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cherrybr4t · 5 months ago

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say it — choi seungcheol

ABOUT.

you’re back from college, and seungcheol starts to realise you’re no longer the bratty little 18 year old anymore — and has trouble accepting that he’s not protective of you just because he thinks of himself as an ‘older brother figure’ in your life.

PAIRING.

seungcheol x reader (fem)

TAGS/WARNINGS.

rich!seungcheol and rich!reader, age gap (cheol is older by 6 years), childhood friend! cheol, smut with plot, mentions of older brother mingyu (reader), cheol suffers from jealousy! denial! possessiveness! friends to lovers au <3 one-sided pining!

ׂ╰┈➤ CHAPTER TAGS/WARNINGS. ⭐️

rich!seungcheol and rich!reader, older brother mingyu, wonwoo x reader, age gap, alcohol consumption, cheol may seem slightly controlling 😕 not much gg on yet BUT! slow tension building!

ׂ╰┈➤ series masterlist

i. red lips and red wine

Bottles of dom perignon, check. Smell of butter cookies wafting through the hallways, check. Dad nitpicking the spread prepared by the chef? Check. That about kicks start Christmas in your household.

The annual christmas party held by your family was not to be missed, especially since you’re back home this year and immediately took an interest in making sure it would be the best damn Christmas party anyone will ever step foot in.

You woke up in the wee hours — with your Prada monolith boots snug on your feet, along with your favourite puffer jacket, and headed out to complete your errands — getting new christmas lights, more cedar wood scented candles, as well as some decorative poinsettias your mom loves to have around.

When evening came rolling around, the party was in full swing. Gold garlands complementing the bright red poinsettias, and the food spread — done to perfection, all thanks to your housekeeper who’d executed your vision down to a T.

You strutted down the stairs with your vintage dior dress — red, silk, flowy edges that stopped near your knees. Paired with gold jewellery that you were still busy clasping on as you walked out of your room, only to bump into your older brother, already grinning down at you.

“Hey munchkin, late as usual?” Mingyu reached out to adjust pieces of hair falling in front of your face, knowing how you liked your up-do neat. Offering a lopsided grin to your brother, you shrugged.

“You already know it, plus I was busy appeasing mom about the absence of her favourite — the 1982 chateau. Swear it’s impossible to find this time of the year,” you huffed.

Chuckling, Mingyu held up his elbows for you to interlock your arms with as you both made your way down to the party.

“Cheol! Jae!” Mingyu’s excitement coursed through him way too quick — tossing away your arm tugging onto him in a flash. Rolling your eyes, you let your eyelashes flutter on your eyelids before settling your gaze upon the men in front of you.

Your family and the Choi’s go way back. The bridging of the Kim’s and the Choi’s started when both your grandparents were neighbours — and when you four came along; seungcheol, seungjae, mingyu and you, you four were inseparable. Be it playing outside your yards, pulling shenanigans at the Choi’s basement or wherever.

You’ve just recently returned home from college, and it has been quite some time since you’ve met the Choi’s. Adulthood and what not. Looking at the pair in front of you, your eyes took one scan over Cheol.

He was still the same effortlessly handsome fella, though he seemed to be sporting a different hair colour, and no longer with an undercut as you’ve last remembered him in. He’s gotten more buff, the shape of his built emphasized with the dark blue cashmere sweater he was clad in.

Still a sight for sore eyes.

You can’t help the smile creeping on the corner of your lips and teetering on the edges of your tightlined eyes. It was like the 19 year old in you reigniting that intense infatuation you had for your neighbour.

His familiar dark eyes darted over to you, before greeting Mingyu in a warm hug. Letting Mingyu catch up with Jae, he makes a beeline towards you, clutching the bag on his hand tightly.

“Merry Christmas,”

His woody scent mixed with a hint of citrus hits you in the face, and you were immediately transported back to how obsessed you were with this particular scent of his as a teenager — you would sneak over to take naps in his room constantly, to be engulfed in his scent and warmth through his sheets.

Your heart palpitates at the familiar scent. It’s been years since you were a teenager harboring a hopeless crush, and you sure did not want to spiral back to that state. You self soothed, mentally berating yourself.

“Merry Christmas, Cheol. It’s been a while, time seems to be treating you well,” you tilt your head as you take in his appearance in his face, as if you weren’t already checking him out before he came over to you.

His lips twitched into a smile, "Always with a biting comment,"

The secret is to always remain calm, cool, collected. Nonchalant. It’s what the 23 year old you picked up from years of being amongst the worst of the worst — college boys.

You know Seungcheol isn’t comparable to them. They could never. And — he’s…him. The guy who would willingly let himself get dragged along for boxing classes, just because you needed a reason to impress your high school crush.

He was your solace, your comfort — and you’re not sure why you’re feeling the need to place an invisible boundary with him right now. Could be the years of distance, perhaps.

His lips spread out in a wide grin, shaking his head as he hands over the bag, containing — “a 1982 chateau? How did you…” your jaw slacked as you looked at the bottle inside. This kiss ass. No wonder he was always your mom’s favourite.

“I never divulge my secrets,”

You couldn't even formulate a reply as your mom — with some sort of telepathic tingle, ran over to greet Cheol with a warm hug, slightly tipsy from the few glasses of Dom Perignon already.

“Seungcheol! It’s so good to see you — is that a bottle of my favourite 1982? You’re always the sweetest, Cheol,” your mom cooed, patting his arm before engaging in light conversation with him.

You took the bottle with you and headed to the kitchen, placing it down with the other bottles of liquor, wine lined up along the counter.

You could use the silence to let the heat trickling up your neck subside.

“Running away so fast?”

Cheol leans against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms — allowing his arms to bulge through that sweater of his. Peeling your eyes away, you give him a cheeky grin.

“Never,” you took a decorated glass and poured some bubbly for him, “just had to make sure all of my guests are properly hydrated.”

Taking a sip, he hums in appreciation before shooting you a glance again. “So, congrats on graduating with first class honors, heard you’re back for good? Looking for a job here?”

You raise your eyebrows, “Hmm, yeah for now, applied for a few writing jobs here and there,” you fidget slightly under his gaze, before deciding to pour a glass for yourself.

“Writing? Didn’t you graduate with a bachelor’s in...Economics?” he stares fixedly, a slight frown displayed, skeptical.

“Yeah, and?"

"And...may I ask which love interest has you applying for writing jobs?" He starts to look around, observing other bottles laid out on the counter.

You roll your eyes, lightly smacking your forehead with your palm.

"Writing as in you know — journalism, relating to the financial markets, or anything about politics, I guess, but really — I'm open to whatever,” you shrugged.

”I hope you know what you’re doing, I know how you are,” he clears his throat.

”What’s that supposed to mean?” You cut him off, narrowing your eyes at him.

“I just mean, you’re 23 now, you can’t necessarily go through jobs like you’re picking out a new hobby, or switching love interests. Remember when you made me pick up — let me think, the drums, cross stitching, boxing,"

“Hey, you enjoyed doing those with me!” you throw him a glare, “plus without me, you wouldn’t have found your love for jiu jitsu classes…”

"May I remind you that your hobbies or interests all line up with whichever love interest you're trying to impress,"

He raises his eyebrows before downing the rest of the sparkly in the bow tied glass.

You rolled your eyes for the nth time, “I’m 23 now, and I'm no longer the little girl you knew before okay? I’ve grown.” With an inward cringe at yourself, you only hope he sees how serious you are. With an amused look behind his eyes, he lets out a tiny chuckle, “We’ll see about that,"

"But, congratulations anyhow, and, it is good to have you back," Cheol clinks his glass with yours before downing his drink while maintaining eye contact.

Seungcheol, in fact, knows you are definitely not the same 19 year old he knew. Well, at least you did not look like it anymore. He berates himself silently for letting his eyes linger a little too long at how well the dress sits on you.

You’ve also apparently opted for switching to red lips paired with bolder eye makeup. You no longer looked like the girl who would pester him every day, calling him for a ride home from a house party at 3 in the morning. Which always resulted in him nagging the whole ride back home — and you falling asleep mid-way, giving in to your migraine.

Seungcheol’s been around for almost your whole life. He was 6 when he sat around at your baby shower, 16 when he had to babysit you and your brother, 21 when you had your first crush, 24 when you cried to him about your first heartbreak.

26 when you told him you were leaving for college.

He was a busy man even then, having started working at his dad’s company. Was busy chasing the validation and status required for him to step up and take over one day. As much as the role came naturally to him, dealing with the sudden spotlight on him was another issue.

