their breeding program, who needed him honed and sharpened the Harkonnen way because she, Emmi, had failed to raise Glossu as a respectable son. Too wild, too dumb they said. She hated herself so much for birthing Feyd-Rautha under this pretense, that she couldn't love her little boy, for she knew she couldn't bring herself to give him away if she ever started loving him.

“Sorry.” Glossu's voice quivers and it’s pathetic, so pathetic, Feyd thinks. His own breath does something quite similar.

"So, you're telling me you were the good guy all along? The good big brother?"

"Not all along, no," Rabban draws a hard breath. “You always wanted to be like me. That's why you became like this.” He spits it out like it’s a bad thing. “When I killed our father, I killed our mother and my baby brother too, I just didn't know it yet.” Fat tears roll down Glossu’s cheeks and he doesn’t even care to wipe them away.

Feyd suddenly remembers why he had felt such satisfaction when his mother looked at him with fright when he sunk the blade into her neck at night, when she was tucked into bed, helpless. He had always envied the way their mother looked fearfully at Glossu, because at least she looked at him. 

“I killed our father because he deserved it for the plan he made with our uncle. And mother… She suddenly said that you are her only son. It was worth it for me. But the deal hadn’t died with our father and then someday uncle showed up and I think you… You wanted to punish her. You wanted to be like me, so you killed her, and uncle was so impressed.” Glossu exhales shakily. “I would have killed him too, but… I visited you on Giedi Prime after your first months there, you know? I saw what he did to you. You were covered in bruises and I… did nothing. And you grew mean. And you had every right to. But with no one else left to hate, I started hating you, for many years. It’s all my fault.” 

Glossu Rabban cries into his fist’s and Feyd-Rautha traps his sobs within his throat, which hurts like a blade was stuck in it. But no matter how tightly he seals his throat, it doesn’t keep his eyes from going blurry and the hot, salty wetness from spilling down his cheeks.

Present Day

Rabban smiles encouragingly, fist beating down on his thick chest to the mighty echo of the drums. Feyd tilts his head, smiling too, shoulders squared and chin held high, even as his heart plummets into his stomach.

The rhythm changes, becomes uncharacteristically softer and gentler. Quick, almost like cats' paws chasing over the plains. The ring bearer is released into the aisle, holding one ring in each quivering face-hand. Big, pearlescent eyes seek out the man and woman at the end of the aisle who both hold out their hands encouragingly, but they are so far away and so many strangers sit and gawk all around.

Glugo shivers, cowering. 

Until the two other faces it has grown to love leap up from their seats in the front row and hurry all the way to the back, offering one hand each. Glugo is lucky to have more than enough hand-feet to hold each offered hand in two of its own and strut down the aisle with newfound confidence. The distance shrinks rapidly and it clambers up on top of the pedestal all on its own. Its half-human heart is terribly proud as it holds up the rings as high as it can reach, looking from Feyd to the bride and back. Glugo doesn't like her gown. One hand-foot fingers the splayed, lead-coated plastic panels which are anything but soft. She should have worn a blanket or a fur cloak, it thinks.

"Well done," she praises softly, stroking over the top of Glugo's head with one gloved hand.

"Thank you, my friend" Feyd rasps and the drums fade away entirely when the bride and groom pick up the rings, him holding hers and her holding his.

The wedding bands are blacker than the universe itself, held up against the lurid sky. Forged out of obsidian from Giedi Prime's volcanic mines, they have been chemically reinforced to withstand the eons.

Glugo climbs bravely back down and joins Lilia and Mikhail in a comfortable basket at their feet, loafing and watching attentively.

As Glugo leaves, the master of ceremonies steps onto the raised platform from behind the altar. The tattoos that cover his torso in thick, blocky stripes make him appear almost fully dressed, even though he is clad in only a toga, with black panels of fabric twining loosely around his arms. Nodding towards the Baron and his Lady, the man readies his throat to speak, but a timid servant who comes scurrying from the side beats him to it.

"Eruption imminent, my Lord," the scrawny man murmurs and points to Feyd-Rautha's side where a jagged vent has begun spewing black, billowing smoke into the firmament. A thousand heads turn to the mountain ridge, each towering giant an active volcano. The earth growls and moans beneath their feet.

"Should we evacuate?" The bride's worried voice comes muffled from beneath the layers of scintillating plastic.

"No, we will proceed," Feyd-Rautha decides, turning back to her, leaving the volcanoes at his back in plain sight for her. "Let my bride see the glory and beauty of our world."

She inhales shakily, squaring her shoulders when Feyd grins, blinking in cat-like manner.

"Very well!" The announcer speaks, his recognizable voice as loud as a war horn. When he raises his arms above his head, a fierce breeze picks up the panels fluttering from his pale arms. The wind carries notes of ash. "Let us commence the holy union of our beloved leader, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen and his chosen bride! The planet itself celebrates with us!"

Drums begin to boom like thunder, punching a rhythm that pumps red and black blood alike through their veins in a rapid chase. At every fifth beat, the crowd throws their hands up high, chanting. At every tenth beat, the next gust of smoke billows over the crater edge. The man who can make his voice heard across an entire arena has no trouble outdoing the drums.

"The rumors are true, dear people, dear Harkonnens. Our bride is a woman of lost, ancient kingdoms, a relic, the first astronaut! Imagine the ancient secrets she will share with our new Lord, with us!" The announcer punches his fists wildly in the air, black teeth bared in a gashing crescent. "This spring equinox marks the dawn of a new age for our glorious House!"

The planet's crust screams in agreement and gives birth to sparkling rivulets of black, hot lava with an earth-shattering roar. Like ghastly fireworks, they splash against the storm-battered, frosted sky.

The announcer laughs, clutching the bride and groom by the arms. "Foretold by dreams, their union is now written in the flesh!"

Feyd-Rautha curls his palm around her covered cheek and she does the same to him, gloved hand cool against his skin. She is gawking in awe at the terrible spectacle at his back, but a soft tilt of Feyd's head is enough to snare her attention back to him. His uncanny beauty outshines even the brutal convulsions of Giedi Prime.

"Speak after me," the announcer hollers. "I swear by the blood and the flesh that my heart belongs to my Manducor, in life and in death. The honor to devour it after my passing goes to my Manducor and my Manducor alone. The glorious, black sun is my witness."

Manducor means heart eater. Days prior, when Feyd came  home drunk and weepy after his Bull's Night, he had confessed to her that he had always been afraid of dying, because he knew his uncle would eat his heart in a final, cruel violation. But not anymore, he had whispered with such fondness that she now finds it easy to repeat the words and mean them.

Her voice is amplified by a device offered by the announcer and her words roll like a tidal wave across the semi circle of guests. Feyd-Rautha's features twitch in euphoria, eyes gleaming like the lava that rolls in hot rivers down the mountain flank. Like an animal ready to pounce, his voice quivers when he repeats the sacred words.

The drums' chasing rhythm crests and the screams that rise from a thousand mouths are guttural and primal. The volcano hisses above, the earth howls below and Feyd-Rautha claims his bride to the grandest cacophony of man and nature.

Lilia cries and presses Glugo's head to her knee. A beaming Glossu Rabban shakes Mikhail's hand.

The relic's palms meet Feyd's belly when he crosses the distance in one powerful stride, sliding over the twitching hills of his muscles when he parts her veil up to the nose, baring her painted lips to the scalding air.

"My woman, I love you," her husband snarls before his lips find hers in needy violence, taking her breath while her fingers curl around his back and dig into his flesh. 

With one radioactive kiss, their bond is sealed, hearts, flesh and souls bound for all beautiful, horrifying eternity.

The Garden releases its last radiance, not as something failed, but as its full reason for being: to give continually, to its last bit of energetic being. Its giving is its beauty. It is a smile, it is the heart of love. Even the smell of decay, drifting from the deer, dead by the side of the road, says: “This is what I am and no other. I do not pretend to be. Even in death I speak without deceit, even unto my flesh, my very bones.

- Equinox by Richard Wehrman

A/N: See you in the, starts sobbing , last chapter 🥺🥺🥺

FEYD TAG LIST

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted, @sunny747

@ughdontbeboring, @meetmeatyourworst, @gravesdiggergirl

[merakiui]

everything is going to be okay.

yandere!trey clover x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, descriptions of unsettling imagery, derealization, implied drugging, descriptions of hyperdontia, descriptions of teeth falling out, non-graphic allusions to sexual assault, emotional manipulation, gaslighting note: 01110111011011110111010101101100011001000010000001101001001000000110110001101001011001010010000001110100011011110010000001111001011011110111010100111111

i. itchiness - the worst feeling in the world is knowing something is inside of you, and there’s nothing you can do to get it out.

