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monayen · 6 months ago

Note

Psst..

*gives you a letter and runs away*

It says: Can you please write a fic where the (fem) reader is in heat and Nyen helps her out? Luther was supposed to help but he's not around (he's out of the house with Randal, Sebastian and Nyon)and that left the reader no choice. Also she's very desperate and really loud during it :>

Needy | Nyen

➷ Paring - Nyen x Fem!Reader [Randal's Friends / Ranfren]

➷ CWs - animal heats, degradation, biting, dirty talk, teasing, unsafe sex, fingering, light scratching, begging / crying

a/n - ngl this one is realll dirty. lots of dirty talk and degradation that nyen definitely wouldn't say directly but this is my horndog blog and i do wat i want. i also am not that knowledgeable on "heats" but just take it as reader being incredibly horny. is that accurate to an animal heat? whatever! also someone put a gůn to my head and make me fix my masterlist page thanks enjoy

Your body feels like it’s on fire, skin hot and flushed as your heat takes hold. You pace restlessly around the room, your mind consumed with a primal need that coursed through your veins.

Normally, Luther would be there to help you through these episodes, soft and caring as he held you. But your heat came on sudden today, just when he was out with Randal, Sebastian, and Nyon. It would take hours for him to return, and with how your body ached, you weren't sure how much longer you could handle this feeling anymore.

Your lips were red and sore from biting back the moans that piled up in your throat. Every movement feeling like a rush of adrenaline that has your heart beating out your chest.

With your senses growing increasingly sensitive, you decided to strip to your underwear, the heat unbearable. It isn't anywhere near enough relief, but at least the rub of fabric doesn't feel as suffocating anymore.

You groan, now laying on your bed as your breathing scattered more and more.

Shaky hands trail your bare torso, skin sticky with sweat. You immediately trembled, a hand moving against the fabric on your crotch. A loud moan escapes before you get the chance to bite it back, your fingers needily rubbing for any type of stimulation.

It wasn't enough, nowhere near enough.

Whines spill from your mouth, eyes shut as you hump against your own shaky hands. You need something, someone now.

“Can you shut up? You're so fucking loud.”

A deep voice pulls you from your horny trance, eyes shooting open as you realize who's standing at the edge of your bed.

Nyen looms, his scowl sharp as his gaze lingers on your flushed figure, unmistakably eyeing you. Another wave of adrenaline floods your system, your heart pounding in your chest as your hands refuse to move from your aching heat.

You look up at him with big, needy eyes, “S-sorry, my heat– I just–”

He cuts you off, head cocking to the side as he makes a face, “I can smell you too. You really can't control yourself?” His eyes rake over your sweat-slicked body, taking in how your fingers continue to graze the fabric of your underwear. A low growl rumbles in his chest as he steps closer to the bed.

"Fuck, you reek of desperation," he sneers, his voice dripping with disdain even as his pupils dilate. "Can't even wait for master to come back and take care of you properly…”

You can't help but continue to whine, his words making your stomach twist as you rub for more stimulation, “Please,” You cry, cheeks flushed as you watch him put a knee on the bed, it sinking with the added weight.

He reaches out, roughly grabbing your wrist and yanking your hand away from your clothed crotch. Nyen brings your fingers to his face, inhaling deeply as he rolls his tongue over them. "Mmm, you're dripping.” He shoves your hand back, but still doesn't let you move your hands down to resume rubbing.

Nyen hovers over you, one hand fisting in the sheets beside your head as the other trails down your body, claws lightly scraping against your skin. "I could help you out, you know. Give you what you need so badly."

You arch helplessly, a needy whimper escaping your trembling lips, “Oh, p-please, please, help me! I can't– I can’t…” Your breathing jaggers, pathetically melting into his touch.

He leans in close, his breath hot against your ear as he growls, "You're so fucking pathetic, begging like a whore.”

Nyen's other hand continues its torturously slow path down your body, his touch leaving tingling trails of heat in its wake. He hooks a finger under the damp fabric of your underwear, tugging it aside to expose your aching, dripping core.

"Look at you, so wet and ready," he sneers, rubbing the pad of his thumb over your swollen clit. "I bet you'd let anyone fuck you right now, wouldn't you? Desperate little slut."

You can only whine in response, mind foggy as he presses his heavy hand against your heat. He’s rough in his touch, much more than Luther. He isn't considering just how sensitive you are, instead choosing to immediately sink two fingers into your welcoming pussy just to watch you squirm.

“Nyen!” shaky moans keep spilling from you, each more desperate than the last. Nyen’s eyes darken, choppy bangs falling over his face as he leans in closer, sharp teeth grazing against the soft flesh on your shoulder.

He continues to set a brutal pace with his fingers, his free hand moving to roam over your sweaty skin, claws leaving red lines. He could feel how you shake beneath him, your body wound tight with tension. He takes in the sweet energy smell of your arousal, thick and heady in the air, making his own cock twitch in interest. The catman has never seen someone so needy before–hell, not even his own heats get him like this.

Pulling back, Nyen admires his handiwork–your face was beat red, lips parting as panting huffs escape. Your eyes were glazed with desire, pleading with him to bring you to come. It was a pathetic look on you, and he wonders just how sir handles you when you're like this.

"Fuck, you're such a mess," he growls, fingers pulling from your soaked cunt. "Not yet.”

He leans down, tongue swiping over your collarbone before biting down hard enough to leave a mark. You cry out, begging for his fingers to push back inside, your pussy clenching around nothing in desperation.

He moves to strip off his dark shirt, revealing his toned chest and arms. There's a sheen of sweat on his skin, making the hair there glisten in the dim light. His cock strains against his pants, the outline clearly visible and throbbing. You stare shamelessly, mind too far gone to even hold back the pure horny look on your lidded eyes.

Leaning forward again, his hands grip your thighs as he pushes them further apart as he settles between them. The head of his clothed cock prods at your entrance, smearing your arousal around.

You're practically drooling for it, hips bucking up in an attempt to create more friction. A wet spot forms quickly, a mix of your own juices and his.

Nyen lets out a jagged breath, pulling back and quickly shucking off his pants to free his throbbing cock. It springs up, hard and heavy, the thick shaft covered in veins. The head is an angry red, already dripping with precum. He takes hold of the base and smacks the length of it against your cunt, making you gasp and writhe.

“You want it?” Nyen growls, grinding against you, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through your body. Your hips buck up, trying to take him inside, but he holds back, denying you what you so desperately crave.

"Please, Nyen," you whimper, your voice high and needy. "I can't take it anymore.”

His fingers dig into your thighs, holding you open and exposed for him. The head of his cock catches on your clit with each hump, slickness coating his length. He's relishing in the teasing, but his own cock aches to sink right in, to feel you clench around him.

"Nyen," you plead again, tears of frustration pricking at the corners of your eyes. “I feel like I’m on fire.”

Nyen just smirks, fisting his cock and giving it a few slow pumps. "You think you can take it, slut?”

You nod eagerly, reaching down to spread yourself open in offering. "Yes... Please... I want it... Want you..."

Growling, Nyen lines himself up, the broad head of his cock pressing against your soaked entrance. With one sharp thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, stretching you wide around his thick shaft.

You gasp at the sudden stretch, walls clenching tight around the thick intrusion. It feels much bigger than you expected, his thick length giving a splitting sensation. It’s almost too much, the burn of the stretch mixing with the intense pleasure of finally being fucked.

The wet sounds of skin slapping against skin fill the room, mixing with your loud moans of pleasure. You hold on, nails scrabbling at Nyen's chest as he pumps roughly into you.

"Shit," Nyen snarls, relishing in your warm walls. "How are you so f-fucking tight–”

A little drool drips from the corner of your clenched mouth, mixing with the tears of pleasure that roll down your flushed face. The intensity of your heat makes everything feel ten times more intense, and all you can think about is needing more.

Your head feels light, your vision swimming, but you manage to keep it upright, barely able to focus on Nyen’s figure above you. With a surge of effort, you sit up, your hand finding the back of his head as you pull him closer, pressing your lips to his.

You half-expected him to pull away, to say something cruel and push you back down beneath him. But instead, he responds, his teeth grazing your lips as he leans in closer, deepening the kiss.

The flavor of smoke and beer lingers, mixing with the sweetness of your saliva. His hands grip your hips tightly, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulls you flush against him.

The kiss was hungry and desperate – mostly on your part. Enough that you practically cry when Nyen breaks the kiss to look at you.

Your face is flushed, lips swollen and parted as you pant for air. Your hair is a wild mess, sticking to your sweat-slicked skin. But it's your eyes that draw his attention – glazed over with desire, the irises on your hazy eyes nearly swallowed by blown out pupils.

Your moans echo off the walls, your body shaking beneath his harsh grasp on your hips. You're so close, the pleasure in your abdomen swirling and building until you feel like you're gonna pass out.

"Nyen," you gasp, not being able to hold back anymore, "I'm close!”

Nyen grits his teeth, feeling his own orgasm forming tightly. He curses under his breath, a deep groan escaping him as he hurries his snaps against your hips.

"That's it," Nyen growls, his voice rough, "Fuck– come for me, slut.”

Your whole body tenses, your back arching off the bed as the orgasm crashes over you. You cry out, your voice breaking on a sob of pleasure as your walls spasm around him.

It's intense, almost too much to handle, but Nyen doesn't stop. He keeps fucking you through it, his cock hitting roughly inside you enough that you practically see stars.

Nyen throws his head back with a guttural groan, his hips stuttering as he chases his own release. Your cunt doesn't relent, squeezing and twisting around him as he fucks through the orgasm.

Nyen collapses on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress. He's panting, his chest heaving against yours as he tries to catch his breath. He's just as– if not more– spent, heart pattering as both your skins mix with sweat and come.

After a moment, he pulls out, his softening cock slipping from your sensitive hole. You whimper at the loss, your pussy still twitching with aftershocks.

He rolls off you with a lazy exhale, a huff of breath escaping his lips as he somehow pulls a cigarette from nowhere and lights it. He inhales deeply, the smoke swirling around him before he blows it into the air.

Your body still trembles, heat pulsing through you, lingering deep inside. Your gaze shifts to Nyen–his bare, sculpted chest rising and falling with each breath, his long fingers holding the cigarette to his lips, his skin slick with a sheen of perspiration and something else. The sight makes you bite your lip, a new wave of heat rushing over you.