Over the years, Mingyu always kept in close contact with him despite being in college, and was a dependable friend to him consistently.

You, on the other hand, had slowly started to disappear. All he could count on for verification you were alive were your instagram stories filled with flashing lights in the club and weekly calls with your family — shaking his head in a very older brother fashion when he sees what you’re up to on a saturday night.

Daily texts had started to fade to weekly, monthly and then once in a blue moon. Not that seungcheol was too bothered by it though, he had his own fair share of worries and responsibilities piling up.

4 years of college done, and you had set off for a year-long break travelling with friends, before deciding it was time to head home and get a job.

And here you were, chatting and mingling around looking like you no longer needed to have seungcheol by your side at such gatherings — no longer seeking solace in his presence when guests were enervating.

Bittersweet, he concludes before he realises he’s been eyeing you for almost the whole night.

“Parties getting too draining for you?” Mingyu chuckles, playing around with the wine in his glass.

“Still getting drunk with 3 glasses of wine?”

“Now that’s low — those days are behind me,” a hiccup cuts Mingyu off, and he starts giggling while Seungcheol smirks knowingly, shaking his head.

“You still get your ass embarrassingly drunk, what do you mean,” seungcheol shoots and he scores as mingyu snapped his head towards him, glaring playfully before challenging him to a drink-off right then and there.

“Not with the alcohol here — it’d be a waste to chug these,”

“Just say you’re scared, you old fuck,” Mingyu’s devilish smile makes way and seungcheol gives him a tight smack on his shoulders — Mingyu grimaces, rubbing the spot with a slight pout.

“And to think that we’re all grown adults now — but some things never change huh,” you appear at sight with arms crossed, a teasing smile on your red lips.

“You’re talking a little too big for someone who’s just entered the real adult world,” Mingyu walks up to you, flicking your forehead before downing the rest of his wine.

You gasp, “I expected more from you gyu” you scurried over to cheol’s side, clinging onto his arm and he notices how you’ve grown slightly taller over the past few years.

“Yeah yeah, go ahead and gang up on me again — we all know cheol prefers me,” Mingyu clicks his tongue before heading towards the kitchen for a refill.

“I’m guessing you’ve already heard about Jeonghan's wedding?” He cuts the thick air, ever so suavely leaning against the wall. You’ve always hated his nonchalance. Airiness. Made you feel insignificant when it came to the brain map of Choi Seungcheol.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Though, he did give a pretty lame excuse for missing this party,” you snickered.

“Give him a break, he’ll need a month beforehand to charge his energy before his wedding,” you chuckled, and before you could even formulate a reply, a loud crash from the kitchen interrupts and catches everyone’s attention.

Mingyu runs out with a sheepish look — cheeks red eyes crinkly — “oops,”

When seungcheol sees you at Jeonghan’s wedding the following week, the last thing he expected was to see you hand in hand with a plus one, sashaying around the grand hall.

His brain goes into autowire, immediately scrutinising said man under his watchful gaze. You had a track record of always canoodling with guys who only left you with sore eyes and a broken heart — it’s only natural for him to be on guard.

He takes no longer than 10 seconds to decipher that he’s no good for you. Blames it on brotherly instincts. He struts over to your direction, staring fixedly before you wave enthusiastically at him, pulling your date over to him.

"Cheol! Cheollie, c'mere, this is Wonwoo. And Wonwoo, this is Seungcheol," he sees you pursing your lips, fidgeting while standing between them.

"Hi," Cheol stares him down, but the formally trained business man in him reaches out a hand towards the tall man sleeked out in an all-black suit.

"I'm," he clears his throat before glancing over at you, "somewhat like an older brother, except her real brother is probably at the bar right now," and he sees you do a half eye roll, clearly amused by the situation.

"Nice to finally meet you, I've heard a lot about you," Wonwoo offers a tight smile, and Cheol feels slightly impressed by the tight grip Wonwoo had while shaking hands.

And then he thinks, if this man has heard about him, how close exactly are you with this tall and sleek man? But at this point, the you that's always been wearing their emotions on their sleeve starts to feel inscrutable, even to Cheol.

Your small talk gets interrupted by an announcement, ushering all guests to be seated in the main dining hall. You make your separate ways, only to realise that to no one's surprise, Jeonghan placed you with Cheol, Jae and Mingyu in the seating arrangement.

Looking at the name cards placed prettily across the table, you glanced at Cheol who was already settling down beside Mingyu.

Letting out an inward sigh, you shake away thoughts of how absolutely dashing Cheol looked tonight in his suit and tie. Instead, diverting your focus to the glass of red wine placed in front of you.

"For you, miss red wine and red lips,"

Your eyes scrunched up, "You already know me so well Wonwoo."

"Of course, will never forget how stunning you were when I first saw you across the bar weeks ago," he smiles, "sipping on that red wine with that dangerous red lip of yours," he chuckles, whispering that last bit, holding up a glass of red of his own.

Right. That was how he came about to be your date today.

You've met him at the airport lounge, coincidentally, both finding solace in the selection of red at the lounge bar. What were the chances that you were both catching the same flight, and heading home too.

You would never miss a chance to sit with a man like Wonwoo, and he proved worthy of your time when conversations flowed naturally with a spark of tension from time to time.

Cheol overhears bits of your exchange across the table, mind working in overtime as he pieces the information together. Thinks of it as protective instincts he can't seem to shake off even after all these years.

"So, Wonwoo, tell us — what're you currently doing?" Cheol props his elbow up on the satin lined round table, raising his eyebrows towards Wonwoo.

You shot him a look across the table, but Wonwoo just chuckles calmly, squeezing your arm lightly under the table after noticing your slight distress.

"I'm a co-director in a small start up company. We focus on programming and designing games — our current focus is on MOBA games," He clears his throat, "I was returning from a research work trip when I met y/n at the airport."

"Games?" Mingyu perks up, suddenly interested in the conversation.

"Yeah, well.. I'm a pretty big fan of gaming myself, which got me and two other friends to start up this company,"

Cheol nods, smirking a little as he starts to reminisce on how horrible you were at games — always being a pain in the neck to teach. He says nothing, and the conversation fizzles out to Mingyu and Wonwoo chatting about his trip while Cheol and you engage in a small staring contest while you sip on your wine.

What? You mouthed towards him. Nothing. He shakes his head and turns his attention to the emcee of the night who starts introducing the events that were going to unfold for the rest of the night.

You're about 10 drinks in when it reaches the open dance floor segment.

You've danced with about everyone you knew, and when the band starts opening up requests for songs, silly silly drunk you couldn't miss the chance to take over the microphone.

Wonwoo is laughing, enjoying your antics while Mingyu is shouting at you to get your ass back down.

It's 11pm, most guests were either retired to their rooms booked for the night at the hotel or mingling outside the grand hall. It was down to Jeonghan, his bride Minji, and remaining rascals who can't get enough of the free flow drinks and colourful lights.

Jeonghan slaps mingyu across the back, "Stop, let her have her fun. I missed the little gremlin and her singing,"

"You just want her to embarrass herself, don't kid anyone Jeonghan," Mingyu rolls his eyes as he rubs a palm across his forehead.

Cheol on the other hand, as much as he agrees with Jeonghan, knows you're going to regret every bit of this the next morning — if you're going to remember this at all. He stays seated, watching how things unfold and deciding to step in when it gets too much.

Wonwoo steps out to make a call, and you pout while blowing raspberries into the mic. "Boo, I haven't even started my set yet,"

"Oh God I can't watch this, Cheol, you handle her," Mingyu excuses himself from the scene, and Cheol nods, "Don't worry, I've got her,"

You giggle, "Cheollieeee, I knew you would stay. You always do," A hiccup ends your sentence, but you stay swaying and blushing while gripping onto the mic stand.

Jeonghan sends a look towards him at the table, "After all these years and she's still as attached to you, hmm,"

"Yeah well, I've always been the big older brother to both her and Mingyu," he shrugs, eyes crinkling with slight adoration as he looks at you starting the first verse of your favourite classic — like a virgin.

What a choice.

Things start to turn ugly when you're three songs in, and more guests filter out. Cheol notices the stage of intoxication you're at and decides it's time out for you.

"All right Madonna, no more. Let's go. You're going to bed," He struts towards the stage, and grabs the mic off your hands.

"Show's over ladies and gentlemen, goodnight."

"What? Hello?" You try to pry the mic away but the lead singer of the band seems to be on Cheol's side, in a hurry to pack up for the night.