A white rabbit blinks up at you with its beady, red eyes. Its nose twitches. Once. Twice. Thrice. A quiet breeze slithers through the field in which you currently stand, surrounded by lush greenery and colorful wildflowers. They sprawl endlessly, clawing at the horizon beyond with botanical fingers. You watch rainbows sway, dewy petals fluttering like butterfly wings beating against a cloudless, cerulean sky.

You take one step towards the rabbit and it takes off in a sprint, bounding through knee-high grass. You stagger after it, crushing flowers underfoot. Stems snap like spines, sturdy until smashed. You hear agony whispered in the wind: How could you? How could you? How could you?

Shrugging it off, you pursue the rabbit. The grass grows with every passing minute, thickening in abundance. It’s so tall it blocks your view of the sun, eclipsing your figure like a menacing shadow. You fight through it, your gaze pinned solely on the speck of white fur. Verdant blades brush your skin, soft like silk. Itchy like hair. Itchy like maggots wriggling in marrow.

Itchy.

You struggle through the infestation until, eventually, you burst through the grass. The other side is calmer here. When you glance back at the way you came, you find a wall of grass stretching up into the above. The wildflowers are nowhere to be seen, but you can hear them when you stick your head through the grass. They’re still weeping: Why? Why? Why? It’s not fair. We were so happy. You’ve stomped us out—ruined us. We’ll never grow back the same.

“You coming?”

You whirl at the sound of a familiar voice, scanning the field in search of him. Instead, the rabbit is just a few feet away. It tilts its head at you, ears pricked. You meet its scarlet stare.

Something tells you you’re better off waiting. There’s no point in chasing, but curiosity crawls into your cranium. You hurry ahead, single steps sliding into fast, frantic footfalls. The rabbit moves quickly, its little legs thumping against the ground. You run until your every breath squeezes your heart. Until your head is dizzy. Until you’re nauseous and panting.

You run all the way to the edge of a forest, the field falling away in patches, and you reach for the trees, fingers splayed. The rabbit is within your grasp.

You step with your right leg and crush a violet butterwort.

Pain shoots through your foot in a white-hot flash. The butterwort stabs through your sole, emerging from your flesh as if it’s simply a clay pot with soil for snuggling. You yank your leg away and roots are ripped from the ground with it, attached to the flower stuck in your foot. Warm blood trickles out. Green grass is stained rusty-red. It sweeps along your calf, a physical lullaby.

Itchy.

“Fuck,” you hiss, stumbling backwards. The root goes with you, an endless strand set deep into the ground. You tug, but the flower persists. It folds itself into a bow and wraps its petals around your foot in a parasitic hug. “Let go of me.”

At the edge of the forest, the rabbit remains. Watching. Waiting. Wondering.

You flop onto your side, breathing heavy and haggard. The pain is itchy. The blood is itchy. The flower is itchy. You grab at it with shaky fingers and attempt to pry it off. Trees tower overhead, bark bending forwards to loom like leering fiends. With all of your might, you yank the butterwort out. It comes free with a sickening snap, soil-speckled roots dragging through the hole in your foot.

Itchy.

Between the breeze and your devastated whimpers, you hear it—the withered wheezing of the earth beneath your body.

Suddenly, the trees have eyes. Suddenly, everything is alive.

Desperately, you stretch your arm towards the rabbit. It blinks at you. Once. Twice. Thrice. And then it turns and disappears into the forest beyond.

You roll over on your back just as more butterworts bloom from soil moistened with your blood. A garden germinates from flesh and bone.

You shut your eyes.

Itchy.

When you open them, you see a single blade of grass backdropped by a cumulus-spotted sky. He peers down at you, glasses glinting in the sunlight, and offers his hand.

“Nice day for a nap, isn’t it?” He smiles a boyish, lopsided grin.

You stare for another quiet second before closing your hand around his. “Trey…”

Right. Your friend, Trey, who offered to stay with you in the wake of…something. Something about companionship. Something about looking out for you during difficult times. Something about something. 

Was that it? What did he say again?

Words are a valuable thing for people like Trey. When strung together, they create stories and Trey is especially good at amazing others with sugared ambiguity.

You allow him to pull you up. When he moves to brush the grass clinging to your clothes, you jerk away. The two of you stare at each other for an abnormally long time.

A discordant note resounds within your head, a strangled cry from a pretty piano. The jarring crash of splintered glass. Looking at him now, in his green-and-white checkered jumper and boring, beige slacks, you feel…itchy. There’s a dull ache at the back of your throat. You think you might be coming down with a cold.

Spring is just starting to poke through the frost of winter. Even though today’s sunny and the weather is warmer than usual, there’s a frigid feeling in the air. A disconnect between seasons. That odd border between not-quite-winter and not-quite-spring.

“How long was I out for?”

Trey’s hand falls to his side. “Long enough to give the muffins time to cool.” He nods in the direction of the house, a quaint structure built at the edge of the forest. “I made your favorite.”

You brighten like candles lit in a birthday cake. Twenty of them, in fact, all arranged perfectly. It will take twenty more for you to overcome the tragedy of never having the chance to partake, for every slice was dragged onto the plate and devoured with haste. And all the while the flames flickered, burning wax down to tiny stumps.

Itchy.

Blueberry muffins are placed on a circular glass plate. The accompanying dome lid sits off to the side. You take one and turn it over in your hands. How does someone determine their favorite food? And when does that food stop becoming a preference? Memories attach themselves to everything: clothing, rooms, bodies. Even food. If something unsavory happens when indulging in a favorite, the memory soaks into the batter. The next time you encounter it, even if it’s in a dream, you avoid it. Not because the food has lost its flavor, but because the memory has corrupted the comfort of the gastronomic experience.

In a distant past, you think you liked blueberry muffins. Certainly at one point, right?

Still, you bring it to your lips and bite into spongy bliss.

Blood fills your mouth.

Trey’s initial placidity morphs into something disturbed. He moves to your side, to your aid, but you shove him away. The blueberry muffin lands on the table in a spoiled heap, crumbs scattering. You spit chunks of muffin into your palms. It feels like something’s lodged in your throat. A tiny porcelain hand pinching the skin of your esophagus in an unrelenting hold. A wad of something impossible to swallow. Like words or screams.

Crimson-tinged saliva dribbles past your lips. Lying in your hands, amidst bits of chewed muffin, is a sliver of skin.

“(Name)?”

Your name sounds wrong on his tongue.

“Hey, are you okay? Let me get you some water. Wait right there.”

Wrong. It’s wrong.

You stare at the flabby piece of skin. Your skin.

Trey returns with the aforementioned water. He pulls a chair out from the table. “Sit and have a drink. Not too fast. Slowly now.”

The rest of the muffin is swept away, destined for the rubbish bin. While you watch Trey clean up your mess, you sip at lukewarm water. Your tongue squirms in your mouth, searching for the space that’s now bleeding freely. You find it, almost like one finds the space where a missing tooth ought to be, and prod at it with your tongue. It’s raw and sensitive. Stinging slightly. You wince.

“Bit my cheek,” comes your reply when Trey walks over. He wipes his hands on a towel patterned with tulips. “Hurts.”

Trey frowns. Golden hues flick from the plate of muffins to your forlorn face. He lowers to his knees, peering up at you through his glasses. “Don’t eat so fast next time, all right? You could choke.”

“Tastes funny.”

“I can’t imagine it’s very appetizing. Blood and blueberry muffins… A crazy combo, yeah?”

“Yeah…”

He chuckles. “Well.” He runs his hand through his hair. It reminds you of the grass and trees outside. Of a summer that has long since passed. “Nothing like a little scare to liven the afternoon. How’re you feeling?”

You set your half-empty glass on the table. “Better. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. You wanna try another one? I promise the next one won’t have you biting your cheek.”

“I… I think I’m good. Thank you, though.”

“As long as you’re okay, that’s all that matters.” Trey smiles. “I’ll make something softer for dinner. Any requests for the chef?”

You think back on all of your favorites and choose something you wouldn’t mind losing. “Lentil soup.”

After tonight, you’ll never enjoy the taste of that dish again.

Maybe that’s okay. Soups are easy to eat. Easy to slip special sentiments in.

Soup is what becomes of your brain when your body is too itchy.

ii. incessant - static is buzzing in your ears. buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. fluffy like bumblebees. sharp as a sting.