You sit up swiftly, a flushed smile spreading across your face as you shift to straddle Nyen’s hips.

His cigarette hangs from his mouth, brows furrowing as he questions just how you’re up so fast. You don't give him enough time to say anything though, eagerly beginning to grind against his slick crotch.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He hisses, already feeling himself hardening from your touch. A desperate whine escapes you, eyes shut as you settle on top of him. “M-my heat–” you pitch louder, “Again. Please– I need it.”

#ranfren #randals friends #nyen catman #nyen ranfren #nyen x reader #ranfren x reader #ranfren smut #cw heats

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corazondebeskar-reads · 6 months ago

Text

of rage and ruin - chapter eight

chapter eight

series masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter

werewolf!alpha!Joel Miller x f!omega!reader

word count: 4.1k

summary: joel's lies and the creeping winter breed discontent as the raiders wait to find out the fate of the man you bit.

chapter warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, a/b/o, alpha/omega dynamics, omegaverse, captivity, canon-typical violence, genre-typical violence, horror themes, graphic violence, abuse by captors (not by either joel or reader), body horror, viewer discretion is advised, mention of attempted sexual assault (NOT by joel, very unsuccessful), oral, p in v, discussion of dub-con and I guess mind-control?

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

Tommy Miller wasn’t a man of faith. Never really had been, and especially not now, not after the things he’d seen. Couldn’t fathom the thought of any god who’d let the world go to hell, who’d let his niece die in her father’s arms before she even really got to live.

He doesn’t believe in much, never has, but he’d put all his faith in Joel. Always had. His first steps were toward Joel. His first word was his name. All his life, he’d followed his brother, even as they fell darker and darker into the end of the world. Even as Joel went down a road he thought he’d never have to follow.

It was all for Tommy, anyway. He couldn’t turn away from the monster Joel became when it was all to keep Tommy alive. So when Joel turned into a literal monster, straight outta the movies they’d stayed up far too late to watch when Tommy was far too little?

That was nothin’. A no-brainer. Joel was Joel. You don’t turn your back on your brother, even if he turns all hairy and slobbery and weird.

So if there had been anyone left in the world who knew them, who had seen the Miller brothers grow, they’d have said it was no surprise that the little one refused to give up when things seemed hopeless.

Inseparable, they’d say.

After Joel went missing, one year turned into two, and Tommy Miller never gave up on his brother.

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be found,” Laura said one night over rabbit stew.

“Nah,” Tommy said, blowing on a spoonful before feeding it to her littlest one — DJ, after her brother, the dead beta — “He wouldn’t have done that to me. If he’s out there, he’s in trouble.”

Laura looked skeptical, but Tess nodded from the other end of the table, wagging her spoon in their direction.

“He’s right. That cranky old bastard mighta given anyone else the slip, but not Tommy.” Tess always sat at the far end, keeping distance between herself and the rambunctious children with razor-sharp teeth.

“I’m not interested in runnin’ around buck naked, howlin’ at the moon, or dying from a toddler bite,” she’d said. But it didn’t stop her from showing up every new moon for dinner.

Not more than that, though. She couldn’t bear to see the hope living in Tommy’s heart any more than he could bear to see the pity in her eyes. They all thought Joel was dead. All but Tommy.

“If you’d just turn me,” he tries.

Laura rolls her eyes. “You know it’s not that simple. My bite probably couldn't even turn you. Chances are you’d just... die.”

“If he dies, I get to shoot her,” Mike says to Cheryl. He’s the other half of the Idiot Twins, you’ve learned. Mike and Randall. Randall’s the one kicking around all pissy in your old cell with the crescent of your teeth debossed in his skin.

Mike’s the one bitching up and down the hall, shotgun on his shoulder.

Cheryl doesn’t give a shit. She’s only interested in what might happen if Randall doesn’t kick the bucket.

“The hell you do,” she sneers. “She’s worth too much. Now shut it.”

You’re in the corner on the mattress, Joel’s furry body between you and the door. His hackles haven’t settled, and neither has the tense line of his shoulders. You haven’t spoken since Cheryl came down to watch, but Joel’s kept his eyes on the shotgun the entire time.

You don’t need to talk to know he’s thinking about putting himself between you and a bullet. Your hand finds its way to the thick fur on his neck, weaving gently between tufts.

It’s not as comforting as it was.

And oh, he can tell. It hurts. It took him less than a day after your heat ended to start to lose you, and the worst part is that he doesn’t know if he even wants to do what he’d have to, to admit to you that even though he’d never, that he could. He could make you do anything he commanded.

You’ve been right all this time. Being an omega ain’t fair. He has all the power, and you have all the vulnerability, exposed to him like a wound. Like the one he’s left on your shoulder.

So he’s gotta be the shield, too. The bandage. He’s gonna be the barrier between you and everything that threatens to infect you. Even himself.

Especially himself.

After the third day passes, the only infection Randall’s gotten from you was the festering bite mark. And really, that wasn’t even from you; that was from locking him in that nasty room with an open wound. That’s kind of on them.

He goes upstairs with Cheryl and never comes back. It’s not just Joel from whom they don’t tolerate disobedience.

Mike sulks but doesn’t try to retaliate. He must be too chicken-shit after seeing what happened to his buddy. They still make him deliver food, but he’s got a new partner now, who doesn’t seem too fond of him. Meal drop-off is a no-nonsense silent affair now, which suits you just fine.

The difference between you and them has never been clearer. Not just in that you’re the captives, and they’re your captors. Not just in the sickening way they decide if you lived or died.

No. You’re finally seeing it. What they’ve seen all along—the difference between human and something undeniably more.

It’s stark, now. You’re not sure if something changed about you, physically, after your heat, or if it just laid clear the things that changed with the shot. But you can’t pretend anymore, either way. You’re not human. You’re not like them. You never were, really, but now it’s in your goddamn genetic code.

The man wrapped around you is even less of a man, but you think you’re starting to catch up.

He stays resolutely the wolf, but you don’t mind. You haven’t felt much like talking lately, anyway. You’ve gone quiet. It’d be unsettling if you hadn’t sunken to his level of grunts and huffs and whines.

Why talk when he can’t talk back? Why talk when you already know what he’s saying? When he can understand you better now than ever before?

There’s no need for a charade between you. You’re beasts together. The bite you shared is more of a bridge between you than a bond, but that’s okay.

Neither one of you were looking to be tied together, anyway.

The strange, serene silence lasts until the new moon. He doesn’t have much choice, and you’re feeling it, too. The fatigue. The wariness. The loss of security. With the light of the moon in absentia, you’re left undone.

So you put each other back together.

You wake to his hairy face, but it’s human hairy. His coarse salt-and-pepper beard. His morose hazel eyes.

“Look—” he starts, voice extra gruff from neglect, but you find you’re uninterested in his excuses.

You kiss him instead, craning your neck to reach his chapped lips, a hand cupping that handsome beard.

One of his huge hands goes to your waist immediately as he clings to your subject change with relief.

There’s no trace of heat, now, nor rut. Just you. Just him. His hand, calloused and hot, leaves a trail across your bare skin, achingly gentle.

You let yourself be coddled, this once. Let him treat you like something precious. Something worth preserving. No claws or fangs, just the warmth of his palm cupping your breast, the heat of his tongue on your nipple.

A trail of ticklish kisses down your stomach that makes you squirm for more than one reason. When he parts your thighs to make room for himself, it’s as if he’s setting out the fine china.

Before, he’d always dove in, like seeking the antidote to a snake bite. Eager to gulp down as much of you as fast as he could.

This time, he doesn’t rush. They won’t take him out tonight on the new moon. They’ve given up on making him useful when he's useless. He’s grateful, for once, for his weakness, because it means he can be yours.

And you? Well. You’re always his. But now he can take his time with you.

His lips brush your thighs, gentle bites with blunt teeth interspersing the worshipful kisses. He presses them to the seam of your cunt, not opening you for him yet, just kissing along your labia and basking in your scent. It’s heady, even when it’s not fragrant with fertility.

He parts your lips with his tongue. No greedy fingers rend you, just the soft swipe, barely ducking between. He does it, again and again, until he works you wide and waiting.

A smirk spreads when you gasp at the bump of his nose against your clit, but he doesn’t leave you wanting. He graces it with a tender kiss that leaves you writhing, panting, trying to cant up to meet him.

He lets you. But he doesn’t let your mewls rush him. He leaves you clit throbbing and drags his attention down to where you weep for him. The noises alone are debauched, echoing in the old shower room, his groans and licks melting into your gasps and cries.

Your chest aches. It aches with need, with want, yes, but also with a strange sadness. It’s bleeding from him into you. It seems to never leave him, not for a moment, and it drives your hands to his hair, a poor facsimile of the connection you both need and cannot allow yourselves to have.

It’s enough, though, for now. He’s pleased that he’s pleased you, and doesn’t relent. It’s as much for you as it is for him. He alternates between softly suckling at your clit and licking you clean until he’s drawn two saccharine orgasms from you, leaving you trembling and covered in sweat.

When he comes back up to meet you, cock resting against your cunt, you take his kiss greedily, and give in. More and more, every moment you’re his, you become wilder. Claimed but not kept. Bound but not burdened. You lick your slick from his beard in a manner more affectionate than arousing. He interrupts, kissing your neck and pushing you down onto the mattress so he can ease his length inside you.

There’s no resistance. You’re soaked and stretched, his thick fingers having reached inside to take his prize from within you. You breathe again once he’s nestled deep within, feeling the pulse and press of him where no man other than him can rightfully claim to have been.

He rocks his hips, barely pulling out, unwilling to leave the wet heat of you. It’s arduous and delicious, savoring him like this. Feeling the curves and veins of him against your walls, imprinting themselves on you.

Even now, even fully human, you don’t trouble yourselves with talk. Your ragged breaths fill the room, and he chases your lips for a kiss each time he bottoms out. They’re almost chaste, if only they weren’t so filthy. There’s barely any tongue, and yet, more intense than any you’ve had before.

You come again as he fills you, spilling deep and letting you both savor the sensation.

When he pulls out, you shiver. The chill that spreads over you has as much to do with the things left unsaid as it does with the cold basement. You only have the one bra to wear, after all. He tucks the little blanket around you, but it’s a lost cause.

Neither of you are sure that you want his body heat, with the way things have frosted over after your parting. He waits, eyes closed, until he feels you curl up to him.