Cheol grabs onto your shoulders firmly yet not too forceful, and guides you off the stage. Intertwining your hands, he pulls you towards the room's exit.

You try to make a fight for it, struggling against his hold.

"Let go of me!" You squeak out, trying to sound as assertive as you can.

Once you're at a secluded area of the grand hall, behind big pillars near the lift lobby, he turns around to face you.

"You, little miss, have had enough for the night."

"You're not the boss of me, not anymore." Your voice tunes down at the last part, suddenly feeling not as convicted as you were under his scrutinising gaze.

"You sure about that?"

You felt like you sobered up in that second, the moment he uttered those words in your face. Your vision cleared up as you looked at him in the eye, slight chills running down your exposed spine.

"Stop with this whole big brother act. Stop treating me like i'm 18 years old, i'm a fucking adult now," you maintained his gaze, crossing your arms to try to one-up him in an unspoken game of dominance.

"Hm. You want to be treated like an adult?" He speaks up after a beat of silence.

You fidget, eyes shifting as you start to feel a little warm. "Yes."

He takes a step closer, face inching nearer as you start to feel his breath on you, "Then act like one," he mutters with an edge of mischief on that otherwise serious face of his.

Damn. You puff out air, unwilling to lose this fight. You never do.

"Do you get off on acting like you're the boss of me or something?"

And you close your eyes, silently regretting those words the minute you uttered them.

"Excuse me?" Cheol quirks an eyebrow, scoffing with his tongue poking out of his cheek.

"You heard what I said,"

He shakes his head, and interlaces your fingers once again, dragging you to the lift lobby.

In the dark and cold elevator, you and him stand at complete opposite sides. In a moment of self reflection; you silently observe the patterns on the sleek marble wall, but when your eyes accidentally shift over to the man in front of you, you jump slightly when you notice he's already staring down at you — intense and unblinking.

He holds onto the elevator bars behind him, crossing his leg one over the other as his poor button on his shirt looks like it's about to give out. All while his hair seems to fall perfectly on his brows, and his gaze on you remains unwavering.

The flicker of emotion behind his stare was difficult to decipher, you felt exposed, and you weren't sure if it was the alcohol causing the heat trickling down your nape.

"W-what?" You rub your arms in cold mechanism, also subconsciously comforting yourself in this situation.

But the man opposite you says nothing, just continuing to burr holes into your face.

You roll your eyes, and continue to look elsewhere, this time focusing on the increasing numbers on the elevator screen propped on the top right corner.

"So, this wonwoo guy," Cheol decides to bring up what was stuck on the back of his mind the whole night.

"Crap! Wonwoo! Where is he? I just left without letting him know, wait where's my phone?" You jolt up, standing upright as you start to panic mildly.

"Calm down, Mingyu's gone over to tell him you're settling in for the night. And, your phone is with me," he pulls out the sleek device out of his pocket and you grab it eagerly.

"You like him quite a lot huh,"

You ignore his comment before releasing a small breath of relief when you saw the texts Wonwoo left you.

hey! heard from your brother you've went to settle in for the night.

sorry i was settling a work call earlier

hope you rest well tonight! remember to drink up lots of water, as i'm assuming you'll be reading this in the morning 🥰

"Bring him around for our weekly dinner, I think it'll be good to know him better," Cheol suggests, not willing to let go of the topic.

"Our weekly dinner is back?"

"It's never been gone, I'm closer to Mr and Mrs. Kim than I am to you at this point,"

You gasp, feigning annoyance but feeling glad that your parents had the Choi's around when you and Mingyu weren't around as much.

"I'll think about it," you shrug as you put your phone away.

"No, bring him around if you're planning to see him long term," he crosses his arms, and seems relentless.

You roll your eyes, and groan while leaning your head against the elevator.

"Fine. Fucking Controlling," you whisper the last part to yourself, and before Cheol can butt in with his wide-eyed anger, you groan again - alcohol giving you the extra liquid courage.

"And why is this god-damn elevator taking so long,"

Cheol reasons with himself. Doesn't want to pick up your broken pieces if you get your heart broken by Wonwoo. Doesn't want you to jump into another guy blindly without him assessing them. Thinks of it as his right as your older brother, sort of.

Yeah. He's just looking out for you. He thinks as he clenches his jaw slightly.

Definitely not because he wants to know what exactly about Wonwoo has gotten you so smitten.

ׂ╰┈➤ A/N: omg. i've finally posted the first chapter 😭 brain juices weren't flowing during the holidays but THANK YOU all for the love on the teaser (ish), and for waiting so patiently :( i swear i'll make it more juicy n +18 for the next few chapters 😱 just wna let things roll out a lil more for this one 😉

ׂ╰┈➤ like + reblog + comment if you've enjoyed it! all love <3

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spencersmopbucket · 1 month ago

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With the Devil | Remmick

Pairing: Remmick x Reader Summary: Mama and Daddy had always taught you not to let evil into your mind — but they'd never taught you how not to fall in love with the devil.

Themes & Warnings: corruption, smut, oral (fem receiving), mentions of religion, vampire:))))))

IDC REMMICK IS SO HOT

You were perfect. That's what Mama always told you — you'd had it ingrained into your mind since you were just a baby. You were beautiful, you were kind, you were faithful.

Your Mama was a medicine woman. Your daddy was the town preacher. And you, their little girl, were the most eligible bachelorette in the town of Clarksdale. Your wild, curly hair was always pinned back, nails always painted, lips always glossed. You dressed cleanly and modestly. Your dark, unmarred skin was luminous and moisturized, allowing you a glow that was incomparable to any other girl your age.

You were never late to school. You never spent too much time talking to the boys. You prayed every night, stocking-clad knees on the wood floor, whispering softly.

You always imagined, with the help of your parents, a husband. Firm and kind, with a straight white smile and clean hands. A businessman, maybe. A man that frequented church. Nothing like them dogs every other woman raved about.

The thought of them made you scoff.

When you thought of marriage, you thought of what your Mama and Daddy had coached you.

Until you met him.

Your undoing. Your downfall. Your sin.

You saw him first on a Thursday. The air was heavy with summer and sin — one of those Mississippi nights that made the cotton stick to your skin and the devil’s whisper easier to hear. The juke was loud, pulsing with laughter and music you weren’t allowed to dance to. But you stood just outside it, waiting for your older friend to finish flirting with the barkeep, your Bible clutched to your chest like armor.

That’s when you felt it. Not saw — felt. A presence. Ancient. Unholy. Beautiful. Dangerous, above all else.

He was leaning against the fence, dressed like a man who had nowhere to be and no one to answer to. A shirt too fine for the Delta heat. Eyes that glowed red beneath the brim of a black hat. And a grin — slow and sharp — like he knew exactly how you’d taste when you broke.

He didn’t belong in Clarksdale — not with the dust of this town on his boots, not with the way his eyes burned like coals under moonlight. And yet, he leaned there like he’d been born of the very land, like the shadows curled around his boots to rest.

His gaze slid to you. Slow. Deliberate.

“Evenin’, dove,” he said, his voice warm and rough, touched by that unmistakable lilt — like poetry slurred in whiskey. “Bit far from the chapel, aren’t ya?”

You clutched your Bible tighter, the leather cover slick against your palms. You were taught to fear the devil. No one told you he’d look at you like that. Like you were temptation.

“I’m waiting on someone,” you managed, your voice barely audible.

He smiled at that — not kindly. No. It was indulgent. Knowing.

“Oh, I can see that,” he said, pushing off the fence with the kind of lazy grace that made the air tighten. “Tell me, do all the good girls carry scripture like a shield?”

Your throat went dry. You opened your mouth — to quote something, maybe, to say something about God’s protection, or how you weren’t interested — but the words stuck. Because he was close now, and the scent of him was thick with smoke and cedar and something sweet beneath it all. Not perfume. Not cologne. Something unnatural. Something wrong.

“Relax,” he murmured, eyes trailing across your face like a caress. “Ain’t come to hurt you.”

You didn’t believe him. But you wanted to.

“Who are you?” you asked, breathless.

He touched the brim of his hat, the red in his eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

“Remmick.”

The name hit the air like a curse.

Your stomach sank. You’d heard it before. Old wives whispered it over boiling pots and under their breath in the graveyard. They said Remmick had danced with witches and kissed the mouths of holy women. Said he’d killed everyone in the Smokestack juke joint in 1932 and made an army of the dead. You'd always thought he was just a scary story, just a wives tale. He didn't exist. He couldn't.

Vampires weren't real.