The elusive rabbit is looking at you again, red eyes boring into the back of your skull. You glance over your shoulder at it. A little bow fashioned from blades of grass is fastened around its neck. It nods in a new direction, urging you to follow. For a moment, you stand there and wait. Deep down in some forgotten corner of your stomach, you know you’ll never be able to catch the rabbit.

So you fall into step as it hops off to its destination.

Hedges line the horizon, boasting roses and thorns. The rabbit leads you all the way to the entrance of the maze. A xylophone rattles. You step forward. Another hedge rises from the ground up to trap you inside. With the rabbit out of sight and no other way around, you trek onwards into the maze.

The frequency at which xylophone chimes are registered and translated in your mind are muffled. At best, they’re almost silenced. At worst, they are static—piercing and grating in your ears.

Amidst so much static, Trey’s voice has always remained at the same pitch. An immutable intonation, one that fills the clouds with buoyant assurances: Just relax. You’re all right. I’ve got you.

You don’t think you’ve ever heard him shout, but that makes sense. Grass only whistles and shivers in the breeze. It never screams. It’s soft and sweet—a wondrous embrace until it begins to feel itchy with time. Like a wool sweater. Like ants crawling in lines up your arms. Like cobwebs wrapped around your wrists.

The grass in your garden sounds more like static. Incessant, ear-splitting static. In your brain, bunching up like scribbles on paper, and falling in waterfalls from his mouth whenever he speaks.

It was static you heard when the grass cradled you in wispy tendrils.

Quiet at first, as if the world had been clicked off like a bad program on television, and then the static came seeping in. Rot was encroaching, grabbing at the rabbit and gutting it before your horrified eyes.

Somewhere within the maze, a jovial, uplifting song spills from a spinet. It puts you at ease, filling your soul with serenity.

Itchy dissonance. A rabbit split open, gooey innards tumbling free. Cotton fur tarnished. Lines running red.

Dead.

The spinet swells with rhythm. You’re walking yourself into corners, traveling in circles.

Incessant melodies, ringing in your ears like cicada shrieks.

The circle winds around and around. Where are you going? Hedges on either side, white roses blooming from comforting green. The deeper you delve, the darker they bloom. Mottled, petals wilting, white closes up and shrivels away.

Blotted black with tar, trailing in thick streaks.

Your feet pound against mossy meadows. You need to find the exit. It’s here and then there and then here again. It’s everywhere and then it’s nowhere. It’s here. Here. Here. Here. Here—

Now it’s there!

Static screeches. Blood trickles from your ears.

It hurts until it doesn’t. Until the static numbs everything and all that’s left is nothing. Blank and bitter, a wonderland set on mute.

The hedges breathe alongside you. It’s incessant, unintelligible static.

Frosting melts on cake. Pastels are sticky and spoiled. Candles droop.

A xylophone played in garbled glissando.

Quiet breaths. In and out. In and out. The grass whispers to you: “Hey, it’s fine. You trust me, right?”

In and out.

Out and in.

In and out.

Out. Out. Out. Incessant itchiness. Get it out.

Glass shatters. The rabbit’s heart, still beating faintly, is slit. 

That…didn’t just happen, did it?

It didn’t, right?

Grass is supposed to be soft and full of life when watered with love.

That didn’t just happen.

What happened?

The grass billows in a breeze. “You’re fine. I’ve got you.”

You’re not. You…are anything but fine.

What happened?

You run under an arch, past thinning hedges, over the threshold, and burst into the kitchen.

“Trey!”

He startles, almost dropping a bowl of cake batter. His glasses sit crooked on his face. It takes a moment for him to process your arrival. He sets the bowl on the countertop and turns fully to face you, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His concern makes your skin prickle.

Itchy.

“Everything okay?”

Incessant.

“Why…” Your fingers curl around the doorframe. You gulp down a gasp. “Why are you here again?”

He gives you a weird look. “You said you needed my help—that you were having trouble getting up in the morning. Remember? Actually… Here. How about this? Do you want me to fix you a cup of chamomile? It’ll help with anxiety and insomnia.”

Your once rapid-moving world slows to a screeching halt. You said that? When? When did you say that? When the fuck did you say that?

“I…don’t remember saying that. Ever. I don’t think I invited you here either…”

Trey shakes his head, tutting softly. “I get it. It’s rough. I know.” He folds the spatula through the batter. Calmly. “But you’re exaggerating. I’m only here to help.”

Static. Incessant, itchy static. You blink owlishly at him, straining to hear over it.

“What?”

“I came over because you asked me to, and I’m staying to make sure you’re all right.”

“I’m fine.” You point towards the door. “I think… Trey, I think you need to leave.”

His arm, which had previously been moving in circles, falls still. He sets the bowl down again. “We’ve talked about this before, (Name).”

“I don’t remember.”

“All the more reason for me to stay, yeah?”

“No… No, that’s not—”

Trey smiles, his tone lighthearted. “Hey, relax. You’ll feel better after something sweet. It won’t take long for the cake to bake. Wait for a little longer. If you want, you can lick the spatula when I’m done—”

“I don’t want cake.”

“No? I remember you told me it was your favorite, though. Am I remembering wrong?”

Is he?

“It’s…gross.”

“Gross?” He chuckles sheepishly. “That bad, huh? Not a fan of my baking?”

You gaze past him at the batter in the bowl. Confetti cake. You look towards Trey again. “What was that?”

He opens his mouth, but you don’t hear the words.

Static.

Incessant, itchy static.

You track his lips, his eyes, his hands.

“What?”

Sound seeps in, crunchy but audible.

“…a joke,” he’s saying. “I was just joking.”

“I don’t understand…”

“Don’t worry about it. My feelings aren’t hurt. I know you enjoy my baking.”

The TV tunes into a nonexistent channel. Static buzzes on the screen.

Loud. Louder. So loud!

You can’t hear yourself think. Can’t hear your lungs wheeze. Can’t hear yourself speaking slowly as you stumble into the grass’s green embrace.

Incessant. You’ll go insane. Static. Incessant. Too much. You feel sick. Bile drags itself up your throat.

Loud. Loud. Loud. Impossibly, incessantly loud!

Your arm sweeps through the air. The bowl is flung across the room. Ceramic shatters. Batter spatters on the wall and kitchen tiles. You feel the dull ache in the aftermath. Trey’s speaking, but it’s just static. All-consuming. Buzzing like flies over birthday cake gone bad. Incessant.

And then the TV clicks off.

And then it’s quiet.

iii. insanity - over and over and over and over and over and over and over and and and and and and and andandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandandand01100001011100100110010100100000011110010110111101110101001000000110111101101011011000010111100100111111

Teeth. All thirty-two of them. Porcelain teeth. All forty-two of them.

They grow under your tongue and along the roof of your mouth in clusters. Insanity. It’s doing the same thing incessantly while anticipating different results. Insanity. It’s looking at too many teeth crammed where they shouldn’t be.

Opening your mouth as wide as it can go, you peer at yourself in the mirror. Your tongue runs along them. Smooth.

Teeth. All fifty-two of them. Hellish hyperdontia.

Grass is pesky when it gets in your mouth, reaching far with green fingers.

Flossing is important. If you forget, your gums will bleed and bleed, and then your mouth will be in for a world of pain. You’re smarter than this, so you need to keep up good dental hygiene. Brush and floss as you would, but not too hard or else you’ll break.

Insanity. It’s taking advice from butterworts and rabbits—from meadows tilled and filled with sin.

Teeth. Too many. Have you been flossing properly?

And then they’re at the back of your throat, sprouting from skin like the dainty heads of a dozen Frozen Charlottes. You stick your fingers down your throat to grab at one, but you can’t get hold of it. You cough. Teeth are closing up your esophagus. You look at your mouth and see a lamprey.

Insanity. It’s full of teeth.

You gag around them, heaving mouthfuls of air that struggle to reach your lungs. You feel teeth in there, too, growing in groups like an invasive species. You brace yourself against the sink, gripping the edge so tightly your knuckles sting. Your jaw is starting to feel sore.

Terrified, you find your reflection staring back with wide eyes. And then the first tooth comes loose. It falls into the basin of the sink with a pattering clink. You inhale through your nose, and that’s as much of your shock as you can express before more teeth follow suit. They shift out of your gums, one by one, until dozens of them are spilling out in calcium rain. Bent over the sink, you spit and spit. Tears threaten to pour from your eyes.

This can’t be happening.