Once you’re tucked into the crook of his arm, his leg slung over you, you finally say it. The two words that have been ricocheting around in your brain since that day.

“You lied,” you whisper to his chest. It stutters as he slips on a breath.

“I did,” he agrees after a long, long moment.

“To me,” you clarify.

“Yes.”

It’s heavy. It’s loud. Much louder than reality, where it’s whispered, but in your head, it falls with a flat thump.

“You were already scared. I didn’t want to scare ya more,” he says. It doesn’t come out like an excuse. It’s not defensive. It’s just a fact.

Maybe he didn’t mean it as such, but that’s how you take it. You were scared. You were terrified.

“I don’t care,” you decide. “That’s not how this is gonna work. We’re—we’re stuck together for now whether we like it or not ,and you are not going to decide what I can or can’t handle.” You poke him in the chest with the finger you were inadvertently waggling.

For now? Oh, sweetheart, he thinks, gut aching at your—he suspects—willful naivety. He raises both hands in supplication.

“Alright, darlin’,” he capitulates, gruffer than he means to.

The way he gives in without a fight but also without an apology stings, but you resolve to lick your wounds later when you’re not itching for a fight.

“And you better explain. Now. No runnin’.”

He puts his arms down, and they melt into a slump of a heavy sigh. “I don’ know much. I never do. You ask me all these damn questions when I’ve told you —”

“Stop deflectin’ and fess the fuck up, Joel,” you snap.

He glowers for a moment before sitting up a little to lean against the frigid tile wall. “I suppose…” but he just sighs again.

But you sit up, criss-cross applesauce with the blanket around your lap. And you wait. You’re pretty sure he’ll talk, given his own time to do it. Where your mind never seems to settle, his seems to take a while to boot up. He isn’t stupid by any means; he just needs a minute to organize what he’s trying to explain.

You’re rewarded for scraping up what was left of your patience when he crosses his arms over his chest.

“I don’t know much. That ain’t ever gonna change. But this was somethin’ I learned from the widow o’ the man that bit me.”

“Ew, wait, you actually got bitten?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. Look, don’ worry about that. I keep forgettin’ you were one o’ the experiments.”

You gape at him for a moment. “Eugh,” you shudder. “Fuck, I hate that. Experiment. Damn.”

He gives a little ‘well?’ with the splay of his palms to the sky and watches you with eyes of lead. “Look,” he sighs again.

You imagine a drinking game involving his sigh count would send you to a swift and shallow grave.

“Y’ain’t gonna like it, but it’s true. To some extent, omegas seem to be… more inclined to listen to an alpha if the alpha talks with a certain tone of voice. S’hard to explain.”

“You’ve done it before,” you guess. “Not just to me.”

“No,” he sighs, and in an imaginary alternate universe, you die of liver poisoning, “not just to you.”

And he tells you of the early days with Laura. When the change first started, and he couldn’t sleep, thinkin’ he might hurt somebody. Somebody that didn’t deserve it.

“And she told me that Peter would drop his voice into this kind of… register, and he would talk her to sleep. Except one night he was tired himself and didn’t have the energy. So all he said to her was ‘go to sleep.’ And she did.”

“That’s… fucking horrible,” you say. “Not their cutesy couple-y stuff. The… Jesus, the implications of that kind of…”

Suddenly, you look down at the blanket, picking with the jagged tip of your bitten fingernail at where the ancient fleece was pilling.

“You, um…” but the words get caught in your chest where someone has tightened a belt, cutting off all connection to the rest of your body, leaving it cold. A thousand logical, reasonable thoughts traverse your conflicted brain. You don’t know him. He’s got a darkness to him. He kills on the regular to keep himself alive. You don’t know him.

But you don’t think he’s the type of man to have done something quite like that. And he’s been nothing but gentle with you, really. Too gentle, like he thought the lightest touch of a claw might split you like a plump plum, skin stretching and giving way for him to flay the flesh underneath.

You’re made of tougher stuff than that. Mostly. Kind of. In a way.

Oh, damnit.

“What did you use it on me for?” you say instead.

His teeth grind at what you almost asked. He figures you were afraid to piss him off by asking. Or afraid for him to lie to your face again. He should be insulted that you’d even consider the possibility that he violated you.

He reminds himself that you don’t know him. He’s bigger than you, stronger. And he’s just told you he can more or less hypnotize you.

Shit, this is a right hell of a mess.

You both sigh this time, and you’ve already forgotten your imaginary drinking game self’s corpse. You can feel it this time. The weariness. How it soaks into the marrow and flushes everything out.

“You need to understand,” he starts seriously. His brows are pinched and eyes narrowed, pitching a sturdy fence around his too-fragile self. “I did not do anything…unsavory. And I didn’t even mean to do it to ya in the first place.”

He scrubs a hand over his face again, and it’s ruddy when he pulls away. “It was durin’ your heat, okay? It wasn’t even anything serious; I just told you to listen to me, and you did. And I…” he grunts and looks away.

You think maybe all this time alone made him forget how to say sorry.

You’re not sure what you’d do with it anyway.

So instead, you close your eyes and take a deep breath in your nose and out of your mouth. You think vaguely about being nauseous or anxious or infuriated. You indulge in the fantasy of getting truly angry, of letting yourself feel the injustice of it all, the horror.

You entertain thoughts of screams of rage, of violence, of throwing and breaking and banging your fists against the wall, of wrapping your hands around Jim’s throat, of driving yourself mad and bloody in a frenzy for freedom.

The thoughts hurt as much as they help. You take the rage and prod at it until it hides back behind your ribs where it belongs.

He leans forward, now, elbows on his knees. It’s hard not to be distracted by his dick, but also, you always feel guilty when you ogle it. It’s not his fault he’s been denied of any privacy or dignity. And plus, you’ve been walking around, pussy out, since your heat.

Thinking about that too much makes you sick.

He sighs again but you feel like maybe this one cost him something more. He sits up straight and puts his hands on your shoulders. “I can’t promise it won’t happen by accident,” he says solemnly.

You chew on it for a while, climbing into his lap and pulling the blanket over yours. He’s trying, and you’re having a hard time staying mad, especially when he’s warm and comfortable.

His arms loop loosely around you, unconsciously rubbing his thumbs against your bare skin. It’s soothing, but you suspect it’s even more soothing for him.

Your head finds its place in the crook of his shoulder, and it’s your turn again to sigh. “You think maybe I could learn to resist it?”

He startles a little, looking down at you incredulously. No, looking down at you like you’re something incredible. That’s worse, maybe, because it makes you squirm away from his (albeit minimal) idolatry.

“Maybe. I don’t know enough about it. But would you even want to try? It would mean me havin’ to…”

“I dunno,” you admit. “Might be worth it. I’ll… I’m gonna think about it.”

He takes what he can take and presses a kiss to the top of your head, a compulsion that’s rapidly becoming habitual.

Not that either of you are complaining.

When you think of it again later, in the dead of night, Joel sawing lumber while half-sprawled on the floor, it settles like cement in your lungs.

He settles like cement in your lungs. Something neither your mind nor body can ignore. And maybe it’s the bond, but you know there’s no chipping him out of there. Not completely. This strange man, who isn’t so strange these days, has instead become something of a warm knit cardigan or a rail on a slippery stair.

Maybe you don’t need him.

Maybe you’d get by without him.

But, well. You’re better off with him than without.

Time in your little cell passes all at once and not at all. Winter creeps in, and the basement becomes nearly unbearably cold. You watch jealously as Joel retreats to his built-in jacket, and as much as he tries to be your personal furnace, it only goes so far.

And the full moon comes, and brings a blizzard with it.

You think maybe they won’t go out, but Jim’s got a particular target in mind nearby that he demands retribution from. And no silly snowstorm is going to stop him.

They take him from you at nightfall, and he watches you shiver as he leaves.

It must be Christmas, because he comes back with a gift.

You honest to god gasp when he shows you his prize. “Thanks, Santa!” you tease, and he rolls his eyes.

“Arms up,” he says, and you let him have this. You think the wolf must be going out of his mind with possessiveness, and you’re right because he can barely stay only partially transformed. He struggles not to give in to the change, fighting his own instincts and the moon just so he can talk to you.

You don’t say it, but that almost means more than the gift.

You close your eyes as he tugs the ratty sweater over you, either oversized or from a very large man. It fits like a dress, though a very short one. But it means your ass isn’t hanging out, and you’ve got another layer between your poor freezing tits and the breeze that whispers through the rotting grout.

“Joel, how—”

But he cuts you off. “Don’t ask me, darlin’. You don’t wanna know.” He’s a little tender but a little sharp, too.

“But where—“

“I said don’t ask me that,” he snarls. “Do not fucking ask me that.” He sees the look on your face and softens. “Please.” It’s a whisper, and oh, it hurts.

You don’t have to ask. You know, now. What it cost him. What it cost someone else. “Thank you, alpha,” you murmur. It has the usual effect, his eyes shining a little brighter as you play with the wolf and let the man be.

He pulls you against his chest and rubs his chin on the top of your head, soothing the unease in his sternum. “It fucking stinks, though. Gonna have to figure somethin’ out.”

You wrinkle your nose. “It’s not bad.”

“It’s not me,” he grunts, and you take the cue to shut up.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs after a few minutes of silence. “Looks real nice,” he adds and preens when the compliment sends you shyly snuffling your face into his chest.

You let him hold you there as he scents you, bafflingly large palms smoothing over your neck and rubbing your arms. His musk envelopes you as much as his broad body does, and you keep your cheek pressed against the soft quilt of hair across his chest. When he’s mostly wolf like this, he’s practically covered in it. His soft, strong arms are dark with it; his chest is buried beneath it; it even trails across the plush pouch of his stomach.

When he’s done proverbially bathing you in him, he steps back, cheeks ruddy and dark eyes anywhere but you. He clears his throat but says nothing.

You observe him, this forsaken beast of a man. This creature from children’s nightmares, this creature who definitely just gave adults nightmares, but who would put himself between you and your own.

You close the gap between you, your hand on his chest, another finding its way to his cheek. His eyes stutter and fall closed, only the tiniest sigh escaping him now. A shuddering thing full of far too much for one man, whether he’s actually a man or a beast.

“Thank you, Joel,” you whisper, as if you could ease his aches with your gratitude. As if you could take on some of his pain for your own.