Your mama once told you never to say his name aloud. That if you said it, he’d know. But you hadn’t said it. He had. And still — he looked at you like he’d known you your whole life.

Like he’d been waiting.

His smirk curled around his lips, like a snake up a vine.

"We'll see each other again, lovely dove. I swear it. Get home safe now." He said, his Irish brogue evident.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Your feet were rooted to the ground like the Magnolia trees your mama prayed under. The juke's laughter turned to static in your ears, the cicadas buzzed too loud, and the warm wind brushed past your dress like a warning.

Remmick tipped his hat a little lower, and just like that — he was gone.

Not walked away. Not turned and faded. Gone.

The air rushed back into your lungs, sharp and stinging, like it had been waiting too long to fill you. You looked around — no sign of him. Just the night, heavy and wet with the scent of honeysuckle and trouble.

Your older friend reappeared a few minutes later, giggling and smelling like bourbon, none the wiser. “You alright, sugar?” she asked, fanning herself. “You look like you seen a ghost.”

You shook your head. “N-no. I’m fine.” But you weren’t.

Because you walked home clutching that Bible like it could still save you — but your fingers trembled, and your mind reeled, and somewhere deep in your chest, your heart had started to ache.

And worse than that… A part of you hoped he really would come back.

You knew you were done for, just like you'd heard in all of the wives tales. Once Remmick chose you, it crept in like a secret, hushed words in the back of your mind. He slowly ate you alive until all that was left was sin.

The nights after that first meeting grew darker, heavier. You tried to hold onto what Mama and Daddy taught you — faith, purity, the promise of salvation — but every shadow seemed to whisper his name. Every breeze carried the ghost of his voice, low and honeyed, calling you closer.

You found yourself drawn to places you never would’ve dared before: the cracked sidewalks under flickering streetlamps, the edges of the cotton fields where the cicadas sang their mournful song. And always, there was that ache — a hunger that wasn’t just physical, but something deeper, darker.

Remmick’s presence slithered through your thoughts like a poison and a balm all at once. You were afraid, but you were enthralled. His sin was infectious, but it felt like home.

You didn’t want to admit it. But you were already his.

And with every secret moment stolen beneath the moon’s watchful gaze, the old you slipped away, unraveling like a thread in a worn quilt.

Mama’s prayers echoed in your mind, fragile and fading, as you whispered into the night:

“Lord, save me…” But even as the words left your lips, you knew.

You were lost. And loving every breath of it.

The next time you saw Remmick, you were lying in bed. This night was worse than the others — you couldn't sleep. It evaded you. You sweat into your sheets, twisted around your legs as you tossed and turned.

You could feel him. Inside of you. In your chest, in your head, calling out to you.

Your heart hammered like a drumbeat in the quiet dark, matching the rhythm of the whisper curling through your thoughts. You dared not speak his name aloud — Mama’s warning still burned in your memory— but the pull was undeniable, a silent siren song that rooted you to the bed, torn between fear and craving.

Then, as if summoned by your unspoken plea, a shadow slipped through the cracked window, sliding across your room like liquid smoke. Remmick.

His eyes, red embers glowing softly in the moonlight, fixed on you with a hunger that was both fierce and gentle, like he was seeing through to the very soul you fought to protect.

“Restless, dove?” He smirked in amusement. You straightened, your muscles tense under his gaze. You were scared, yes. But you couldn’t ignore the creeping satisfaction under your skin.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

He stepped closer to the bed, ancient hands running along your cotton sheets. You watched, biting your lip.

“Strugglin’ so hard to sleep. Because of me. Yet you won’t so much as whisper my name.” He said, his voice honey soaked. He was designed to be alluring. It’s how he caught his prey, how he claimed all those lives decades ago.

He leaned in closer, his frame casting a long shadow over your bed, his fingers ghosting over the sheets like he was memorizing the shape of your restlessness. The scent of him —earthy, metallic, something older than blood and fire — curled in your nose and made your breath hitch.

“You’re afraid that sayin’ it will make this real,” he murmured, voice low enough to pass for a dream. “But you know better, dove. This was real the moment I saw you. The moment you looked back.”

Your throat was dry, your heart pounding like a trapped bird inside your chest. You could still feel the weight of your Mama’s cross necklace at your collarbone, tucked beneath the lace of your nightdress. But even that holy pressure couldn’t stop the heat curling in your belly at his nearness.

Remmick’s lips quirked higher at your silence, his gaze dark with something ancient, possessive. “You keep prayin’,” he said, brushing the edge of your pillow, “but deep down, you don’t want to be saved.”

You flinched at the truth of it.

He laughed, soft and slow, like he’d just caught a fish on the line.

“There it is,” he whispered, kneeling beside your bed, his face inches from yours now. “That feeling in your guts… That’s not fear, is it?”

Your squeezed your eyes closed, laying back.

“Leave, devil.” You whispered back, holding onto the last few bits of restraint you had.

Remmick didn’t move.

He hovered there beside your bed, his breath brushing your cheek like the breeze before a storm, thick with static and promise.

“Now why would I do that,” he said softly, voice curling around the edges of your will, “when you called me here?”

Your eyes flew open.

“I didn’t—”

“Oh, but you did,” he interrupted, with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “Every night you twist in those sheets, whispering into the dark. Every time you dream of fire and teeth and touch. That’s a prayer too. Just not the kind your mama taught you.”

You turned your face away, jaw clenched, but your body betrayed you — heat rising, breath catching.

He leaned in closer, his voice a sinful hymn against your ear.

“Say my name,” he coaxed. “Just once. Let it taste your tongue. You’ll feel better. I promise.”

The devil’s hand rested just beside your head, not quite touching you — but you swore you could feel the chill of it down to your bones.

And God help you…

You wanted to.

His voice was velvet-drenched sin, a low murmur that made the air around you hum.

“Come on, baby,” he whispered again, and this time, there was something darker in it — not just coaxing, but claiming. His fingers finally brushed your cheek, light as a ghost, burning like a brand. “Let me in. Say my name, hm?”

You should’ve screamed. You should’ve prayed.

Instead, you turned your head back toward him, lips parted, breath trembling. Your soul stood on the edge of something vast and terrible — but it didn’t want to step back.

“Remmick,” you breathed, soft as a confession.

The effect was immediate.

His smile deepened into something hungry, almost reverent. Like he’d waited a century just to hear your voice say it.

“There’s my girl,” he murmured, dragging the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip. “Took you long enough.”

And with that, the last of your restraint crumbled — and the devil stepped through the door you’d just opened.

Before you could second-guess yourself, his lips crashed against yours.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was desperate, searing, like a man starved of something he’d been craving for far too long. His hand slid into your hair, fingers curling tight as he pulled you closer, devouring every soft sound that left your throat. His mouth tasted like smoke and blood and something impossibly sweet. Something addictive.

Your body arched before you even realized it, your hands clinging to the front of his shirt, as if you could tether yourself to the storm he brought with him.

He groaned into the kiss, a low, guttural sound that rumbled from his chest, and the bed creaked beneath his weight as he pushed closer. His other hand found your waist, dragging you against him like he had every right to.

“Good, good girl,” he rasped, voice thick with satisfaction as his thumb brushed the corner of your kiss-swollen mouth. His eyes burned like embers in the dark. “Mine now.”

His grip on your waist tightened, possessive, unyielding — not cruel, but claiming. Worshipful in a way that felt far more dangerous than hate ever could.

“No god can take you back.”

The words slithered into your soul, final and eternal. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t pray. You didn’t run.

Because in that moment — half-wrapped in cotton sheets and sin, heart thudding in time with the devil’s touch — you knew he was right.

You belonged to him.

And you didn’t want to be saved.

His hand quickly found your nightgown, and before you knew it:

Riiiip.

You wore nothing underneath. Your body was exposed to him completely, glistening with the sweat of a sleepless night, the slight fear he induced, the anticipation. His eyes traced your body predatorily, his tongue swiping his lip.

He hovered above you, gaze searing as it drank in every inch of bare skin, your breath shallow beneath him. The heat between you was suffocating — not just from the summer air, but from the charged silence, the pull of something ancient and forbidden threading itself through every heartbeat.

“Look at you,” Remmick murmured, voice low and reverent, almost mocking in its tenderness. “Waitin’ for me. Not a prayer in that pretty little head. What would Mama and Daddy think? Hm?”

He grinned as he said it, knowing the answer didn’t matter. His fingers ghosted over your collarbone, then lower, savoring the way you trembled — not just from fear, but from surrender.

“You were their pride,” he went on, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Now look at you… Writhin’ in sin for the devil himself.”