You try to scream, to beg for it to stop, but the teeth keep coming. For every few that fall out, twenty more grow. It’s a cycle.

Insanity.

Incessant.

Itchy.

You sob helplessly, salt mingling with saliva and teeth.

When you look back at the mirror, you see blood stringing from empty gums.

The bathroom light flickers. Dizzying darkness. An unusual heat settles under your skin.

Itchy.

Incessant.

Insanity.

The bathroom light flickers. Blinding brightness. You’re still reeling. The heat won’t go away. Your eyelids are heavy. You feel sleepy, but it’s only early evening.

“Everything okay?”

You spy Trey in the mirror. His arm is propped against the doorframe as he leans in, half of his body shrouded in the shadows from the hall.

You swallow. It goes down smoothly. The teeth have retreated.

“T-Too much chamomile,” you grind out, reaching up to touch the column of your throat.

Teeth. All thirty-two of them.

The basin is empty. No teeth.

“How about a slice of bread? You’ve gotta eat something, (Name).”

“I’m not hungry.”

Your tongue traces all thirty-two of your teeth. They’re there, rooted firmly in your gums.

Trey frowns. “At least let me heat the leftover lentil. It’s liquid. You won’t bite your cheek again.”

“I might burn my tongue.”

“If you’re worried, I could feed you instead. Airplane it and everything.”

At your bewildered stare, Trey laughs and holds his hands up in mock surrender.

“Joking.”

“Are you really here to help me?”

He lowers his arms. An uncanny cold fills the bathroom.

“Nothing is going to get you.”

“What?”

“There’s nothing here, (Name). You’re safe.” Trey glances down the hall for good measure. The hair on your neck rises, alert. “It’s in your head. You’re messing with yourself, you know, getting worked up over things that aren’t really there. I promise you’re okay. Nothing can hurt you while I’m here.”

It’s not in your head. Of course not. It couldn’t be.

Right?

It’s not really in your head, is it?

You storm out of the bathroom, pushing past Trey in your impatience. He follows you soundlessly. Everything looks the same. The sofa. The wallpaper. The kitchen. The cracks and creaks. Nothing’s changed.

So is it in your head? What is it—the thing in your head? It’s itchy and incessant. It makes everyone gaze at you as if you’re insane.

If you could, you’d take a scalpel to your body and cut yourself out of your skin, put it through a long wash cycle, and hang it out to dry. Maybe then the thing would leave.

You stop at the front door, suddenly hesitant. Has it all been in your head? Are you going crazy? Is Trey right: There’s nothing here and you’re making everything up?

You wrench it open.

A black rabbit blinks up at you with its milky-white eyes. Its nose twitches. Once. Twice. Thrice. A loud gust slithers through the field in which you currently observe, surrounded by decaying greenery and wilted wildflowers. They sprawl endlessly, clawing at the horizon beyond with broken fingers. You watch monochrome tones sway, dried petals flaking off like scabs against a battered, bloodless sky.

You take one step towards the rabbit and it takes off in a sprint, bounding through—

The grass gathers you in a hug. It whispers strangely soothing static.

“Everything is going to be okay.”

iv. 01101001011101000010000001110111011000010111001100100000011000010110110001110111011000010111100101110011001000000111010001110010011001010111100100101110

[pasukiyo]

LEECH: ALL AROUND ME

| a collection of one-shots. collection masterlist.

DISCLAIMER: this fic is simply a work of fiction and is in no way, shape, or form claiming to be a reflection of how leon kennedy is canonically portrayed as a character. this is an au, meaning it is an alternate reality written for fun, so please heed this warning and keep it in mind while you read.

** none of these fics necessarily need to be read in any sort of order **

— to join the taglist, follow the link here and choose "leon kennedy" in the character list.

collection songbook

leon kennedy x fem!reader word count; 3,031 warnings; leon is a stalker, themes of dark!leon, smut, masturbation (both m & f), alcohol use, allusions to oral (f receiving), spit play? summary; long shifts two days in a row apparently called for drunken measures. she knew it had to be because she was drunk that she was breaking her routine, that she was thinking about leon kennedy again, that her hand was slipping between her thighs, that she could feel him all around her...

 Ghosts haunted the long hallway leading to her apartment door. They lingered in the shadows, watching her as she walked by, their gazes like insects crawling on her skin. She was too tired to fully acknowledge them now but they were there, she could feel them all around her. 

 For now, she fumbled around with her key, circling the hole in the knob through half-lidded eyes until it finally entered the lock. The door squeaked as she stepped into her apartment, kicking her foot back against it to close it again. Sleep weighed heavily on her eyelids and there was a crick in the back of her neck she desperately tried to rub out as she locked the door, groaning while she tossing her purse and keys atop the kitchen counter. 

 She shuffled her feet towards the refrigerator, squinting against the harsh, yellow light inside as she reached for the leftovers from the night prior. She was going through the motions— dumping the contents of the white styrofoam to-go box onto a plate, opening the microwave, setting the plate down, slamming the door closed, pressing the 1, 3, 5 buttons. 

 Nights after long shifts at the hospital were always spent like this. Barely able to feed herself properly through a numb mind, scarfing down the lukewarm food, tossing the styrofoam to-go box away, staggering into the bathroom, stripping herself of her scrubs, turning the knob of the shower all the way to the left until the water was hot enough to scorch her skin. 

 It was all routine and practically nothing could break her from it through her barely-cognizant mind. Nothing— although, she did wonder somewhere in the back of her mind whether or not she left her toothbrush on the edge of the sink rather than in its holder before she left that morning. 

 Her flesh pleasantly burned as she shut off the shower, wringing the water from her hair before wrapping herself in a towel, stepping onto the bathmat. She finished the rest of her routine— brushing her teeth, blow-drying her hair, tugging on a t-shirt and underwear. 

 She was completely numb to the world by the time she was finished and all she could think about was her bed. Nothing could distract her from her bed. Everything ceased to exist save for her bed. 

 She practically face-planted into the mattress, tugging the comforter over her body as a chill settled into her bones. It was cold, unusually cold but cold was nice— she could sleep better when it was cold. 

 Nothing could distract her from her bed, from the sleep that was finally coming to, so close now, it hovered over her like the moon over the sun in an eclipse. Nothing could pull her away from sleep now— although, she did wonder whether or not her closet door had been cracked when she left that morning. 

 Her shift was an hour less than the one she’d worked the previous day. 

 She wasn’t sure if she should’ve been celebrating, as working nine hours was practically the same as working ten, but she’d take the small-scale victory for what it was worth anyways. 

 “You drinking tonight?” A fellow nurse, Grace, asked as they both gathered their things. She blinked at her coworker, then past her where another nurse, Isa, stood, staring back expectantly. 

 “I just worked nine hours,” she informed, turning back to her locker to shovel the rest of her things in her bag. 

 “Perfect drinking measures, if you ask me,” Isa grinned, leaning a shoulder against the wall. Grace closed her locker, tittering an, “exactly.”

 She sighed as she slammed her own locker closed, huffing a lock of hair away from her face while she slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder. The two nurses gazed back with expectant looks— she had a feeling they wouldn’t be taking no for an answer. 

 “I should really catch up on sleep.”

 Grace and Isa rolled their eyes in unison, the latter reaching forward to give her elbow a shove with her own. 

 “Come on. Just one drink and then you can go home, okay?” Isa pinched her brows together, her eyes rounding in a look that made her curse beneath her breath. She knew she couldn’t say no now. 

 “Fine,” she grumbled. “One drink. And I’m not paying.”

 She had more than one drink. 

 One turned into two, two turned into three, and four had her stumbling over her own feet down the hall towards her door at a quarter past midnight. Ghosts still haunted the hallway, lingering in the shadows, watching her with eyes that made the hairs on the back of her neck perk. She turned and glared back, even though to nothing in particular. She huffed at the prickly feeling of being watched, muttering a string of curses beneath her breath while she fumbled with her key as she approached her door, seemingly unable to find the hole in it. 

 “Come on,” she groaned until finally, the key was in and she hastily turned the lock, stumbling. The door banged against the wall as she fell into the knob, cursing again as she slammed it back closed. She locked the door behind her and fell back against it with a huff, trying to blink the blurriness away from her drunken vision. 

 The cue in her brain that usually reminded her of her routine: eat leftovers from fridge, take shower, go to bed failed to function properly. Instead, images of memories embedded somewhere deep in her mind flashed, flooding her every sense until her entryway faded and she was back in the secret government training facility, knocking back a drink someone had snuck in. 