He kisses you like he knows you’d try.

next chapter

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #alpha!joel x omega!reader #alpha!joel miller x omega!reader #alpha!joel miller #werewolf!joel #werewolf!joel miller #dead dove fic #dark fic #the last of us fic #joel miller fic

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advisorykitty · 4 months ago

Note

Is it oo if u do randal x reader who has a similar personality to him? No rush and you dont have to do it if you dont wanna! :D

You and I

Randal x Reader oneshot!!

tbf i actually kind of liked this one! There is also Sebastian since i haven't written him for a while so hope u enjoy that!!

Randal first saw you crouched near the playground, dragging a stick through a patch of mud with impressive dedication. Most kids were playing talking about more 'trivial' matters, but you? You were sculpting what looked like… an angry face with sharp teeth.

“What’s that?” Randal asked, appearing beside you out of nowhere like he always did.

You barely glanced at him, but a small smirk tugged at your lips. “A monster. His name’s Chuck. He eats toes.”

Randal cackled, crouching down beside you. “Toes, huh? Nice. Can I add something?”

You shrugged. “Go for it.”

Randal snatched another stick and started adding spiky hair and a pair of wild, mismatched eyes to Chuck’s face. By the time recess ended, the two of you had turned the mud patch into a whole grotesque masterpiece. And just like that, you were friends!

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Fast forward a few years, and not much had changed. You and Randal were still inseparable partners in chaos, thriving on mischief and mayhem. Which is why you were currently sitting on a tree stump in the middle of the forest, waiting for him.

“He’s late,” you muttered, flicking a pinecone across the dirt. It wasn’t unusual for Randal to lose track of time, but it was still annoying. You had big plans for today—things involving mud, trees, and possibly fire if you could get away with it.

Finally, you heard the familiar sound of mismatched footsteps crunching through the underbrush. “Hey, bunny!” Randal called, grinning as he emerged from the shadows.

“About time,” you said, standing up and brushing dirt off your jeans. “What took you so long?”

Randal shrugged, his grin widening. “Luther made me clean up my dolls before I left. He said if I didn’t, he’d ‘lock me in the bad boys closet.’” He mimicked Luther’s deep, monotone voice, then rolled his eyes. “As if that would stop me.”

You snickered. “Big brother sounds fun.”

“Oh, he’s a blast,” Randal said sarcastically, waving a hand. “Anyway, guess who I brought with me?”

Before you could ask, Sebastian stumbled into view, looking as miserable as ever. His costume was rumpled, his hair was a mess, and his expression screamed help me.

“I didn’t agree to this,” Sebastian muttered, glaring at Randal.

“Yes, you did,” Randal shot back cheerfully. “By not running fast enough when I grabbed you.”

Sebastian groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why am I here? I have better things to do than.. indulge .. you two ..psychos.”

“Because we’re fun,” you said, grinning as you leaned against a tree. “And because Randal said so.”

Sebastian sighed heavily, muttering something under his breath about “crazy people” and “needing a better escape plan.”

After some bickering and a lot of laughter (mostly from you and Randal), the three of you decided to play hide and seek. Randal, of course, was the seeker.

“Thirty seconds, then I’m coming for you!” Randal announced, turning to face a tree and covering his eyes. “One… two…”

Sebastian immediately began running.. and running?? clearly aiming to get as far away as possible. You, on the other hand, had a better plan.

Spotting a tall tree with thick branches, you grinned and started climbing. The bark was rough under your hands, but you didn’t care. You loved heights—the higher, the better.

By the time Randal yelled, “Ready or not, here I come!” you were perched near the top of the tree, peering down at the forest below. You could see Sebastian skulking around the base of another tree, glancing nervously over his shoulder his breath ragged from the previous running.

“Hey, Sebastian!” you called, waving.

He looked up, his jaw dropping. “Are you insane? Get down from there!”

You laughed, swinging your legs. “Why? Afraid of heights?”

Sebastian scowled. “No, I’m afraid of you falling and breaking your neck. Which I’m not helping you with, by the way.”

“Oh, come on,” you said, standing on the branch like a circus performer. “It’s not that high.”

“It’s at least twenty feet!”

“Whatever,” you said, rolling your eyes. “Watch this!”

Before he could protest, you jumped. The air rushed past you in a thrilling blur, and you landed in a crouch a few feet away from Sebastian.

“Ta-da!” you said, throwing your arms out dramatically.

Sebastian stared at you, his face pale. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Yep,” you said, grabbing his arm. “Now it’s your turn!”

“What—no—hey!” Sebastian yelped as you started dragging him toward the tree.

Ignoring his protests, you climbed the tree again, this time with him in tow. He clung to you like a terrified cat, muttering a string of curses under his breath.

“Relax,” you said, grinning. “I’ve got you.”

“This is not relaxing...”

By the time you reached the top, Sebastian was practically vibrating with anxiety. “I hate this. I hate you. I hate Randal.”

“You love us,” you said, laughing. “Now look! Isn’t the view great?”

Sebastian hesitantly glanced around, ,his expression hardened.

“No it isn't."

“Ouch.”

Down below, Randal was wandering aimlessly, calling out in a sing-song voice. “Sebaaaastian… Y/N… I know you’re around here somewhere!”

You grinned mischievously, leaning down to yell, “Up here, loser!”

Randal’s head snapped up, and his face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Awesome! Can I join you?”

Sebastian groaned. “Please don’t.”

Of course, Randal ignored him and started climbing the tree.

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As Randal climbed the tree, you shifted your weight on the branch, causing it to sway slightly. Sebastian immediately clutched the trunk like his life depended on it.

“Can you not?” Sebastian hissed, shooting you a panicked glare. “This thing’s going to snap, and we’re all going to die!”

“Drama queen,” you muttered, waving him off. Then you turned to Randal, who was dangling precariously from a branch below you, grinning up at you like a lunatic.

“Nice tree,” Randal said. “Plenty of room for everyone, huh? Kinda cozy.”

“Yeah, cozy,” Sebastian muttered sarcastically.

Randal ignored him, pulling himself up to sit beside you. “So, guess what I found this morning?”

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Randal reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny doll. Its painted eyes stared blankly, and its hair was matted like it had seen better days. “Her name’s Matilda. Found her in the dumpster behind school. She told me she was lonely, so I took her home.”

“She told you?” Sebastian asked flatly, looking at Randal like he had grown a second head.

“Yeah,” Randal said casually. “She’s shy, though. Doesn’t talk to just anyone.”

You tilted your head, studying the doll. “I get it. I’ve got one like that. Her name’s Clementine. Found her in an old attic. She doesn’t like sunlight, though. Says it burns her eyes.”

Randal’s grin widened. “See? You get it. Dolls are way more interesting than people.”

Sebastian groaned, rubbing his temples. “You’re both insane.”

“Thanks,” you and Randal said in unison, clearly taking it as a compliment.

“Hey,” Randal said, nudging you. “If Matilda and Clementine ever meet, do you think they’d get along?”

“Maybe,” you said, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “But Clementine’s kinda territorial. She doesn’t like sharing her shelf.”

Randal nodded, completely serious. “I get that. Matilda’s the same way. Maybe we could set up a playdate and see how it goes.”

Sebastian blinked at the two of you, utterly baffled. “You’re actually planning a playdate… for your dolls?”

“Yeah,” you said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

“Why not?” Randal added, shrugging.

Sebastian opened his mouth to say something, but then shook his head. “You know what? Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

Randal turned to you, his expression mischievous. “So, do you name all your dolls, or just the special ones?”

“All of them,” you said, smirking. “Even the ones that don’t have heads. They’ve got personalities, you know.”

“I knew you’d get it,” Randal said, practically beaming.

Sebastian, meanwhile, looked like he was ready to throw himself out of the tree. “This is my nightmare,” he muttered.

You and Randal ignored him, falling into a deep conversation about doll maintenance. You compared notes on cleaning techniques, how oil made their eyeballs shinier, repair methods, and the best way to keep their clothes from fraying.

“I use a sewing kit,” Randal said, pulling out a needle from his jacket pocket. “Got it from Big Brother's room. Don’t tell him, though. He gets all cranky when I ‘borrow’ his stuff.”

“Noted,” you said with a grin. “I usually just glue things back together, but sewing sounds cool.”

Before Randal could reply, there was a loud crack.

All three of you froze, glancing at the branch beneath you. It groaned ominously, swaying under your combined weight.

“Uh… guys?” Sebastian said, his voice rising an octave. “This branch isn’t—”

SNAP!

The branch gave way, and the three of you plummeted to the ground in a chaotic tangle of limbs. You hit the dirt with a loud thud, Randal landing on top of you and Sebastian sprawled awkwardly beside you.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then Randal burst out laughing, clutching his sides. “That was awesome! We almost died!!”

Sebastian groaned, rolling onto his back. “I hate you. I hate both of you.”

You laughed, brushing leaves out of your hair. “Come on, it wasn’t that bad.”

“No, because it was terrible,” Sebastian grumbled.

Randal sat up, still grinning. “Let’s do it again!”

Sebastian’s eyes widened in horror. “Absolutely not!”

You smirked, nudging Randal with your elbow. “He’s no fun.”

“None at all,” Randal agreed.

Sebastian groaned, covering his face with his hands. “I just wanna go home..”

Randal's eyes gleamed for a second before turning to you.

"Oh yeah if forgot! Big brother said i had to be home by 7pm, what time is it?"

You quickly pulled out your old pocket watch and struggled to read the time.

"Uhh its 11pm"

Randal blinked, then burst into laughter, leaning back against the tree trunk with a manic grin. "Oops. Guess I’m grounded again."

You chuckled, shaking your head as you dusted off your clothes. “What else is new?”

Sebastian groaned, dragging himself to his feet. “You’re both insane.

#ranfren x reader #fanfic #luther von ivory #randals friends #randal ivory #sebastian ranfren #nyen ranfren #nyon ranfren #fanfiction

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satansapostle6 · 8 months ago

Text

Love The Sinner | Dexter Morgan

Dexter Morgan, a vigilante serial killer hiding in plain sight, loses sleep for the first time in his life when he’s met with the very last thing he expected: a kindred spirit.

Warnings: Violence. Mature language and themes. Sexual content.

Part One.

Part Two. Innocent Until Proven Sexy.

Johnny Bertelli, in the many long months of my murder trial, became my favorite fucking person. The jury thankfully didn’t really see it that way, but we were running circles around the prosecutors. Our claim was naturally self defense, and I have to admit, it was a fucking good one. Story goes, I entered George Randall’s house to confront him, for causing my daughter’s suicide. I got angry, and things got heated, with neighbors to attest to the fact that we were both yelling. George got angry, and attacked me. And I defended myself. The story’s so good, even I believe it.