Your breath hitched, shame and desire tangling somewhere deep in your chest. His name nearly slipped from your lips again, and he heard it — felt it — in the way your body arched, in the pulse pounding at your throat.

Remmick chuckled darkly. “Good girl.”

His voice was velvet, soaked in smoke.

“‘S alright. I’m gonna make it all better now,” Remmick purred, his accent curling around the words like smoke.

His hand slid behind your neck, tilting your head gently, like you were something delicate — precious, even. His touch was warm, reverent, wicked. Everything about him was temptation draped in silk and shadow.

His mouth was hot — too hot — like the kiss of summer lightning right before a storm breaks. Wet, slow, deliberate. He mouthed at the base of your throat, then dragged his lips to your pulse, leaving kisses that were more like claims than affection. Another. Then another. Each one messier, hungrier, until your skin buzzed beneath the heat of him, your breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a whimper.

“What a pretty noise, baby. Keep ’em comin’,” Remmick murmured, his voice curling around your ear like smoke, smug and sinful.

His mouth never left your skin and he chased every sound you made like it was his favorite hymn, each whimper and gasp a confession. His fingers gripped your hips with just enough pressure to remind you who was in control, and his teeth scraped lightly at your throat, not biting — not yet — just warning.

“Don’t hold back on me now,” he rasped, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I want all of it. Every sound you’ve been too good to make. Every little song you swallowed when it was just you and your fingers at night.”

Your breath hitched, caught between the need to resist and the desperate want to surrender. His words wrapped around you like a dark lullaby, drawing out every hidden desire you thought you’d buried deep.

“Remmick..” you moaned.

His smile deepened, sharp and possessive. “That’s it, baby. Say my name like you mean it.”

His fingers traveled towards where you burned the brightest, where his attention was most needed. You whimpered, your hips bucking involuntarily, exposing all the sinful thoughts that hid themselves so far back in your mind.

His thumb traced the wet folds. You gasped.

“There, there. I’ve gotcha.”

You could’ve cried as he sunk down on the bed, pulling your sticky thighs apart. He licked his lips, looking at the glistening scene between your legs.

“Gonna ruin you. And yer gonna thank me, sweet girl.”

You shivered under his touch, every nerve in your body accepting its fate. You no longer wanted to resist. There wasn’t an inkling of it. The devil had claimed you.

And you were already his willing captive.

His tongue met your pussy, licking a warm, wet stripe onto the center. You mewled, your legs involuntarily closing, but he forced them back open with a dark, warning look.

He leaned back in again, wrapping his lips around your needy bud, lapping it with his tongue and then sucking. You moaned, your hand on autopilot, coming down to wrap each finger into his thick, messy hair.

“Remmick!”

You felt him literally grin into your cunt, releasing a lewd sound as he slurped another firm suck, making you twitch.

His tongue worked wonders, exploring every fold, tracing every contour. Your eyes rolled back into your head as he worked, lewd, wet sounds filling your room.

He came back off, his mouth glistening.

“Where’s your God now? This pretty pussy has never belonged to anyone but Remmick. It always has.”

With that, he gathered spit into his mouth, dropping it onto your drenched cunt. Using his tongue, he spread the warm substance around, painting your pussy with saliva.

Then, he delivered the crushing blow.

One more suck on your clit, giving you just enough pressure.

Your back arched, stars filled your vision, and you let out a languid moan. He chuckled into your cunt, letting you ride his face all the way through your orgasm.

When he was done, he pulled away. A string of spit and cum pulled away with him. He wiped it with his hand, sucking it from his fingers in a sinful show.

You laid, exhausted, chest heaving. You’d never experienced something like that before. You’d cum, yes, the only thing about your life you’d hidden from your parents. But it was never like that. Never that electric. And for once, you didn’t even feel guilty.

Remmick was growing on you.

Sensing your exhaustion, he hummed. “I haven’t much time ‘til sunrise, dove. But I’ll let ya get a peaceful sleep for a moment.”

He laid down next to you. You froze at first, confusion written on your face. But as if he had calming powers, you eased almost immediately, his scent filling your nose and his presence melting your fear away. This wasn’t normal. This was adjustment to sin. Adjustment to the devil. But you couldn’t much care right now.

Remmick shifted closer, his hand sliding beneath the sheets to rest just above your hip, possessive and protective all at once. You shouldn’t have felt safe — not in the arms of something whispered about in church warnings and graveyard stories — but you did. Terrifyingly so.

His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, and you let yourself match it. He wasn’t human. He wasn’t righteous. He wasn’t even good.

But he was yours now.

His words dripped like warm molasses in your ear, thick and saccharine, laced with something darker.

“Waited for ya for ages. Decades,” Remmick whispered, curling around you like smoke, his fingers tracing invisible promises along your spine. “A beautiful bride, you’ll make.”

You shivered, not from fear — not anymore — but from something ancient stirring in your bones. Something that recognized him. Something that belonged to him.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

But you didn’t pull away.

“Sleep. I won’t be here when ya wake, but.. when night falls, you can always call my name.”

#sinners #sinners fanfiction #sinners 2025 #michael b jordan #remmick #remmick x reader #remmick x you #remmick x y/n #remmick smut #smoke stack twins #smoke #stack #elijah moore #elias moore #preacher boy #preachers daughter #sinners x reader #sinners fic #sinners fanfic

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makeupasmydrug · 2 years ago

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Adelaide Contemporary Exterior Inspiration for a mid-sized contemporary gray one-story metal exterior home remodel with a shed roof

#internal courtyard #corrugated metal cladding #sustainable additions #double glazed addition #exterior #western red cedar windows

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ladybirdswritings · 6 months ago

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SWEET THING, DBF — joel miller x reader.

DESCRIPTION: your life is a storm—an overbearing father, a shitty boyfriend, and the ache of growing up. everything becomes more tangled when you find yourself drawn to your father’s best friend, joel. NOTES - finally, part two. leave me all your thoughts and opinions. i love them <33 | prev part ; next part

two;

“Put your seatbelt on, Y/N.”

His voice was gruff—tired from overuse, nearly ready to silence entirely. A rich, southern rasp that sent chills down anyone’s spine, yours included. You obeyed without hesitation.

“Thank you for this…” was all you managed in a whisper while locking the metal into place—trapped.

You didn’t know your daddy’s friend too well, but you knew enough. Most people avoided him, whether it was the constant scowl etched on his face or those dark eyes that seemed to scream threats his quiet mouth never voiced. Everything about him made people stiffen, their bodies rigid as old boards.

He only hummed, his eyes fixed on the road, his jaw ticking as he navigated toward the party nearby.

“A left here,” you offered, leaning forward and pointing just past his line of sight.

When he breathed, the scent of honey and jasmine flowers on your skin clung to the air between you. His jaw locked tighter.

You knew you looked every bit the spoiled, overprotected little princess your daddy raised you to be. Skipping Jackson’s town dance to attend some trashy house party hosted by your boyfriend wasn’t exactly subtle rebellion, but you didn’t care.

Where your father insisted on preserving the innocence of your youth, you argued you’d only get to be young once. Only get to date questionable men, drink questionable drinks, and laugh about it later one time in your whole life.

Naive? Sure. But you didn’t know that.

Joel didn’t wait for you to notice he’d parked before snaking a firm arm across the console. His calloused fingers brushed the hem of your denim-clad thigh. Your heart stuttered, your eyes widening as his glare burned into you.

So close.

And then, the seatbelt clicked.

You exhaled shakily, a smile tugging at your lips as you reached for the door. But before you could escape, his rough fingers caught your chin, tugging your face back until you were forced to meet his eyes.

Dark, chocolate eyes.

“You’re real lucky tonight, sweetpea. Now don’t go in there and make me look like a fool to yer’ daddy. You drink responsibly, and you don’t touch a blunt in sight—understand?”

You gulped, cheeks burning tomato red. Wide-eyed and frozen, you nodded. You were nothing more than a fish caught in the hands of a cold fisherman, your pretty face cradled between his calloused palms.

“What, you think I’m stupid? Think I don’t know what’s gonna go on the second you walk that purtie lil’ ass inside?”

His voice was sharp, and you stammered, blinking up at him as your breath hitched. He knew. Of course, he knew. He was young once, too.

“I’ll be responsible, Mr. Miller—sir,” you lied through your teeth, the sweetness in your voice a thin disguise.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, and a deep, gravelly laugh escaped him.

“Oh, sure you will, sweetpea.”