 She sat on a cot with her legs over someone’s bare lap, their fingers tracing patterns into her calves. When she swallowed down the bitter liquid and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, she blinked up at them to find they already stared back. 

 “Why are you looking at me like that?” She asked, leaning over to hand them back the flask. Leon’s full, pink lips curved into a soft smile as he brought the rim of the small container to his lips, taking a sip of its contents. 

 “Looking at you like what?” 

 She pursed her lips as she leaned back on her elbows, head lolling back towards the metal rods that made up the headboard. “Like you’re trying to get into my head,” she replied and Leon snorted, setting the cold bottom of the flask down on her knee, resting his other hand on the middle of her calf.

 “I’m not trying to get into your head,” he said, leaning his head back against the wall, green with muck. She narrowed her eyes, “right.” 

 She rolled her head around her neck, brow pinched as her gaze found his again. Her eyes trailed from his down to the breadth of his shoulders, to his toned chest and stomach. There was an angry swelling in the crook of his neck and she pushed herself up to lean over towards him. Leon’s blue stare followed her hand as it reached for the mark, his breath hitching for but a mere moment when her fingertips touched his skin, his grip tighter around the metal flask.

 “It’s so red,” she noted and she wasn’t sure if it was because she was bordering on drunk that she was so entranced in this little, dark bite, but all she could really gather was that something about it made her feel… good. There was something so enthralling about having made a mark upon another’s skin, something that felt so potent. The blemish she’d made on his skin in a way made him hers, made it feel real. 

 “It doesn’t hurt,” Leon said, his eyes trailing up from her arm, past her naked breasts, up to her face. She blinked up at him, finger still on his pulse point, feeling it throb beneath her. It’s beat was irregular to her own heart but still, it beat for her, because of her, nonetheless. Leon’s flesh grew hot underneath her fingertip, like she was the match rubbing and igniting against him. 

 In a way, she really was. There was something about the way Leon felt, the way he looked at her, the way he smelled that had her center throbbing, flooding with liquid warmth. Her belly was melting and she felt like her entire body was on fire, unable to extinguish if she didn’t have him all over her. 

 She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his, his tongue eager and already feeling around her mouth. She already felt his hands circling around her waist— the flask toppling to the ground from over the side of the bed— pulling her in closer, her legs slithering around his hips. Her arms rounded his neck and she used them as leverage to allow herself to draw even further into him, deepening their kiss. 

 Leon kissed her with a fervor she’d felt from no one else before. He kissed her like she was his lifeline, like her lips were the tourniquet holding him together. He kissed her like he planned to infect, to invade her every sense and corrupt like a parasite. He was the sickness injecting itself into her veins and wearing down her bones but when he kissed her like that, she couldn’t find it within herself to care. 

 She canted her hips in his lap, feeling his erection beneath her ass, covered by the thin, fleece blanket on top of his legs. Leon hissed through his teeth as they pulled away for a moment of breath, a thin string of saliva bridging their mouths together. She glanced between it and back to the hazy storm in his eyes, dipping her chin to follow the line of spit back to his mouth, pulling him in for more. 

 One of Leon’s hands ventured from her waist, all the way up her back to her neck, creeping into the hair on the back of her head, his fingers woven in the tresses there. With a firm yank, her lips were pried off of his and she gasped, chin dripping with spit, another bridge of saliva drooping low towards their laps. 

 “Open,” Leon panted, the pad of his thumb not in her hair prying at her bottom lip. She complied, lips falling open and she watched as he gathered saliva on the tip of his tongue, leaning in closer to spit into her mouth. She hummed at his taste, stared into his eyes and he watched the lump in her throat bob as she swallowed. “Fuck.”

 There still remained a bridge of spittle between their mouths and she watched from the bottom of her lids as Leon copied her actions from before— following the trail of spit until his lips were on her chin, sucking the saliva that coated her skin there. 

 Her lips fell agape in a gasp, eyes rolling in the back of her head as his mouth left a slimy trail of spittle down her throat, lapping at the oasis between her neck and shoulder. It was so filthy, being kissed like this but fuck, she wanted more of it. She wanted more of his spit on her skin, more of his tongue swirling on her flesh, more of his teeth etching marks into her body, more of his saliva down her throat. 

 Leon’s tongue whirled to the crook of her neck, the same place where she’d left a mark on him and pressed soft, tender kisses there. She could feel him breathe against her skin, his breath warm and making her saliva-coated flesh bump with chills. The palm of one of her hands smoothed over his chest, trailing all the way up to his shoulder and around his neck just as his teeth sunk into the flesh at the base of her throat, her fingers woven through the dark blonde locks at the nape of his neck, tugging. 

 “Oh… f..fuck,” she gasped as he sucked her skin, pressing his tongue flat to the mark he’d etched there. Her head was still tipped back and Leon used the hand curled around to the back of it to force her gaze down to his. Her eyelids fluttered open and Leon stared back through heavy, hooded lids, the blue in his irises so dark they were nearly gray, like the sky in a storm. 

 Her chest heaved in tandem with her breaths, feeling so entranced in the way his gaze seemed to draw her in like the sea in stormy weather. She was in the midst of his ocean, being drawn in further away from the shore the longer she stared. 

 “You’re so beautiful,” Leon murmured, glancing between her eyes and her lips as the hand not on the back of her head fell down to her lap, soothing patterns into the soft flesh of her thigh. She could feel her heart skip a couple of beats as his palm slipped between them, within mere centimeters from her heat. 

 She couldn’t look away from him. There was something so strangely haunting about the way Leon looked at her and she wasn’t sure if it was because they were both a few swigs of drink in, but there was something poignant in the murky waters of his stare. There was something about Leon Kennedy she hadn’t quite figured out yet, she knew this much. But the mystery of this man was alluring, like his story was calling out to her as if it were a siren and she was a sailor at sea. She could already feel it pulling her down, sinking further until her head was near-fully submerged in water. 

 As his fingertips brushed against her aching clit, she vowed that whatever it was calling out to her within Leon Kennedy, she would find it. 

 The pads of Leon’s middle and forefingers spun circles against her bud and she hissed. 

 But Leon Kennedy’s story would have to wait for now. 

 Burning hot pleasure blazed her skin as the memory began to fade, but still, that bliss remained, even as her vision began to clear and she was back in the one bedroom apartment she called home. There was a searing ache between her legs and she could already feel her slick begin to pool in her underwear. Her legs shook with the sheer power of her arousal and she gasped, lunging forward to grasp the edge of the kitchen counter. 

 She knew it was the alcohol making her feel these things, reigniting whatever sort of feeling she had for Leon Kennedy. It’d been months since the last time she’d seen him, anyways. He was but a ghost now, a distant, faint memory buried somewhere deep in the archives of her mind. 

 She knew it had to be because she was drunk that she was stripping herself naked and slipping into bed, leaning back against the headboard. She knew it had to be because she was drunk that her hand was sliding down between her legs, that her fingers were rubbing in all the places Leon’s once were. She knew it had to be because she was drunk that all she could think about was Leon: Leon’s hands, Leon’s fingers, Leon’s skin, Leon’s face. She could feel him all around her, possessing her, corrupting her like an infection until she couldn’t even think straight. He was circling like a vulture, thickening the air she was breathing and holding on to her every feeling, locking her in, trapping her. 

 She knew it had to be because she was drunk that her mouth fell open as she tossed her head back against the headboard, arching her back, rubbing her fingers over her clit harder and harder, Leon’s name tumbling from her lips. She knew it had to be because she was drunk that she was coming, that white hot bliss was shooting straight through her and out her pussy, envisioning Leon’s face between her thighs, letting not a single drop of her orgasm go to waste. 

 She knew it had to be because she was drunk that she swore she could hear something come from the closet across the room. Did she leave it closed like that when she left that morning? She knew it had to be because she was drunk that she didn’t care, not in the moment. All she could think to do was close her eyes and let the memory of Leon Kennedy coax her down from her high. 

 Leon sunk his teeth deeper into the plush of his bottom lip to stifle the sounds threatening to come out. He used one hand to steady himself against the wall, the other to fist his cock, pumping himself harder and harder in rhythm to her fingers’ ministrations against her clit. His name was slipping from between her lips and she was spread out on the bed like the incarnation of all of Leon’s vices. 