Technically, I did come to return George’s dishes to him, and he did get pretty heated with me when we argued, so really, we weren’t telling too many lies here. As far as George’s various embellishments, this case was pretty clean. I would say the only challenge Johnny and I faced in court was spinning my obvious lack of remorse when I was arrested. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to seeing Johnny take on a real challenge. It really is funny to watch this giant Italian guy pacing about the court during his addresses to the court while he’s built like Luca Brasi.

At the moment, I’m sitting up on the stand beside the judge, while the entire courtroom scrutinizes my every move and micro expression. There are about fifty pairs of eyes on me, but right now, I only care about one. A pair of sharp green eyes, that I still recognize from when I couldn’t work that goddamn phone. But I quickly snapped out of it, bringing my attention back to Johnny, and the trial. Somehow, this felt less interesting.

“So. Nicole, I know you’ve been through a lot in the past year or so, so forgive me,” my lawyer began, evoking sympathy from the court, “But did you have any intention of murdering George Randall when you knocked on his door?”

I took a moment, almost chewing on the question as I reluctantly relished its bitter taste.

“No.”

One thing good lawyers tell you: never answer more than the question you’re being asked. Even if you think it makes you sound better.

“Now, Nicole… I’m sorry that we have to go through this… Frankly, hurtful line of questioning. If you need to, just focus on me, alright? For now, this is between us. Not the court.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

Johnny nodded kindly. God, we were fucking good at this. I was so close to nominating us both for Academy Awards.

“Can you tell me what you were thinking, as you knocked on George’s door?”

I thought for a moment, calling back to our preparations for this trial.

“I… I was naturally angry, and disgusted, when I read my daughter’s suicide note, stating that George Randall had…”

I did genuinely choke on the word.

“Raped… my daughter,” I told Johnny. “I was appalled, but… More than anything, I wanted answers.”

Johnny looks at me curiously. “‘Answers’?”

I cleared my throat. “I… I just couldn’t understand how someone, a human being, could be capable of that sort of evil. I mean, to rape a child? To cause a twelve year-old girl, my little girl, to take her own life? What kind of monster does that?”

Johnny nods, agreeing with me. “Yes. It’s unthinkable. That’s what it is, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, unthinkable, and unspeakable… But unfortunately, my client, Nicole, does not have the luxury of being able to ignore what this man did… Because this man’s evil claimed two lives; not only the life of twelve year-old Isabella Carvalho, but Nicole Carvalho’s as well, if the prosecution prevails,” he says harshly. “That is the truth; if the prosecution succeeds in wrongfully convicting Nicole Carvalho of murder, she will receive a prison sentence, or God forbid, the death penalty, for defending herself against the man who attacked her, the very same man who raped and drove her daughter to suicide at only twelve years old.”

Johnny nods solemnly, looking at me gratefully before turning to the court.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I believe that this is a crucial factor in this case; George Randall may be dead today, but the fact remains, he was neither murdered, nor a victim. He raped a twelve year-old girl.”

A harsh wave of silence washes over the court, as most hold their breath.

“He raped a twelve year old-girl, driving her to the irreversible act of suicide at the young age of twelve, not even a teenager yet, and when that girl’s mother knocked on her door, he couldn’t handle it, and lashed out at her!”

The jury seemed just as disturbed as they should’ve been at this. I sat quietly on the stand, not having to say a word. Johnny was working the court. Together, we were such good liars, I think we even believed ourselves, on some level. As Johnny continued his argument, highlighting me as the victim in our perfect narrative, I looked around the room with a deep sadness in my eyes. I really was thinking about my daughter. I felt like I was living in some dystopian world, a world where my daughter was dead, and I had become a murderer.

Everything around me felt so distant and surreal, but then, I looked into his eyes. The man I had hardly noticed before, because he looked like every man. It was him, watching my trial, next to another man he’d come with, a short bald man. I couldn’t believe my eyes, but it really was him, the man who had helped me with the phone at Miami Metro all those months ago. It was him, I was sure of it, sitting there lost in the crowd watching the proceedings of my court case with his eyes darting back and forth like at a basketball game. I looked right into his cold green eyes, and suddenly, reality hit me again.

I was no longer lost in my melancholic fantasy. I was brought back to real life, in all its delicious violence and passion. I didn’t believe in God, but this man had the presence of an angel. Not, like, a cartoonish cherub with tiny wings and a halo, but a real, biblically accurate angel. I looked into his cold, icy eyes that seemed to watch me with an almost inhuman precision, and I felt so strange. This feeling was like nothing I’d ever experienced before with any other stranger. I looked into his eyes, felt his austere gaze on me, and I could’ve sworn it was like all the blood drained from my body.

I looked into this man’s eyes, and I felt more things in that one millisecond than I’d ever felt in my life. This man looked to me like an angel. Not because he was so soft and comforting, but because I could’ve sworn I looked into his hawklike eyes and heard a voice tell me ‘do not be afraid’. It felt just as surreal as a human in the bible encountering a real angel, in all its terrifying glory. In that moment, I had no idea what came over me, but when our eyes met, I looked at him for a moment, no longer lying, or playing a character. I looked at him from across the room, electrified, and for a split second, I smiled. I don’t know why, I couldn’t help it.

I risked my entire court case just to look at this strange man across the room, and I just smiled, with no remorse or concern for anything but my own appetites. What was even stranger was that he looked at me, saw my flirtatious smile, and returned it, for so short of a time that afterwards, I couldn’t even be sure if it was real.

*****

After today, I left the court room with Johnny in tears. Real tears. Not many of them, but enough to warrant sunglasses. I was still emotional about Isabella, given that she was practically murdered, and it just so happened that it came out from time to time in public. After walking out of the courthouse with Johnny, with his hand on my back as we ran past the journalists trying to get interviews and photos, I wiped away the last of my tears, brushing mascara clumps off of my fingers.

“You did good, kiddo,” Johnny promises me.

I just smile, nodding. I love this man, because he talks to me like we’re on The Sopranos. I hurry down the street with him in my Jimmy Choos, rushing to our cars just as I accidentally bump into a man on the street.

“Oh, sorry—!” the man exclaims, as his companion turns.

I suddenly stop as, right there on the street, the man from Miami Metro and his bald friend stand right in front of us. Johnny is somewhat confused by my lingering, but waits with me. The bald man looks at me like he’s seen a ghost, staring at me like he’s starstruck. Fuck, I think, he must recognize me. I thought he was about to panic, or act like I have something contagious, given about half of society currently sees me as a murderer, but he seems to have a completely different reaction.

“O-Oh my God!” the little bald man exclaims, as the other man just smiles at me uncomfortably. “You’re—You’re—”

He seems incapable of finishing the sentence.

“Nicole Carvalho,” I finish the sentence for him.

“…Miami MILF!” he exclaims, before I can finish. “Murderer I’d Like to Fuck!”

I frowned, not really expecting that as Johnny chivalrously comes to my defense.

“Hey, pal…” my lawyer begins, before I cut him off.

“Johnny, it’s alright,” I turned to him, not threatened by this man.

The bald Japanese man scrambles before just handing me his coffee cup. “Do you think you could sign this?!”

As far as strange interactions after I became a household name, this honestly wasn’t the worst.

“You… want me to sign this?” I question, needing confirmation as he hands me the mostly empty coffee cup.

He nods. “Yeah!”

But before this can go any further, the man from Miami Metro intervenes, taking the coffee cup from me as an act of courtesy.

“Okay, Masuka,” he says responsibly, “I don’t think we need to do that—”

I take the cup back, smiling as I fish for a pen in my purse. “It’s alright,” I promise them, deciding to just sign the cup, “I’ve always wanted to give an autograph, albeit, under different circumstances… What’s your name?”

The bald man practically jumps for joy as I sign the cup. “Vince. It’s Vince.”

Honestly, his morbid fascination with me was somewhat… well… fascinating. I was probably a murderer, or at the very least definitely a killer, but he didn’t seem to care, because I looked good in a pencil skirt. God, the halo effect is real.

“Okay, great, I’ll make this out to Vince:”

“Thank you!” Vince says far too enthusiastically.

I nod. “Mm-hmm.”

The man from Miami Metro just stands there, awkwardly, frowning sympathetically as I sign and give back the paper cup.

“Here you go,” I say charismatically, “Just… Promise not to lift it for prints, okay?”

This makes even the sandy-haired guy from the police station chuckle, before Johnny chimes in, with perfect comedic timing.

“She’s kidding, of course,” Johnny says quickly, smiling, “You wouldn’t find much if you did.”

I smile as I seem to have made the bald man, Masuka’s, day.

“Thank you,” the sandy-haired guy says sheepishly, “And sorry…”

“Not a problem,” I offer, “At least I get to feel like a celebrity for… two seconds.”

“Oh, come on,” Vince Masuka says, “I’m sure guys ask you for autographs all the time.”

I smile awkwardly. “Surprisingly, no.”

“Really?” he thinks. “Huh. Well, they should, because… All due respect… You’re a dime piece.”

I smile. “Well, that just brightens up my day….”

He laughs a laugh that I can only describe as Beavis and Butthead-esque.

“Alright, well… Thank you for your time,” the Miami Metro guy thanks me politely and apologetically. “Vince… let’s leave the nice woman alone,” he prompted, seeming desperate to get away.

But why? Why was this man who had been watching me for days suddenly so keen on getting away? He must’ve wanted some semblance of distance from me… To watch me in the shadows, without me knowing he’s there. He was trying to get away, but I didn’t let him. I just couldn’t. He was like a fly stuck in my trap.

“I’m sorry, what was your name?” I ask him.

Forget the cat, curiosity was killing me.

“Uh, Dexter,” he says in a friendly manner, shaking my hand.

“Dexter,” I smile, as if trying it out.

Of course it had to be something like that. I considered that maybe he’d given me a fake name, but given that he had a friend with him, I supposed it probably wasn’t.

“Well, Vince, Dexter, it was nice meeting you,” I wave as I walk away with Johnny.