Satisfied he’d issued a proper warning, he released you. But before you could scramble away, he added, “Go on and behave, and I might just convince your daddy to let you live a little more often.”

Hope bloomed in your chest like wisteria tangling with your rapid heart. If Joel vouched for you, maybe daddy would ease up.

A plan solidified in your head. All you had to do was be good.

You could do that! Easy, just be good.

Step one? Sweeten him up.

“You’re a peach, Mr. Miller,” you chirped, leaning forward to press a kiss to his stubbled cheek.

You lingered a moment longer than you should have.

Where Jesse smelled of beer, snow, and fresh spices, Joel smelled of whiskey, cedar, and leather. Of hard work and blood-stained hands.

Joel noticed the pause, and slowly, his head turned. Just an inch closer, and his lips could press right against yours.

The thought made your eyes widen.

What was wrong with you? He was doing you a favor, and here you were imagining how his scowling lips might feel against yours. How his tongue—experienced, confident—might tease the roof of your mouth, trail down your neck…

He peered at you through bourbon lashes.

“That business doesn’t work on me, sweetpea…” he started, freeing a hand so to tuck a stray ringlet of your untamed waves behind your ear. You inhaled sharply.

“You gon’ be good?” His voice was low, a tickling whisper that sent warmth flooding through your body.

“I am,” you promised, your teeth betraying the truth behind your pretty smile.

He nodded once. “Go on, then. I’ll be parked out front. Holler if you need me.”

His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as you slipped out, your heart racing with every intrusive thought lingering in your head.

Maybe you were ovulating. Or maybe you were a basket case.

You shook your head. Jesse. Jesse. Jesse. Your boyfriend—Jesse.

With that, you slammed the Chevy door and hurried toward the party.

•••

Big. Fucking. Mistake.

As soon as the scent of weed and tequila hit your senses, you grinned. A tiny buzz wouldn’t be too hard to hide from Joel.

One shot here. Another there. You inched closer to Jesse, ready to surprise him.

And you did.

“Y/N!”

There he was, wide-eyed and guilty, his lips swollen from Abby’s kiss.

Tight, toned Abby.

They were tucked in a corner, her lips lazily trailing his throat. The sight made your knees wobble. When Jesse saw you, he jerked away, but the damage was done.

Abby’s hands shot up as though she were innocent, and it took all your strength not to lunge for the bitch.

“Baby—” Jesse started, but your throat tightened, hot tears threatening to spill.

You remembered how he admired your strength back in high school. When you were nerdy and unimportant — only glanced at after the tragic death of your mother. Everyone else pitied you. Jesse was different. He’d whispered sweet words to you after your mother passed, he’d made you less… stuck-up; convinced you that tequila could numb the pain. God, it did.

“Y’know, you’re a real tough girl to show up every day with your head high after everything that’s happened…”

“Sip this— baby. all those thoughts about your mom will go away…” he’d whispered once, tipping vodka onto your tongue. He had lost his mom, too. He knew how to stop the agony.

And now? He was the one causing it.

“Fuck you, Jesse. We’re done,” you snapped, your voice cracking despite your best efforts to sound strong.

You turned to leave, but Abby’s smug voice stopped you cold.

“Don’t know why you’re so pressed, princess. I dig chicks too. You could’ve joined us.”

You saw red.

Before you knew it, your ringed fist collided with her chiseled jaw.

Gasps echoed as she stumbled back into the crowd, her wide eyes meeting yours. Jesse grabbed your wrists, but you yanked them free.

“Stay the fuck away from me!”

And just like that, you stormed out, leaving the crowd and your dignity behind.

This wasn’t how your night was supposed to go.

But instead of sulking to Joel’s truck, you vowed to drown your sorrows in tequila until the world stopped spinning.

Oh yeah, that’s exactly what you intended to do.

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wandaverse · 1 year ago

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playing with fire.

— buff firefighter!wanda x college student!reader

— summary: the 5 times you meet and the 1 time wanda lights a different kind of fire

— tags: pure fluff, major horniness, implied smut

— word count: 1,252 words

1. the first time you meet is late at night when there’s a fire in your dorm.

someone down the hall sets fire to their microwave trying to heat up a burrito. deeply asleep with fatigue from the week’s intense assessments, you don’t hear the screeching alarms.

without hesitation, a chilvarous wanda arrives at the scene and kicks down your door, carrying you out bridal style. wanda’s not complaining, not with the way you sleepily nuzzle into the safety of her neck.

through your sleepy haze you wonder who the buff woman carrying you out the building is, she smells like smoked cedar with faint hints of sea salt. you decide that you like this scent and the warmth that accompanies it.

2. you next meet at a sorority party gone wrong.

your friends get the stupid idea of trying fire breathing. the only thing you end up breathing though is clouds of smoke when your sorority house almost burns down. wanda arrives in the nick of time in her blaring red truck and douses the flames.

something else ignites within you though when you meet her properly for the first time, awake and certainly alert. you take in the sight of her breathless figure after rushing to fight the flames. so this is who saved you that night in your dorm… oh.

wanda is not particularly amused at you and your friends’ irresponsible antics. you shrink under the weight of her disapproving gaze, but also can’t help but cheekily grin. wanda can’t stay upset, she has to admit you look cute with ash all over your face.

3. your paths cross again when you notice a kitten stuck in a tree while studying on your campus’ lawn.

after many futile rescue attempts, you call emergency services and once again your knight in shining armour (or rather, reflective PPE) arrives. she gallantly climbs her ladder and saves the kitten. you don’t deny enjoying the view of her sunkissed skin when she takes off her jacket to swaddle the kitten.

afterwards, wanting to prolong the encounter, wanda asks if you want to ride with her in her fire truck to drop the kitten off at the nearest vet. you excitedly accept her offer and enjoy the trip around the city. wanda secretly steals fond glances at you, looking adorable with the kitten in your lap.

4. the next time you meet is not in the face of life threatening danger, but rather danger to your self-composure.

on a regular trip to the supermarket, you pass the row of calendars and your eyes land on a familiar face on the annual westview firefighters calendar sold for charity. you can’t ignore the curiosity that compels you to take a sneaky peak at its contents.

your cheeks instantly burn red when you turn to february’s page and find your favourite firefighter scantily clad and leaving little to the imagination. standing in a shallow pool of water with flames raging around her, wanda poses with an axe slung across her shoulders, wearing only a black training bra and her firefighter pants. her buff arms and unsurprisingly toned abs are on show as she stares directly at you the camera. you fight the urge to bite your lip at her flexed muscles, her sunkissed skin, the shine of her sweat mixing with ash. you’ve never felt so taken before, you forget your bearings for a second.

that is, until you hear a familiar voice call out your name.

your ears register her presence before your eyes and you quickly shut the calendar, throwing it back on the shelf as if its touch has burned you. you ready to make an excuse until you finally look up and find the firefighter just as scantily clad as, if not more than, her outfit in the calendar’s photoshoot.

wanda approaches you, seemingly in her post-workout fit and you have to stop yourself from drooling at the sight of her sweaty and taut arms and abs, only this time in real life. god, the photo doesn’t even do her justice. wanda calls out your name again with a husky laugh and your blush profusely, realising you’ve been caught ogling her not once but twice.

5. you meet once again when you move out to an apartment near campus and decide to cook dinner for yourself.

you quickly realise that you actually have no idea how to cook when your entire kitchen ends up in flames. wanda arrives just in time and puts out the grease fire. for a second, you can’t help but question fate. it’s as if there’s only one firefighter in all of westview with the way wanda always finds her way back to you. you’re not complaining though.

she turns to you and scolds you for your carelessness, but not before checking that you’re okay and not hurt by the wild fire. your heart secretly skips a beat at the continued display of care. ever the prince charming, isn’t she?

before she leaves for the next emergency, though, she asks you out for dinner instead. unsurprisingly, you say yes.