 There was a knot of pressure building in his sack, being strung forward with each sharp tug of his hand on his cock. He was so close, so dangerously close that he could feel it, could see it, could taste it. All he had to do was wait a moment longer, just one small second…

 “Oh… oh shit, fuck! Fuck, Leon! Ri… right there!” She cried out and Leon’s eyes snapped open, watching from the slivers of openings in the closet door as her toes curled and her back arched, finally coming to her release. That knot slipped and he practically exploded into the palm of his hand, clamping his mouth closed with his opposite, willing himself to stay quiet. 

 Once the aftershocks of his prolonged orgasm began to fade, he leaned against the wall of the closet, trying to catch his breath as quietly as possible. He peeked through the openings in the closet door as her eyelids began to flutter closed, her heaving chest slowing until she slipped into the arms of slumber. 

 Leon sighed— there was only one thought that circulated his mind now.

 She still thought about him.

a/n; i wrote the last like 1500 words while sitting in my bed, fan turned up to high, freezing my ass off 😃 i've found that i'm more satisfied with the outcome of my writing whenever i make myself physically uncomfortable to the point its nearly unbearable LMFAOOO

anyways! i really enjoyed writing this one and i really hope you all enjoy reading it! i'm feeling really excited to write more for the leech collection 🤭

💿 if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or even leaving a reply to let me know! it means the entire world to me 🫶

TAGLIST

@corruptcoder @chaoticevilbakugo @luckypurins @glovesandhorror @xoxostarlet @illsksm @echo1200 @d3adp00ls @woahhajime @leonkennedygvrl @elliewilliamshotwife

[moodygirlzz]

Kayne and Val (Day Dreaming)

His mind was with the clouds, eyes glazed, face soft around the edges. A single finger, as large as the base of a tree, gently traced down the length of one of Val’s legs, sending goosebumps across her entire body. He moved slowly, as if the weight of his own touch might shatter her if he wasn’t careful. Sometimes he paused, the pad of his finger resting on her thigh, still, suspended, before continuing that grazing path downward, down to her ankle, her foot, her impossibly tiny toes.

Then his finger would shift course, pressing gently into the soft of her stomach, the sheer size of it making her stomach dip and rise beneath the curve of his touch. She felt as if he could press the life out of her, any harder she would burst beneath his touch. It was overwhelming, she was utterly eclipsed by him. Completely overbearing. But sweet. Mindless. Gentle. Like he couldn’t bear the thought of existing without touching her in some small way.

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. She admired him quietly from where she lay sprawled across his lap, a doll in comparison, her limbs smaller than the width of his palm. Her head was tipped back, resting just at the gentle curve where his stomach met his thigh. It rose and fell behind her like the ocean tide, warm and steady. Above her, she could see the strong line of his throat, the shadowed dip of his jaw as it moved slowly with every breath, every swallow, a subtle, internal rhythm that sounded like a distant storm rumbling through his chest.

From her angle, she could even see the flecks of stubble peppering the underside of his chin. Light, soft bristles that he must’ve missed while shaving that morning. A ridge of skin where he’d nicked himself had darkened faintly, though it had already begun to heal.

Kayne was seated on the couch, leaned back into its cushions with his legs stretched out. One arm was draped over the armrest, the other curled protectively around Val, cradling her gently in his lap like she was the most precious thing in the world to hold.

His thumb brushed along the arch of her hip, idly. Thoughtlessly. He didn’t even seem aware of the motion. His gaze had wandered to the window, distant and unfocused, the way it did when his thoughts drifted somewhere deep and unreachable.

Val smiled.

This was the Kayne she loved to see, not the stiff, awkward one who apologized when his voice got too loud or who turned beet-red when she caught him staring. Not the fretting, overly gentle version of himself who triple checked every step before approaching her. But this version. Quiet, unguarded. Dreaming with her in his lap. Trusting that she would stay.

She shifted slightly, crawling further into his open palm. She curled herself between the warm dip of his fingers, her body draped perfectly in the curve between thumb and index. She could feel the warmth of his skin through her clothes, and somewhere deeper, beneath the skin and bone, the thrum of his pulse. A deep, slow beat. Not quite a sound, more a sensation. A presence.

She stretched her legs out, yawning like a cat in the sun. His gaze flicked down at the movement, and for a moment their eyes met. His soft and unfocused, hers, twinkling with amusement.

“You’re daydreaming,” she teased softly, fingers grazing the skin on the back of his hand.

He blinked, and then that shy flush spread across his cheeks like a wave, blooming red up the sides of his neck.

“I wasn’t~” he muttered, looking quickly away.

She laughed, the sound light and airy, and shifted again out of his hand to rest her entire weight against the base of his stomach, hands curling into first at the bunching of his shirt . The warmth of him was all around her, his lap like a hammock, his fingers like a slow breeze tracing over her shoulders. The size of him wasn’t just a fact of biology, it was a part of everything. He was her world, surrounding her completely. Every breath he took made her sway gently. Every tiny twitch of his muscles shifted the landscape of her world.

But she never felt safer than when she was here, anchored by the weight of his attention, the hush of his presence.

She tucked herself tighter into him, her cheek pressed against the warmth of his belly, and closed her eyes. Above her, she felt his hand curl ever so slightly, fingers cradling her instinctively. She didn’t have to ask for it. He was already holding her like he couldn’t imagine letting go.

[ddoralaexplorer]

Eclipsed by You ~ A Paul Lahote story

Chapter Fourteen ~ The Point of No Return

Original POV

The sun rose slowly, casting a golden glow across the room. A cool breeze slipped through the open window, grazing my skin, while the rich scent of bacon filled the air. My eyes fluttered open, still heavy with sleep, as I took in my surroundings. The room was vast, adorned with elegant decor—warm, inviting, yet unfamiliar in a way that sent a strange pang through my chest.

Stretching, I sat up in the queen-sized bed, my gaze drifting across the room. Scattered toys lay on the floor—messy, yet carefully placed, as if chaos and order had struck a quiet balance. My eyes landed on a framed photograph resting on the dresser. Paul and I stood side by side, frozen in time on our wedding day, our smiles radiant, our hands intertwined. The happiest day of my life.

Sliding into my slippers, I followed the enticing sounds of clattering pots and hushed giggles. The house was built of rich wood, its structure familiar yet dreamlike, the staircase curling in a way that felt almost enchanting.

“Who wants milk?”

Paul’s voice carried from the kitchen, smooth and full of warmth. Rounding the corner, I found him standing by the counter, a plastic cup in hand. He wore a white tank top and gray sweatpants—casual, effortless, and undeniably beautiful. A sight I could wake up to forever.

“Me!” two small voices chimed in unison.

The twins, Hardin and Terra, sat at the breakfast table, their eyes gleaming with excitement. Our little angels. Our greatest joy. My babies.

“There’s my sleeping beauty,” Paul grinned, wrapping his arms around me from behind. His lips brushed against my neck, pressing soft kisses against my skin as I tilted my head slightly to give him more room. Everything was perfect. My little family. My world.

“Ew, gross,” Hardin groaned, scrunching his face in playful disgust.

“I think it’s cute,” Terra giggled, her cheeks smeared with syrup.

I laughed, moving to hug them one by one. Warmth filled my chest—I was finally happy. Truly, deeply happy. Paul by my side. Our two little ones. This life we built together. I was grateful.

I turned to Paul, smiling. He looked back at me with that same familiar warmth, the kind that made me feel safe.

“Vesper, wake up,” he said.

I blinked. “What?” I laughed, confused.

A shiver crawled up my spine. His face—it was shifting, distorting. The warmth in his eyes drained away, leaving something hollow and lifeless.

Hardin and Terra turned to face me. Their features were smooth, empty—faceless.

“Wake up,” they whispered in unison.

A chill gripped my throat. My heart pounded.

“Wake up!”

The dream shattered.

A sharp kick to my side jolted me into reality. My eyes flew open, the cold, hard ground beneath me. A shadow loomed above, and then I heard it—low, taunting, dripping with malice.

“Finally awake?”

The sinister voice sent ice through my veins.

Victoria.

I tried to scurry away, but a sharp pull stopped me. My wrists burned from the tight restraints behind my back. The rough material bit into my skin—I could already tell it would leave marks.

Panic threatened to rise, but I swallowed it down. I couldn’t let her see fear. I couldn’t show weakness.

“Where am I?!” I gritted out, forcing steel into my voice.

Victoria tilted her head, a slow, eerie smile curling at her lips. Her fiery hair cascaded over her shoulder as she crouched before me, eyes gleaming with something twisted, something cruel.

“Oh, Vesper,” she cooed, dragging out my name. “You’re exactly where you need to be.”