Vince looks at me like a lost puppy, waving hopelessly as I walk away. Dexter, on the other hand, gives me a tiny wave before the friendly smile on his face disappears, revealing a colder, smarter mind beneath the surface, if only for a second. I had no idea who this man was, or why he was really so interested in my case. Logic told me he could’ve been just as pervy of a fanboy as his friend, but something told me it certainly wasn’t that. I didn’t know what his fascination was with me, but I knew it was something dark. There was something just so present, and unnerving, in the way he looked at me, even just as he waved goodbye to me on the street.

I just couldn’t quite place it, and it was killing me. I racked my brain, but still, I couldn’t think of just one instance where somebody looked at me the exact same way this Dexter character did. It was strange. However, there was one memory of someone in particular that wasn’t exact, but a close match. The closest thing to the look I saw in Dexter’s eyes was the look in George Randall’s eyes, right before he died, somewhere between the tenth and eleventh stab wound.

Part Three.

#dexter morgan #dexter #dexter morgan x reader #michael c hall #dexter showtime

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ohmelinoe · 13 days ago

Text

[Lo, thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.]

The Angelic Conversation (1985), dir. Derek Jarman

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beautifulfrog · 2 months ago

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I'm alive, and it took me almost three months to do this. Just one drawing was really hard to finish, but I hope to be able to post more often. The truth is, I still love Monsters, Inc. and the purple lizard. I'm a little tired, for those who might be wondering. Honestly, I had to change psychiatrists after a really tough incident. But whatever, I think I'll keep drawing, even at my own pace.

Thank you so much for all your comments on my last post; I love you all. In context, I was SO inspired by the alternate story in @randall-simp-nadt88 about Randall going to prison. I think it was a really cool idea, and I couldn't help but think it was intriguing to see another path. That's why I wrote this short story alongside the drawing. Feel free to add and comment on anything. By the way, here in Mexico, mental health hospitals are very different from what one might imagine. Obviously, they can have unpleasant situations like anywhere else, but generally, they're not like in the movies. I'm not promoting any ideas or bad ideas about these types of places; I just wanted to adapt the "shady asylum" stereotype to ME. I just think it was necessary to clarify this.

I'm really sorry if the translation is wrong, I'm still learning English properly.

Ohno

Randall was arrested shortly after he had once again become involved in a conspiracy with another energy company (and again, for having fled two weeks before being found), this time leading to a possible terrorist act in the city. It wasn't long before Johnny Worthington managed to afford him a decent lawyer so he could face a fair trial. Even if the horned one was in prison, he managed to have some power.

The trial took place barely a month after he was captured. Clearly, he didn't have the money to even pay bail. He was completely broke, since after his exile, he had already been classified as a missing person and a fugitive. His apartment was evicted, his family (who didn't even call) took his belongings, and unfortunately for him, the only monster that kept him fed was still in prison. He was alone, with the entire city against him.

Due to protocol and background, he was ordered to remain locked in an isolated cell while in the custody of the authorities.

Cameras monitored his movements day and night, and he was never allowed to go out or socialize with others. He didn't really want that, but he hated every second in there. To add a layer to his obvious humiliation and defeat, he was fitted with an ankle tracker on his hind legs, as well as being required to wear a thick metal collar around his neck that connected to the cell wall. This was normally used for large, aggressive monsters like himself, as monsters were aware of their physical superiority over others. Randall showed discontent, occasionally causing mockery among the guards.

That was the beginning of something serious. Just a short time after being sent to the cell, Randall began to experience some episodes of paranoia. He began to have regular hallucinations about things from the past, voices making their presence felt behind him, small shadows or familiar figures passing by him. The nightmares also manifested during the night, centering on the horrible memory of being repeatedly hit in the face with the sharp shovel. Every time he woke up, he ran in search of a hiding place. But there wasn't one, and this stressed him out.

His aggressiveness toward the police also increased dramatically, as he no longer allowed them to speak to him or approach him. This led to multiple problems and a possible increase in his sentence. His lawyer clearly had no interest in Randall's freedom, but he was working to reduce his sentence, which, had it been a trial held forty years ago, would have undoubtedly condemned him to death. He spoke with the judge privately and agreed to perform a special examination to assess his mental state before the trial, since, in his words, "Randall will not survive prison." With permission, he was taken for X-rays, interviews, tests, and a few sessions with specialists.

The results were a traumatic brain injury, caused by the severe blow to the head he received in the human world (also accompanied by characteristics of post-traumatic stress disorder when he remembered it). His memory, behavior, and reactions suggested that he was unstable enough to appear in court, and that gave the lawyer the opportunity to finish his work cleanly.

On trial day, too many monsters were present to testify against him (as expected, Sullivan and Mike were there, getting on his nerves). They all said the same things...

"He's sick!"

"He's a psychopath!"

"He threatened me constantly..."

"He could have murdered my entire family!"

And when he least expected it, his sentence was final. They said he wouldn't go to prison, and that made him strangely happy for a few seconds before the punishment was announced, followed by a hammer blow.

"You'll go to the city mental hospital, the trial's over."

Randall was indignant and filled with rage after those words, having no idea what it would mean to be locked up in a place where supposedly all those who had no hope of being cured went. The lizard cursed, kicked, and growled at the guards who held his shoulders so they could drag him away. The humiliation and pain increased when he saw for the first time the pitying faces of a few coworkers he'd once had. He was finished.

The most painful part was leaving the courtroom, surrounded by some guards and nurses who would take him to the van of the mental hospital where he would be sent. The press photographed every moment and struggle, even though Randall tried to hide. For protocol and security reasons, Randall was restrained by heavy metal handcuffs fitted to his thin wrists, and a straitjacket that kept his lower arms still.

The muzzle soon covered his mouth, clamping his jaws to deny him the freedom to bite or threaten the journalists intrigued by his case. Randall no longer remembered much of the event and always refused to hear a word about it. It was a total humiliation.

The first few days at the mental hospital were filled with resistance and aggression. Again, because Randall was sent there for a fairly strong criminal record, they had to apply strict protocol to him. They isolated him in a padded room, where they forced him to wear a loose-fitting white shirt so he wouldn't try to take advantage of his unique camouflage.

They also gave him medication based on his diagnosis and the results of the therapy he received regularly (he remained very reserved when asked any questions). He was forbidden to drink coffee for a time, and the food there was relatively empty and boring. Most of the time it was soup, and he couldn't even go to the bathroom without someone having to watch him outside.

The hospital was incredibly large, but Randall didn't know even half of it. He was prohibited from entering and leaving many areas. He lost contact with the outside world; he knew practically nothing about what was going on outside because visits were strictly regulated and his contact with the other inmates was nonexistent. He didn't hang out with them, he thought it was a mistake to be there and that he would soon get out.

Clearly, that wasn't the case. The only privilege he had was that he was occasionally allowed to smoke outside for a while, but someone always had to be there to light his cigarette and make sure it didn't burn. He felt like a child, and that bothered him. Days, weeks, and months passed... Randall accepted his new reality, but it only led to the dreaded depression.

Realizing that he was only sent there because he was weak and because it was the quickest way to get rid of him was a hard blow. Everyone was living their lives out there while he was rotting away in a nursing home for other outcasts like him. No one was going to rescue him, and that filled him with immense despair.

He was the only one who would die alone.

#monsters inc #randall boggs #artwork #frogs #artists on tumblr #monsters university #disney

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peaxchydreams · 3 months ago

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a bouquet of wilting roses

a bouquet of dead roses blackened, brittle, and reeking of decay rests in randal’s outstretched hand, a grin tugging at his lips as he presents them like a precious gift. unsettled yet unable to refuse, you hesitate, knowing better than to question him. when he murmurs that they remind him of you, the weight of his words lingers, suffocating. the petals crumble at your touch, the thorns bite into your skin, but still you don’t let go.

----

the roses are dead.

not just dried and brittle, not just on the verge of wilting dead.

petals blackened at the edges, curling inward as if recoiling from the touch of time. the once-vibrant red has dulled to the shade of drying blood, a deep, unsettling hue that whispers of decay. the stems, though still intact, have been bent at unnatural angles, as though plucked in a hurry, handled roughly, or perhaps tortured.

yet randal holds them out to you with a grin, as if presenting the most beautiful bouquet in the world.

"here," he says, voice smooth yet unsteady, like a lullaby played on an out-of-tune piano. "i got these for you."

for a moment, all you can do is stare.

the roses dangle from his grasp, barely holding together, petals trembling at the slightest movement. a few have already fallen, drifting lazily to the floor between you. the scent that reaches you isn’t the floral sweetness you expect. it’s something earthier, heavier a mix of damp soil and something faintly metallic.

"...randal," you start, hesitant, unsure how to phrase what you’re thinking.

that these aren’t flowers meant for a gift. that they look like they’ve been rotting in someone’s hands. that they belong in a place of mourning, not in an offering of affection.

he tilts his head, watching you like a cat observing a cornered mouse. "what? you don’t like them?"

there’s no anger in his voice, no sharp edge of insult taken, but there’s something else lurking beneath the words something dangerous.

your throat tightens.

"they’re... interesting," you settle on, glancing at the twisted stems, the bruised petals, the tiny streak of red staining his fingertips.

you don’t want to ask where it came from.

randal’s expression flickers, then shifts into something unreadable. slowly, he twirls the bouquet between his fingers, the stems twisting and creaking in protest. the thorns press against his skin, but he doesn’t react.

"they reminded me of you," he finally murmurs.

your gaze snaps to his. his mismatched eyes are heavy-lidded, calculating, as if studying every micro-expression on your face, waiting for a reaction he hasn’t yet received.

you swallow thickly. "because…?"

randal hums, rolling his shoulders in a lazy stretch. "because they’re beautiful, obviously," he says, offhandedly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

you glance at the dead flowers again, their withering forms crumbling at the edges.

beautiful.

somewhere in the back of your mind, the thought lingers like an echo: is this how he sees you?

"i-" you hesitate. the bouquet still hangs between you, his outstretched hand unwavering. he’s waiting. expecting.

you don’t know what possesses you to reach out. maybe it’s the way his fingers twitch slightly, like he might pull them back if you take too long. maybe it’s the way his smile never fully reaches his eyes, like he’s daring you to reject him.

or maybe it’s because you already know you don’t say no to randal ivory.

your fingers brush his as you take the bouquet. the stems are rough, thorns digging in just enough to sting. a petal disintegrates at your touch, floating lifelessly to the floor.

randal watches with a slow blink. his lips twitch, just barely, before curling into a smile.