+1. the evening of your first date arrives.

you’re lounging on the couch in your apartment watching a sitcom when you hear a knock on your window. wanda has climbed up the fire escape and asks to be let in like a lost kitten. you lift open the window with a laugh and she tells you that she’s set up a picnic under the stars on the rooftop. she escorts you back out the window and up the fire escape. you giggle adoringly at her antics.

the evening goes well as you two happily find that the spark between you wasn’t imagined and isn’t going to fizzle out anytime soon. conversation flows naturally and you enjoy the food wanda has cooked for you. she jokes that at least one of you can cook, which earns her a playful slap. but when you reach over to do so, you accidentally knock over a candle and almost burn the entire picnic blanket. the fire is quickly avoided though thanks to wanda’s quick reflexes. she gives you a humuored tsk, but you secretly revel in her display of protection.

the evening comes to an end as the city around you calms down and the stars settle in for the night. wanda escorts you down the fire escape once again and the butterflies in your stomach continue to take flight. when you reach your window, you turn to wanda and thank her for the evening, for thinking of such a lovely idea and packing such a delightful picnic. when you place a goodbye kiss on her lips though and she takes you in her arms, you quickly realise that that’s not the only thing she’s packed.

wanda pulls back and blushes sheepishly at your realisation, but it’s enough to set you off. all night you’ve been teased with the sight of her shirt lifting and showing the slightest glimpse of her abs, the tight fit of her t-shirt’s sleeve around her arms, the simple yet alluringly attractive way she runs her fingers through her hair. she’s been teasing you all night and you decide that you’ve had enough. you quickly engulf her in kisses and pull her boldly through your window.

your night rages on and as the flaming sun begins to rise, wanda pleasantly learns that there’s one particular fire that she just can’t put out.

the end.

#wanda x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x y/n #wanda x you #wanda maximoff x y/n #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff fanfiction #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda x fem!reader #wanda maximoff x female reader #wanda maximoff #elizabeth olsen #i know the format is weird !! it was supposed to be headcanons !! or a drabble !!#tldr idrk what this is i just thought it was a cute idea and didn’t wanna write a whole oneshot bc that would be 10k+ words… T-T #also my first time properly posting on tumblr apologies if it’s ugly T-T #got the idea from that lizzie wind river interview but also alex and bill in mofam lol T-T #wanda is dressed like those pics in the last part ie. +1 #wanna chomp on lizzie’s arm during wind river era T-T

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thisblogisaboutabook · 1 year ago

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Azriel’s Girls

Azriel x Reader, Elain x Reader, Elriel x Reader

Angst - Smut - Fluff

Azriel and Y/N have been friends for years, as they navigate a newfound relationship their world is turned upside down when Rhys is taken under the mountain. A relationship of romance and passion simmers into one of endurance and loyalty as fifty years pass. But when a certain Archeron sister arrives in Velaris, Y/N must address a part of herself that she never thought would come to fruition. Will Azriel and Y/N’s relationship survive or will the revelation be too much for the Shadowsinger to handle?

Warnings/Labels: smut, alcohol, poly, FFM relationship, language, eighteen and older only

“Az! This is our song! Come on.” The Shadowsinger lurked in his usual shroud of darkness at the table that held our standing reservation. So coy, so shy, so…devious. I knew that smirk. He would give in to my devices, I just had to play my little game. Giving a twirl to show off the tightly clad-in-silk curve of my ass, and a little shimmy, I twirled toward the table with a gimme gesture of my hand, manicured nails glistening in the ambient fae light.

A mischievous glint caught in Rhys’ eye as Azriel turned from their heated conversation, giving into my gesture. He couldn’t resist me. Rhys raised three fingers lazily in the air, giving a smile to our favorite attendant.

“Tequila. More tequila.” The attendant read the unspoken words right away. The night was young and the liquor would keep flowing.

Life had been painfully busy as of late and tonight was intended as a reprieve from our ever-present duties. We all needed it, stoic Shadowsinger included.

Azriel and I had toed the line of love, lust, and friendship in a tangled waltz of desire for some time now. I wanted him. He wanted me. And tonight, tonight I would make my move.

His hands held my waist, pulling body in closely to his. My hips swaying in rhythm as his alluring mist and cedar scent filled my nose. His low, seductive voice filled my ears. “You’re divine, you know that?”

Oh, we were so fucking tonight. My breasts tightened at the promise in his tone. I spun in his arms, my ass pressed firmly against his very prominent arousal. The coarse hairs of his corded forearms grazed against the exposed skin of my midriff through a cut out panel of my dress. So much strength lay within his honed body, and now that strength was focused on me. Lost in the music, we became one on the dance floor. My head leaned back into a muscled shoulder, the scruff of his chin brushing against my forehead. I smiled as Mor danced a few feet away from us, her red satin gown swaying deliciously over her toned body. She was practically glowing as the light shimmered off of the sweat lightly coating her skin. She was radiant. A warmth filled me as I took her in, feeling Azriel’s jaw tense slightly. Not in discontent, but into a smile much like my own. This moment was paradise.

I wasn’t sure how long we spent on that dance floor but that night something shifted. That night we fucked as I’d hoped. But not in the way of a casual hook-up, or a fleeting affair, but in the way that one moves in the person they know is theirs. Passion and frenzy fueled the lust between us, combining into something more.

Love.

I moaned as Azriel brought me to my release for the third time that night, the climax he wrung from me carrying on in deliciously excruciating waves. His own release following somewhere between them. His chest rose and fell in heavy pants, my breasts pressing into him as I took my own steadying breaths. One strong arm wrapped around me, pulling me as closely into him as possible, his other arm pressing into my back, a broad palm cradling the back of my head as my cheek pressed to the juncture of his neck and collarbone.

The only way to describe the feeling had to be bliss. A pure, unadulterated feeling of peace flowed between or two bare bodies as our breathing fell into sync. A rumble vibrated from his chest and straight through me as he whispered, his head turning toward me, his swollen lips brushing the shell of my ear, warm breath creating chills through my body. “I love you, Y/N.”

His heartbeat echoed through me, racing at his admission. I smiled and I could tell he felt it by the sweet sigh he exhaled. “I love you too, Azriel.”

Life was beautiful. It was for several years. Until the day Rhys commanded us to protect the city. Until he was gone for fifty years.

A life of love and duty became a life of duty and love when there was time. We were so busy, so worried for Rhys, our friend, our High Lord, our family. He was such a fundamental element in our lives and then he was just… gone.

In a strange way, though, it brought Azriel and I closer emotionally but life became less about passion and more about duty. We protected our court, the peace within it. We fought for those basic, fundamental needs in order to survive, and our desire escape life’s duties and into eachother had to fall to the wayside.

When Rhys came back, we were elated. And yet, something was different. We were hardened by the past half-century spent on edge. We remained worried that another threat was around the corner… and we were right. The war with Hybern took something from all of us, a fundamental element of peace had just dissipated. We all hid it, all dealt with it in our own ways, but Azriel and I- it hit us hard. What once revolved around romance and passion, fell into a rhythm of comfort and reassurance. There was no doubt that we loved eachother, needed eachother like we needed air.

And then there were the Archeron sisters… Rhys found his home within Feyre. He deserved it and we were all so damned happy for him. And Cassian, he found Nesta. And I- I found a nearly broken female named Elain. She was soft and lovely, like a spring breeze, but she had been stripped of her autonomy when she’d been tossed into that damned cauldron. Though the asshole mortal she’d been engaged to proved to be just that - an asshole mortal - she still hurt. And I felt genuine sympathy for her, she didn’t choose this. She was forced into it, and someone she was still so desperate to love, someone whose life would now only be fleeting in comparison to her own, no longer wanted her. He’d treated her like nothing more than shit stamped into the tread of his boot. Sweet, lovely Elain of all people didn’t deserve that.

I couldn’t help the ache that filled me at her desperation. We became close. She was my friend, confided in me, and her softness warmed something that I thought had long since frozen over within the depths of my soul.

I don’t know when it happened but I grew to love her. First as a friend. Not the fiery passionate kind of love and desire that I’d felt for Azriel before we’d become official, this was something delicate and gentle, like the soft feel of a velvet flower petal beneath the pad of a thumb. It became something so precious to me.

I felt like a traitor. I didn’t just love her, I was in love with the whimsical and beautiful Elain Archeron. And somehow, the fact that Azriel had become friends with her, separate from our own friendship, made my treachery feel all the worse.

It was a night at Sevenda’s that changed everything for us. Azriel and I were long overdue for a date night. He’d ordered a bottle of wine and my favorite appetizer of breaded zucchini planks with red sauce. A warmth filled his eyes that I hadn’t seen in some time. It nearly felt like things once had.

A lovely female entered the establishment with her handsome male counterpart. I watched them, watched her, in reverence. The female form was lovely, gentle in a way that bordered muse-like, luscious and welcoming, but carrying such strength beneath the surface. One moment Azriel was looking at the female and the next he was staring back toward me, something knowing flickering across his features.

“Az…” I choked out.

His hand reached across the table to mine, its warmth seeping through me. Those hazel eyes gleamed and I felt the tears threatening to spill over my thick lashes. His thumb brushed across my hand in soothing waves. “It’s okay.” He spoke, voice barely above a whisper. “I know.”