My heart stuttered at her words, dread coiling deep in my stomach. I forced myself to look around, searching for anything—an escape, a clue. Shattered glass littered the floor, reflecting slivers of dim light. The air was thick with dust and something metallic.

Then, my gaze locked onto the faded caution tape near the entrance.

Realization struck like a blow to the chest.

A dance studio.

No—not just any studio. Bella’s ballet studio. The place where she had nearly died.

My breath hitched. We weren’t in Washington anymore.

Panic clawed at my throat, but I swallowed it down. I couldn’t lose control.

“Let me go,” I managed, my voice hoarse but firm.

Victoria only smiled, slow and knowing, as if she had been waiting for me to understand.

“What do you want from me?” I demanded, my voice sharp with defiance.

Victoria only clicked her tongue, raising a finger and wagging it left and right, like I was some disobedient child.

Without warning, she slipped that same finger under my chin, tilting my face up. Effortlessly, she lifted me to my feet as if I weighed nothing. My body ached, exhaustion creeping into every limb, but I refused to crumble.

Her grip tightened as she twisted my arm, forcing my bound wrists to press against each other. Pain flared, but I bit my lip, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

With ease, she maneuvered me in front of the only unbroken mirror in the studio. Our reflections stared back at us—mine ragged and desperate, hers calm, predatory.

“You know,” she murmured, circling me like a vulture, “I actually like you.”

My eyes stayed locked on the mirror, my breath uneven.

“I see your potential,” she continued, her voice smooth, almost teasing.

A shiver ran down my spine. 

Potential.

That word sent a different kind of fear through me—one that settled deep in my bones. After everything I’d been through, after every nightmare I’d survived, I never thought this would be what terrified me the most.

Was she going to kill me? Or was this something worse?

“Enough with the games, Victoria,” I snapped, forcing my voice to stay steady as I turned to face her. Her crimson eyes burned into mine, unreadable yet filled with something dark. Something dangerous.

“If you’re going to kill me, then just do it.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. And then—she laughed. A slow, chilling sound that sent ice down my spine.

“Oh, Vesper,” she purred, stepping closer. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have woken up.”

My stomach twisted.

“Then what do you want?” I demanded, yanking against the restraints around my wrists. The sharp burn reminded me I was still trapped, still at her mercy.

Victoria tilted her head, a smirk curling at her lips.

Victoria’s smirk deepened, her fiery gaze flickering with cruel amusement. She stepped closer, her presence suffocating.

“You know, Vesper,” she drawled, tilting her head. “I’m going to hurt your sister in a way she never saw coming—by giving you exactly what she desires most.”

Her laugh was low, taunting, sending shivers down my spine.

My breath hitched. “Wh-what do you mean?” My voice was barely above a whisper. “What is it that she desires?”

Victoria leaned in, her lips close to my ear, her voice like venom dripping into my veins.

“Immortality.”

The word sent a jolt through me, my heart slamming against my ribs. My body went rigid, my mind racing to process what she had just said.

No. No, she couldn't mean—

I yanked against my restraints, panic surging through me. “You’re lying,” I spat, shaking my head. “Bella would never—”

“Oh, but she would,” Victoria cut in, amusement laced in her tone. “She’s been begging for it, hasn’t she? Pleading for Edward to change her, to make her like him. But you… you’re the perfect punishment.”

My stomach twisted, nausea creeping up my throat.

Victoria wanted to turn me. To take my life and twist it into something monstrous—not just to spite Bella, but to shatter everything she held dear.

Victoria chuckled darkly, tilting her head as if amused by my desperation. “Oh, Vesper,” she cooed, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You don’t get to beg.”

I struggled against the restraints, my wrists burning as the ropes dug deeper into my skin. My chest heaved, my mind racing for a way out, but there was none. No one was coming. No knight in shining armor. Just me and the predator circling me like a prize waiting to be claimed.

“This can’t end like this,” I whispered, more to myself than to her. My throat was dry, my pulse hammering. “I can’t become a monster.”

Victoria leaned in, her icy fingers tracing the edge of my jaw. “Oh, but you can,” she purred, her breath cool against my skin. “And you will.”

Before I could react, she gripped my chin, forcing me to meet her crimson gaze.

“You’ll be exquisite,” she mused, as if she could already see it. “Faster. Stronger. Free from all the fragile little chains that hold you down.” Her lips curled into a wicked smile. “And the best part? When you open those pretty eyes again, Paul won’t see you anymore. He’ll see the very thing he hates the most.”

A sob clawed at my throat, but I swallowed it down, shaking my head violently. “No,” I rasped, my voice breaking. “I won’t let you.”

Victoria only laughed.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered. “You don’t have a choice.”

Then, everything went black.

[cs-fox]

COLLATERAL | KEEGAN RUSS X READER

REPOST CAUSE I WROTE MORE XX Keegan 🥰

______________________________________________________________

High stakes, stay hidden, do not engage?

Typical mission briefing for the Ghosts. This time, they were sending you and Keegan out to run reconnaissance of a notable Federation base, keeping to the shadows, and most importantly - stealing much-needed intelligence.

And here you were - crouched in the soggy underbrush, the smell of moist dirt and ferns clogging up even your mask-clad nostrils.

‘Alright,’ Keegan mumbled, nodding his head in the direction of the slipshod camp. It was crawling with Federation soldiers, all dressed in camouflage.

‘We’ll head for that block, okay? Try to keep it quiet.’

//

‘Shit. Shit, shit, shit - !’

Rain was pissing down by now, ferns and trees hanging overhead, dangerously laden with rainwater. Yours and Keegan’s gear was soaked through in mere seconds, your hair plastered to your forehead, skull mask sodden.

It was foggy, too - the only thing you could see through the heavy deluge was Keegan’s pale, bright blue eyes, guiding you like a searchlight, you thought dizzily.

His strong hands grasped your wrist as you sprinted through the downpour, listening to the pounding of rain on soil and mud on boots.

This mission had not gone to plan. Not in the slightest.

You’d both been spotted in the camp, shots had been fired, but you’d managed to contain the discovery of two Ghosts in Federation territory. After that, you’d managed scrape the bottom of the barrel by finding a sheaf of papers containing missile codes, to which the sky had answered with this pounding rainfall.

The dark clouds had eclipsed the sun from nowhere, simply draining themselves onto your heads.

Keegan had kept you entertained with a constant stream of angry swearing, that hot American accent of his right in your ear and his warm breath on your neck.

You both managed to find cover; in the form of an old watchtower you’d passed on your way in. Thankfully - it wasn’t occupied.

‘God,’ you gasped, collapsing in a soaked heap of dripping wet tactical gear and shivering bones onto the rotting wood floor. Keegan dropped beside you, huge frame immediately pressing into your side, rough hands on your waist heaving you into his lap.

He smelt like damp earth and gunpowder, almost a pleasing scent. It wasn’t long before you found yourself leaning into his heat.

‘C’mon, beautiful,’ he mumbled, tugging you closer. ‘Just for warmth, ok?’

You giggled. ‘Yeah - right. Sir.’

He grumbled, shifting his body, you could tell by the tone of his voice he was getting maybe a little bit… bothered… by your position on his lap.

When his hips moved one more time, you made a whining noise, feeling something hard poke your ass. ‘Keegan, move your pistol, it’s - ’

‘That’s not my gun, beautiful.’

______________________________________________________________

[theesirenteller]

𝙎𝙖𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙙.

𝙼𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝚡 𝙰𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚕, 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝙼𝙲.

A one-shot from the ongoing series Sacred

When Hope shows up unannounced at Mariana’s herbal shop, she brings more than baggage—she brings accusations, venom, and a past drenched in manipulation. Claiming Letty as her daughter and warning Mariana that Angel and Manny would betray her just like they used Hope for the club, the confrontation is brutal, raw, and nearly shakes Mariana’s trust.

But when dinner comes—and the men she loves sit across from her—Mariana demands the truth. What follows is an emotional reckoning, where Angel and Manny make it clear: she isn’t just some woman they love. She’s their old lady. Their peace. Their home. And they’d burn the world before they’d ever let her be sacrificed.

The bell above the door jingled softly. Wind stirred the strands of dried eucalyptus hanging near the entrance. Mariana, standing behind the long wooden counter, was refilling a jar of rose hips when she looked up—and stilled.

Hope stood in the doorway like a ghost. Gaunt. Hollow-eyed. Shadows smeared under both lashes like bruises. Her jeans hung low on her hips and her hoodie sleeves were frayed. Her nails shook even as she shoved her hands in her pockets.

“You lettin’ her call you mama now?” Hope asked, voice low, raspy like ash.