"they suit you," he murmurs.

a shiver creeps down your spine. you don’t ask what he means.

the scent of decay lingers between you, thick and suffocating.

and somehow, despite the weight in your chest, despite the quiet dread pooling in your stomach-

you don’t let go.

#ranfren #randals friends #x reader #randal ivory #ranfren x reader #randals friends x reader #randal ivory x reader

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tayasui-mono · 1 year ago

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"You can't reduce me to a set of influences. I've given up good and evil for behaviourism" seemed contradictory to me when I heard it first, yet I think I understand it now. This is Will justifying his action of killing Randall and his supposed murder of Freddie as they participate in cannibalism; dining on Randall's meat. Will's saying what he has done doesn't fit within the context of morality; he doesn't kill because he is evil. He has killed because he deemed it to be the appropriate reaction in his abnormal situation i.e., pretending to get on the same side of Hannibal and for this, he has found no choice but to murder Randall therefore he has abandoned the morality of it. Hannibal replies aptly: "Then you can't say I'm evil" because Will cannot apply contradicting philosophies to two individuals who have exercised the same action. Still resisting, Will tells him, "You're destructive - same thing." Hannibal asks, "Evil is just destructive? Storms are evil; if it's that simple. And we have fire. And then there's hail. Underwriters lump it all under acts of god. Is this meal an act of god, Will?" I really love how convincing Hannibal is. He takes away the worry of morality. He's saying its man-made. They're forces of nature. Who is there to judge us, Will? Besides you. Then the final shot, of Hannibal and Will's faces overlapping and merging together - they've committed the same sin. They've both killed, cooked and eaten another human being. I LOVE this scene. The affectionate, euphoric music, Hannibal's gentle expressions. Him waiting to see how Will likes the food before taking a bite himself. Will's mind melting and mellowing, still sharp around the edges. So lovely.

#hannigram #hannibal #will graham #hannibal lecter #hannibal meta #hannigram meta #Naka-choko

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creativelydani · 3 months ago

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intentions don't erase the damage

Relationships: Nesta Archeron/Cassian, Nesta Archeron & Bryce Quinlan, Nesta Archeron & Ember Quinlan

Rating: Mature

Tags: POV Nesta Archeron, Nesta Archeron Needs A Hug, Eighth Court Theory | The Dusk Court Exists, Angst, Inner Circle Bashing, BAMF Nesta Archeron, Implied/Referenced Abuse

Word Count: 3.6K

Nesta’s heart was still pounding as Cassian set her down on the veranda. The morning air was sharp, cool against her skin, but it wasn’t enough to dispel the tension coiled in her body. She barely registered Rhys’s landing a moment earlier, his vast, storm-cloud wings folding behind him as he turned toward her.

She wasn’t new to being on the receiving end of Rhys’s sharp, commanding tone, but today, Nesta flinched, her shoulders tightening as she bowed her head in deference to him.

“You may not consider yourself a part of this court, but the lives of its people are still tied to your reckless choices,” Rhys snarled, his voice resonant with that High Lord power.

Nesta was tired. They just did this dance with Feyre. So, she stayed quiet and braced herself for another verbal onslaught when the glass doors behind them flew open.

Ember Quinlan, despite being only human, was a force just like her daughter. Her freckled face, barely touched by the aging of a mortal lifespan, was set in a fiery rage. She crossed the veranda, her chin raised in defiance, and voice sharper than a blade, “Isn’t it a little early to be biting people’s heads off?”

Nesta raised her head slightly to take in this human, staring down Rhys, the High Lord of the Night Court, Night Triumphant, as though he was little more than a pest. Rhys turned frigid, his usually violet eyes dark with his rage, as he turned his attention to Ember. “I don’t recall asking you to join our conversation.”

It was the cool, practiced tone that usually made people back down, but Ember didn’t flinch. She held her ground, her tone steady and unyielding, as though this was a dance she’d done before and won. “You interrupted my breakfast. If you wanted privacy, you should have gone somewhere else.”

Nesta’s lips parted slightly, surprise flickering through her. She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised, considering the time she’d spent with Bryce, but Ember wasn’t powerful like Bryce was. She was just…human, in a foreign Fae land, facing one of the most powerful people in it without batting an eye.

Randall appeared behind Ember, a hand resting lightly on her back. He murmured something low and cautionary, but Ember didn’t move.

Nesta didn’t know whether to feel stunned or amused as Ember jabbed a finger in Rhysand’s direction and said, “Nesta made a choice to harbour us—she made a choice to give Midgard a shot at freedom. To give my world hope. What kind of person are you to rip her to shreds for it?”

Nesta stopped breathing at the conviction in her words. No one had spoken like that in the meeting at River House. It had mostly been a berating of Nesta and her choices.

“Are you calling me a monster, Ember Quinlan?” Rhysand’s voice was soft, dangerous.

“I’m saying give it a fucking rest,” Ember shot back.

Nesta’s mouth nearly dropped open. Beside her, Azriel made a sound suspiciously like a choke, and Cassian’s shoulders shook once, the silent laughter clear.

But Ember wasn’t finished. She jerked her chin toward Nesta, her voice unwavering. “Lay off her.”

Rhysand stared her down, the weight of his power crackling in the air. Stars flickered in his eyes—ancient and vast, like the night itself. It was a sight Nesta had grown used to, but seeing Ember withstand it…that was something else.

The tension broke as Rhysand’s gaze softened slightly. He looked to Randall, his expression unreadable as he said, “With a wife and daughter like yours, I don’t know how you’re still standing.”

Randall grinned, easy and unaffected. “Most days, I don’t know either.”

Rhysand blinked, then laughed, the sound low and rich. Cassian and Azriel joined him, their humor rolling through the cool morning air.

But Nesta couldn’t bring herself to smile. She watched Ember instead, the human female who had just faced down one of the most powerful Fae in existence. Ember’s gaze slid to her, and for a moment, Nesta felt a flurry of emotions.

Surprise. Gratitude. Longing.

Ember extended a hand, her voice softening. “Come. Eat breakfast with me.”

Nesta hesitated, then slid her cold fingers into Ember’s warm grasp. The contact was grounding. Comforting.

“Don’t let him push you around,” Ember advised.

A weak, wry smile touched Nesta’s lips. “Don’t worry. My sister—Rhys’s mate—already gave him that exact same lecture twenty minutes ago.”

Ember hissed, “So he brought you back up here to lecture you away from her?”

The woman looked like she had half a mind to go back out there and lecture Rhys some more.

Nesta snorted softly. “No. Feyre ended the argument. I’m not going to be executed. Not today, at least.”

Ember’s expression twisted in horror, and Nesta quickly amended, “They wouldn’t kill me. I don’t think. But…it’s complicated. I doubt anyone will be forgiving me anytime soon.”

The uncertainty in her own voice rattled her. If she wasn’t Cassian’s mate, Nesta wasn’t sure that was true.

Ember tilted her head toward Cassian. “What about your mate?”

Mate. Pain flared in Nesta’s chest, guilt twisting her insides as she thought about what would come inevitably with him. Nesta clenched her jaw, fighting to keep that swell of emotion in check. “Cassian’s the most furious with me of anyone.”

Ember squeezed her hand. “If there’s anything I can do to help, anything you need me to say to take some of the blame away from you…”

Nesta’s lips curved into a small, genuine smile. “Handing Rhys his ass just now was good enough for me.”

Ember guided her toward the dining room, the promise of warmth and food awaiting them. For the first time that morning, Nesta allowed herself to breathe.

✵

Nesta closed the door to their bedroom softly, though her limbs felt like lead. The exhaustion of the day settled in her bones, but the tension coiling in her chest was sharper than ever. She could feel Cassian’s presence like a storm on the horizon, his power simmering in the air as he stood near the window, back turned to her.

The silence was suffocating.

“You want to explain to me what the hell you were thinking?” His voice was low, tight with barely restrained anger, and it cut through the quiet like a blade.

Nesta hesitated, her fingers brushing the back of a chair as she steadied herself. “It was worth the risk.”

Cassian spun around, his hazel eyes blazing with anger. “Worth the risk? Do you even hear yourself, Nesta? You put yourself—and all of us—in danger because you thought it was worth it?”

She crossed her arms, summoning a defiance she didn’t entirely feel. “I made a choice, Cassian. Either Bryce deals with the Asteri or we brace ourselves for their return here.”

Cassian stared at her, his wings flaring slightly, a sure sign of his barely restrained frustration. “Who are you to make that decision, Nes?! Without consulting anyone?!”

“I’m the one the Mask answers to, Cassian, and Bryce didn’t have the time in order for me to host a debate of the advantages and disadvantages.”

Cassian’s jaw tightened, his wings snapping shut behind him as he took a step closer, his hazel eyes burning with barely restrained fury. “You think that’s an excuse? That your power gives you the right to gamble with your life—and everyone else’s—like it’s some gods-damned game?”

Nesta refused to back down, even as the tension in the room seemed to thrum with his anger. “It’s not a game, Cassian. It’s survival. Bryce needed help, and I had the means to give it to her. If the Asteri come back here, it won’t just be me in danger—it’ll be all of us.”

“You’re right,” he snapped, his voice sharp as a blade. “It won’t just be you in danger. It’ll be everyone we’ve fought to protect. The city, the court, this family—all of it. And you didn’t think for one damn second that maybe, just maybe, your decision wasn’t yours alone to make?”

Nesta bristled, her nails digging into her palms as she held his gaze. “There is no point to having power if you withhold it from the people who need it. I’m not begging Rhys for permission to use the Trove that answers to me, and I won’t apologize for fighting for innocent people.”

“Is this really about saving people?” Cassian asked, his voice low and dangerous. “Or is this about proving something? To Rhys? To me? To yourself?”

“I didn’t give a shit about proving anything when I argued with the mortal queens for the lives of innocents. When I wore my trauma before the High Lords in hopes they would do what’s right for Prythian. If I wanted to prove something, I’d get on my knees for Rhys and suck his dick the way you do!”

Cassian froze, the venom in her words hitting him like a physical blow. His wings twitched, and for a moment, it seemed like he couldn’t decide whether to shout or turn and walk away. His jaw tightened as he stared at her, his hazel eyes blazing with a mixture of fury and hurt.

“That’s what you think of me?” His voice was quiet, deadly calm—the kind of calm that preceded a storm. “You think I’m some mindless soldier, following orders because I don’t have the backbone to do anything else?”

Nesta’s throat tightened, but she forced herself to hold his gaze. “I think you’ve spent so long trying to prove yourself to Rhys, to this court, that you’ve forgotten you’re allowed to make your own choices.”