Mariana set the jar down gently. “This is a healing space. Come correct or get out.”

Hope scoffed. “Don’t mean nothin’ when you’ve already taken what wasn’t yours.”

They stood there in silence, the sage bundle still burning on the altar near the register, letting the smoke curl between them like warning.

“Letty’s not your daughter,” Hope snapped. “She’s mine. I was Coco’s old lady.”

Mariana didn't flinch. Her voice came soft, but grounded.

“Then why did she crawl into the alley behind my shop half-dead with no one looking for her?”

Hope blinked. Mariana stepped forward.

“You had your chance, Hope. And I’m not trying to take your place. But I’m the only stability she’s had since her father’s body hit the ground. You aren't well and have no desire to get well.”

That hit deep. You could see it land. Hope's jaw tightened, but the pain flickered behind her rage.

“You think Angel and Manny are these golden boys just ‘cause they show up with clean hands and keep you outta the lifestyle?” Hope hissed. “You ever ask what they do in the club? What they do to the women of the club?”

Mariana narrowed her eyes.

“They used me,” Hope said, a twisted smile crawling over her lips. “Strung me out. Shot me up. Told me I could be their angel of mercy or die in some ditch. Had me help them kill two cops in Calexico. You think that wasn’t your Angel? Your Manny?”

Mariana’s spine straightened. Her eyes darkened like an eclipse.

“You’re lying.”

“I wish I was,” Hope hissed. “You think the club don’t eat women like you for breakfast? Soft ones. With love in their hands and stars in their eyes. Let me tell you something, Brujita—if they ever had to choose between you and the club, you’d be dead before they blinked.”

Silence.

Mariana’s voice dropped to a whisper, a razor beneath velvet.

“Get out.”

Hope tilted her head. “You don’t believe me?”

“No,” Mariana said, turning her back. “Now get gone.”

The bell jingled again, sharp this time. The door slammed shut behind her.

Letty was laughing. Her hair was braided tight against her scalp, her voice light for once. Manny had made tacos. Angel had opened a bottle of Topo Chico and was arguing over who could fix the back porch light faster.

It should’ve been a warm, golden evening. But Mariana sat quietly at the head of the table, stirring the beans on her plate with her fork. Her eyes were too still. Her voice was too calm when she finally asked:

“Do either of you remember Calexico?”

Angel and Manny froze.

“Hope stopped by the shop today,” Mariana said. “Told me a story. About drugs. About two dead cops. About the club.”

Angel’s lips parted. No words came. Manny looked away, jaw tight.

Letty stilled too. Her voice was razor-thin.

“Wait—what?”

“Did you use her?” Mariana asked. “Did you drug Hope to make her do something for the club?”

Angel leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hand down his face. “Mari—”

“Yes or no,” she whispered.

Manny’s voice came like gravel. “We did what we had to.”

“That is not an answer.”

Angel leaned forward, heat rising. “That woman’s a junkie, Mari. Always was. Always will be. The only thing we ever gave her was a ride and a choice.”

“She said you’d give me up if the club asked for it,” Mariana whispered. “She said I’m just—soft. That you’d trade me like nothing.”

Manny scoffed—low, angry. “Hope's a used-up, bitter street rat who clung to Coco for a roof and let Letty fall through the cracks while she got high.”

Angel stood now, palms flat on the table. “You think I’d give you up? You think after everything we’ve built, I’d hand over my old lady like she’s some pawn?”

Letty’s voice cracked, low. “Hope’s always been a leech. She only shows up when she smells warmth.”

Manny’s voice was gravel. “You’re ours, Mariana. I don’t care how strange this setup looks to the world. I’d take a bullet to the teeth before I let anyone touch you.”

“She’s jealous,” Angel said. “You got Letty. You got peace. You got us. And she has... a pipe and a list of people who stopped answering the door.”

Mariana’s throat tightened. “You shouldn't talk about a broken woman like that…she's going through a rough time.”

Angel walked around the table, crouched beside her,“You’re my old lady. You think I’d let anyone lay a finger on you? I'd burn down this whole fucking city for you.”

Manny came around, too, wrapping an arm across the back of her chair, voice low against her ear, “If the club asked for you, I’d put ‘em in the ground myself.”

Letty watched, arms crossed but eyes watery. She nodded once.

Mariana didn’t cry. But she did let herself breathe again. Slow. Deep.

Because this wasn’t a cult. It wasn’t a fantasy.

It was family. They were a family.

[xxdemonicheartxx]

Super potency elements:

Nature dragons with life accelerant in their blood, plants grow, bloom fruit and die if they simply spill it. Flora clings to their scales

Plague dragons who command bacterium, flesh and bone dissolve to its hunger. Their saliva acrid allowing them to shred through meals

Ice dragons who’s touch causes frostbite, they know how much of the body one can live without, their presence chills the room

Fire dragons who belch molten rock and choking black smoke, their bodies aglow with the eternal inferno within, they’re almost too hot to touch

Arcane dragons who can summon the cosmos, meteor showers and eclipses can be pulled into effect if they so choose. Their mouths look like jaws opening to a sea of stars, magica pools in their very DNA

Shadow dragons who can pull the light from the world around them, swaths of blackness so dark blindness would be a blessing. Their maws and eyes suck in light and appear to be black holes mounted to their faces

Earth dragons who’s bodies brim with crystals, they can be shot off their bodies with extreme force, a breath weapon is pebbles in comparison. Gems are never short in supply when they grow on you in hours or a few days

Lightning dragons who’s throats thunder and cause supercells to roll in, lightning whips from their teeth idly as they speak, being near to one is like almost touching an old box TV, the skin crawls

Light dragons who’s eyes and maw are illuminated always, their breath glows and falls like stardust when they speak. Youd think they were celestials

Water dragons who can climb waterfalls and stir whirlpools into existence, their wake is disaster on glittering scales, ships capsize on their whims

Wind dragons who’s wingbeats thunder, their bodies create their own updrafts, flight is effortless. They could pull the wind from your wings or the breath from your lungs

[bamboozledbird]

the children. they yearn for you and your stories. i hope you're doing well and just know that you are so very missed and appreciated here 💙💙💙💙

thank you so much :') i'm still searching for another job and more importantly good heath insurance rip, so sweet messages like this really help lower the cortisol levels lmao.

i haven't had a lot of time or energy to write, but here is a little snippet of something i'm working on to hopefully quench the yearning. it is not edited or finished obviously.

It’s an icy slice of fear that wakes you up. A white flash of ‘fight or flight’ behind your sleep-sticky lids. A rattling at your window that isn’t the rain or the wind echoing in the moonlight. It’s a familiar sound, someone scrambling on the loose tiling of your roof, but a forgotten one. It’s strange, sweet-sharp, and out of place in your current reality. 

A noise that shouldn’t exist outside of a memory. 

Stiles spills into your room and lands on his knees, dripping water onto your hardwood floor. His hair is plastered to his forehead from the angry squall outside, and the dark clouds are a mocking reflection of the look carving out the hollows of his face. The moon has eclipsed all the sunlight in his eyes, and it feels so, so cold.

For a moment, you think you’re dreaming or maybe still in that luminescent oil slick between sleep and consciousness. Stiles looks like something from a dream—a nightmare. He’s there, but he isn’t. He’s a boy, but he isn’t. He’s lost to something you can’t see, swept up in the storm and turned into something else.

You sit up in your bed and wait for him to say something—to move. He just stays there, soaked to the bone on his knees, and stares at something beyond the shifting shadows on your bedroom walls. 

“Stiles?” 

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even make a sound. You crawl out of your bed and sit down on the floor next to him, draping a woven blanket over his shoulders. It almost matches his flannel, blue and checkered. It’s a little detail that would’ve made you smile before, mostly because Stiles would get this warm look in his eyes: so fond it felt like worship. 

It’s fall. The air smells like apples and earth. You watch the shadow of little fish swim in jagged circles through murky water. Stiles is a warm presence against your side. 

He buries his nose in your hair and hums, “You like the pieces.” 

“I guess.”

You feel his smile against your temple.

“Me too.”

You still wake up with the taste of him sticking to your teeth, sweet honey and sharp cloves, but it’s hardly enough. Does he ache for who you were that Friday? Does he still love that girl in his arms–orange and warm under the setting sun, blissfully unaware of the end. 

What does Stiles think when he looks at you now? Does he think about you at all? 

You spent so long thinking you weren’t supposed to be friends, and now you don’t know what you’re to be. How can you belong to a memory?