He let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and humorless. “And you’ve spent so long fighting everyone that you can’t see the difference between someone standing by you and someone standing in your way.”

“I don’t need anyone standing by me,” she snapped, her voice rising. “I don’t need anyone holding my hand, or telling me what I can and can’t do.”

“No,” he said, his tone cutting. “You don’t need anyone, do you? You’ve made that perfectly clear. But gods forbid anyone need you, Nesta. Gods forbid anyone care about you enough to want you to stay alive.”

Her chest ached, but she refused to let the crack in her armor show. “You know, I made a joke to Ember earlier that I wasn’t getting executed this time, and…fuck, Cassian, I’m not sure how much of a joke that was. The only reason Rhys didn’t threaten my life this time is because Feyre was standing right fucking there.”

Cassian’s jaw tightened, his wings snapping open slightly before he forced them to fold back. “Rhys didn’t threaten your life, Nesta,” he said, his voice low but firm. “He’s angry—furious, even—but he would never go that far. You know that.”

“Do I?” Nesta shot back, her eyes blazing. “Because I remember when he told you to get me out of Velaris before he fucking killed me for telling Feyre that her pregnancy would kill her.”

Cassian’s hands flexed at his sides, the cords of muscle in his neck tightening as he stared at her, his wings snapping open and then curling in sharply. “That wasn’t about killing you, Nesta. That was about protecting Feyre. About protecting his mate and their child. You know damn well how far someone will go to protect the person they love.”

Nesta’s laugh was sharp, biting. “What about protecting your mate, Cassian?! Shouldn’t Rhys threatening me and berating me trigger your so-called mate instincts? Why is Ember Quinlan the first time I’ve felt like someone has stood up for me in this court?”

Cassian’s hazel eyes darkened, his wings flaring wide again as her words slammed into him. His voice was sharp, clipped, but there was an undercurrent of something raw beneath it. “Don’t you dare, Nesta. Don’t you dare stand there and compare me to Ember—or anyone else in this court—and act like I haven’t stood by you through everything.”

Her hands trembled at her sides, but she kept her voice steady, venomous. “Standing by me and standing up for me aren’t the same thing, Cassian. You don’t get to claim you’ve fought for me when you’re too busy defending everyone else’s actions—especially his.”

“I have stood up for you,” Cassian growled, his tone low and dangerous. “Do you know how many times I’ve gone toe-to-toe with Rhys, with Feyre, even with Amren, because I believed in you? Because I knew you deserved better? But standing up for you doesn’t mean blindly excusing your choices, Nesta. It doesn’t mean ignoring the damage you can cause.”

“Damage?” Nesta snapped, her voice rising. “I put my life on the line to help Bryce, to help keep this court and everyone in it safe. And you call that damage? Meanwhile, Rhys can tear me apart verbally in front of everyone, and you still find a way to justify it.”

Cassian took a step closer, his wings towering behind him, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “I’m not justifying anything. But you don’t see what I see. You don’t see how much Rhys is carrying, how much weight he’s holding on his shoulders every single day to keep this court intact. He’s not perfect, Nesta, but he’s doing his damned best. Just like you are.”

She laughed bitterly, her nails biting into her palms. “I’m so tired of hearing about how much Rhys is carrying. What about what I’m carrying? What about the fact that every time I step into a room, I’m reminded that I don’t belong here? That I can’t fucking breathe without being reminded of all the ways I’ve failed? The ways I keep failing?”

Cassian froze, his hazel eyes softening as he took in the raw anguish in her voice. His wings, still half-flared in frustration, slowly folded back as he exhaled a shaky breath. “Because you’re still punishing yourself, and you won’t let people help you.”

“No,” Nesta shot back, her voice trembling with barely contained fury and heartbreak. “Because with Gwyn and Emerie and the Valkyries, it’s not like that. They have never held my pain or my mistakes against me! They saw me at my worst and loved me anyway!”

Cassian’s expression faltered, the fire in his eyes dimming as her words struck him with the force of a physical blow. He took a step back, as if the distance would help him make sense of what she had just said. “And you think I don’t love you like that?” His voice was quiet, almost broken. “You think I look at you and see your mistakes? That I hold them against you?”

Hot tears welled in Nesta’s eyes, of a truth never spoken but formed in the dark recesses of her mind. “You have. More than once.”

Cassian inhaled sharply, the admission hitting him like a punch to the gut. He stepped back, his wings rustling as if they were as unsettled as he was. For a moment, the room was silent save for Nesta’s shaky breaths.

He ran a hand through his hair, his voice unsteady when he finally spoke. “Nesta, if I’ve ever made you feel like that—“

“Don’t say if! Don’t pretend this is all in my head, Cassian!” Nesta snarled fiercely. “I am standing in front of you, the female you claim to love and I am telling you that you’ve said shit that’s devastated me!”

Nesta’s voice cracked, hot tears welling up in her eyes but she didn’t stop or falter. “And every time I’ve tried to tell you, you’ve dismissed it. Or excused it. Or defended it. You’ve made me feel like I was overreacting, like my feelings didn’t matter. And then you turn around and say you love me? That you stand by me? How, Cassian? How is that love?”

Cassian’s chest heaved, his fists clenching at his sides as he absorbed the weight of her words. He looked like she had taken a blade and plunged it into his heart, twisting it with every syllable. “Nesta,” he started, his voice breaking, “I never meant—”

“I don’t care what you meant!” she interrupted, her voice hoarse. “Intentions don’t erase the damage, Cassian. They don’t erase the nights I stayed awake, wondering if I’d ever be good enough for you, for this court, for anyone.”

“You are good enough,” Cassian said desperately, stepping toward her. “Gods, Nesta, you’re more than enough. You’ve always been more than enough.”

Nesta took a deliberate step back while crossing her arms over her chest, causing Cassian to suck in a breath. “I’d like to be alone tonight.”

“Nes–”

“Please, Cassian.”

✵

Nesta had never been so relieved in her life as a portal opened in the House’s private library, and Bryce stepped in. But the warrior instincts that had been trained into her had her expecting the worst, and Nesta’s hand closed around the hilt of a dagger. Cassian’s movements mirrored hers, reaching for his own concealed blade.

At Bryce’s back stood her mate, the tanned, muscular male with grey-feathered wings that reminded Nesta vaguely of Peregryns. A soldier from how he stood, but his dark eyes mirrored Bryce’s soft affection as he looked at Ember and Randall. Hunt, Nesta recalled his name, said something to Ember and Randall in the Old Fae language.

Then Bryce stepped forward, wrapping her arms around Ember and Nesta’s throat tightened at the display. At the way Ember held Bryce like she was something delicate, and how Randall leaned forward to press a kiss to Bryce’s head.

Nesta didn’t need to know Old Fae to know what had transpired. Bryce had won. The Asteri were gone.

Cassian was close behind Nesta, tense, watching Bryce’s mate with narrowed eyes. “You have one minute before Rhys gets here and explodes.”

Nesta could hear the amusement in Ember’s voice as she responded in the common tongue, “Oh, Rhys will be fine.”

Nesta’s head snapped toward her in shock, and well…maybe there was a little bit of envy snaked in as well. Once, Nesta had been able to hold her own against Rhys. What happened to that female?

Randall added, “It got too hard to mime everything. They gave us that bean-thing they offered you.”

Bryce’s brow furrowed, clearly surprised. “Rhysand will be fine? The guy who brings darkness incarnate—”

Ember cut her off. “He and Randall bonded over being overprotective dads. So now Rhys knows exactly the sort of shit you like to pull.”

Even when Ember was criticizing or voicing disapproval, there was undeniable affection in her words. A sense of pride for the female that Bryce was (even if she seemed to cause trouble). It felt unbelievably strange to witness such an interaction.

Bryce turned to Nesta, and pulled out the Mask from underneath her jacket. Nesta’s heart lurched watching the golden mask laid onto the table, followed by Truth-Teller. Cassian shifted like he was prepared to jump between Nesta and Bryce.

“You brought them back.” Nesta’s voice was quiet, her words thick.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?” Bryce asked.

Nesta shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I don’t know what I thought.”

Ember broke the tension with a wry, “Poor Nesta’s been in the doghouse since you took their weapons and dumped us here. I apologize again for my daughter’s behavior.”

“I made the choice to give her the Mask,” Nesta reminded Ember, before turning back to Bryce. “Your mother somehow doesn’t believe that I did so willingly.”

The banter continued, but Nesta’s focus wavered as Ember turned to her, taking her hands in her own. “This time with you was a gift, Nesta. It truly was.”

The sincerity in Ember’s voice sliced through the walls Nesta had so carefully built. She couldn’t find words, couldn’t articulate the complicated swirl of emotions Ember’s embrace brought out of her.

As Ember pulled her into a hug, Nesta stiffened, then relaxed. The warmth, the care—it was foreign and overwhelming, and she felt an ache in her chest that she hadn’t realized was there.

When Ember finally pulled away, she whispered, “You’ll find your way.”

So, that’s what a mother is supposed to be. Nesta thought wryly, as tears threatened to rise in her eyes. Ember and Randall passed Hunt to go through the portal and Nesta found herself staring at Bryce.

Cassian, sensing her need for space, moved away, though his eyes remained locked on Bryce, his body still coiled to strike if necessary.

Nesta’s lips quirked upward at Bryce’s muttered, “Alphaholes.”

Bryce drew the ancient sword, Gwydion, and offered the blade to Nesta whose throat caught.

“You said you had an eight-pointed star tattooed on you,” Bryce said, her voice soft. “And you found the chamber with the eight-pointed star in the Prison, too.”

Nesta lifted her chin. “So?”

“So I want you to take the Starsword,” Bryce held out the blade. “Gwydion—whatever you call it here. The age of the Starborn is over on Midgard. It ends with me.”

“I don’t understand.”

Once Nesta took the sword, Bryce took Hunt’s hand, the pair of them stepping backwards into the portal. Nesta’s heart lurched, panic rumbling through her veins, but at the same time, the ancient magic of Gwydion seemed to sing to her. A soothing hymn that felt so very right.

Bryce smiled at her, her voice soft and sure. “I think that eight-pointed star was tattooed on you for a reason. Take that sword and go figure out why.”

And then the portal closed, leaving Nesta standing there, the long-lost ancient sword of High King Fionn gleaming in her hands.

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