Those words meant so much. But, how much did he truly know? Grappling with the words to match the turbulent feelings within me all I could manage was another choked “Az,” his name coming out slightly more firmly this time as I prayed I wouldn’t lose the courage. “It’s… Elain.”

“I know.” His voice came out so calmly and steady that it spurred the opposite response from me. How did I end up with such a patient and understanding partner, someone so full of unconditional love despite the unfair hand that life had dealt him?

The tears flowed freely then. Wiping my flushed cheeks, I turned my head in an effort of diverting any attention they’d drawn. Azriel hurriedly dropped a generous sum of marks on the table and spirited me home, to our shared chambers at the River House.

He held me closely in our bed, one hand stroking my hair in a calming rhythm. “It’s okay” he promised, the words spoken into my hair warming my scalp. “It’s okay, Y/N.”

An hour passed and I looked up to him, “I want you.” I choked.

A subtle curve tilted the corner of his lips upward, a dimple appearing on the left side, “I want you too- no, Y/N, I need you.” The small grin faded into a softened expression of sincerity as he comtinued. “But this situation?” He paused, searching for the words. “It’s okay. I love you just the same. I always will. And Y/N?”

I had to look a mess as puffy, glassy eyes met his, encouraging him to continue.

“I care for her too.”

My breath caught. I’d suspected he cared for her. I didn’t know how anyone couldn’t - but, the way the words he spoke carried a warmth that he so rarely shared, except in regard to me- the words were not only those of acceptance, but of mutual understanding.

——————-

Two years later

I sat on the edge of our oversized bed, a white linen sun-dress covering my summer tanned skin. A pin poked into my head causing a knee-jerk reaction. Whipping my head to the side with a huff, a soft laugh came from behind me. “Quit fidgeting. It’s almost perfect.” A beat of silence passed along with a couple pulls of my hair. “There. It’s perfect.”

I looked back to Elain, her rosy cheeks amplified by the golden light pouring in through the open window to our chamber. “Not crooked this time?”

She placed a hand to her chest in mock offense. “It was you, who placed a crooked bow in my hair in case you’ve forgotten.”

I giggled. She wasn’t wrong. My Elain, my friend and my lover, someone who mirrored my own soft femininity while wielding a strength that I admired deeply. Two souls brought together by fate. I loved her to the very marrow of my bones.

And Azriel, my soulmate, my passionate lover. The foundation that kept me standing through the most tumultuous of times. I loved him now more than ever. His strength, his protective instincts, his loyalty and honor, his acceptance, and the way he could wring pleasure from my needy body like nobody else, Elain’s too. A male of many talents, indeed.

We were his girls to care for and he showed us daily how his heart overflowed for both of us. And we were able to bring his guard down enough that those walls that had erected over years of war and turmoil, lowered so we could care for him like he cared for us. We could fight enemies at dawn, and share chocolate croissants on picnic blankets along the sidra at sunset. Live a life so soft and lovely one moment, and full of desperation and passion the next. We were not defined by who we loved, but how we loved. And for our trio? It was everything.

————————————

General ACOTAR tags: @lilah-asteria @thecollegecowgirl @mochibabycakes @nickishadow139

#acotar #sarah j maas #a court of thorns and roses #azriel #a court of silver flames #a court of frost and starlight #a court of mist and fury #a court of wings and ruin #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #Elriel x reader #Elain x reader #poly acotar #acotar fluff and smut #acotar angst #acotar fluff #acotar smut #elain archeron

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darcydarlingdabbles · 8 months ago

Text

At Autumn's End ~ Part 3

RadioApple🍂Human Au/Age Gap 🍁Top!Dom!Alastor

🍂Divorced Dad!Lucifer🍁Explicit~ 9.1k

AN: Big sexy times, big feelings happening here.

🍂🍁🍃

🍁 On Ao3🍁Read for Free on Ream🍁On Tumblr 🍁

The clock on the wall ticked softly in Lucifer’s room, echoing in his head.

He couldn’t sleep. Then again. He never could.

Normally, he would go bustle around the kitchen and make something, but, well…last night he got more sugar than he asked for.

Ugh, that was cheesy even for him.

Lucifer threw off the blanket and started pacing in front of the desk and little lounge before his fire place.

The master bedroom was huge and spacious…and empty. And he rubbed his arms and fold them across his bare chest he looked out the back window and the snow drifting down.

Only to be interrupted only by the sudden and insistent knock at his door.

Lucifer’s parental instincts went off like a fire alarm. He quickly grabbed the fluffy robe from the end of his bed and hurried to the door. The plush fabric whispered against his skin as he wrapped it around himself, tying the belt with a practiced motion.

As he pulled the door open, the dim light from the hallway spilled into the room, framing a figure clad in red satin.

"Alastor?" Lucifer’s voice was low, a mix of surprise and admonition. "It's late."

Alastor stood there, seemingly unfazed by the hour or the situation. His red pajamas shimmered slightly in the faint light, their sheen emphasizing the confident tilt of his head and the playful glint in his eyes.

"Yes," Alastor replied smoothly, his voice carrying a hint of mischief, "and it's cold in my room. My fireplace isn’t working."

Before Lucifer could respond, Alastor stepped forward, crossing the threshold with an easy, assured grace. The scent of cedar and something spicy—was it cinnamon?—trailed into the room with him.

"Maybe you can show me how to operate yours," Alastor suggested, his tone both innocent and suggestive.

Lucifer watched as Alastor sauntered into the room, his red satin pajamas shining under the faint light. Bringing a palpable energy that shimmered around him.

"Alastor," Lucifer began, his voice tinged with exasperation, "you shouldn't be in here."

"Oh, why shouldn’t I?" Alastor replied, a smirk playing on his lips as he surveyed the room with casual interest.

"Because, well…” Lucifer blustered, then tightened the soft robe around himself when those hazel eyes were on him.

“I shouldn’t freeze to death because of your devastating lack of both self-esteem and self-control.”

”Uh, okay, ouch.” Lucifer blanched at the sharpness of those words. Even as those eyes softened on him.

”Tell me I’m wrong.” Alastor said it softly, and Lucifer couldn’t. He could only huff and fold his arms over his chest, and deflect.

“Did you try asking Charlie or Vaggie for help with your fireplace?" Lucifer asked, crossing his arms over his chest, trying to maintain some semblance of authority despite the younger man’s intrusion.

Alastor chuckled softly, a sound that felt like it was filling the room like his presence.

"I was about to knock on their door," he said, drawing out the words like a cat playing with a mouse, "but from the sounds coming from it, I was rather reluctant to disturb them."

Lucifer cringed inwardly.

So, going upstairs to fix Alastor’s fireplace was definitely not an option. And it was freezing enough to snow outside–no wonder he was cold.

The older man cleared his throat, searching for a solution that would steer them away from this precarious situation.

"Alright," Lucifer relented with a sigh, feeling the weight of inevitability pressing down on him. "Let's get the fireplace in the living room going. It'll warm you up just fine."

“Well…we could do that…” Alastor sauntered over to the bed.

With a casual grace, he sat back on his hands, crossing one leg over the other. His eyes gleamed with mischief, and an impish smirk danced across his lips as he settled into the plush comforter, making a point of appearing at ease.

And that he wasn’t going anywhere.

"But sir, the living room is so wide open," Alastor drawled, his voice smooth like honey, "anyone could walk in on us there."

Lucifer's eyebrows shot up to his hair line, before he shook his head and sighed in pure exasperation.

The weight of Alastor's presence pressed down on him like the humidity before a storm. He resisted the urge to rub his temples–needing to maintain some sort of semblance of control over this situation. Before it got right out of hand.

"There's not going to be anything to walk in on," Lucifer countered, his tone firm yet threaded with a hint of incredulity. The pure arrogance of this young man–of this boy, compared to him.

He stepped closer to the foot of the bed, as Alastor made a point of leaning back. Lucifer needed to ground himself to the reality of their situation.

"Think about it for a second, Alastor. You're my daughter's friend. Hell, I was your age when I had Charlie!" But even as he spoke, Lucifer couldn't ignore the electric charge that hummed in the air between them, a current that defied logic and expectations.

Alastor's eyebrow arched with a playful elegance, a flicker of amusement igniting in his eyes. "Well, now, Mr. Morningstar," The corners of his mouth curled upward as he tossed an offhand remark into the charged silence. "I think it’s a little early to say you want my children, isn’t it?"

Lucifer felt the heat bloom across his cheeks, seeping through his pale skin with embarrassing intensity. The little jab cut right through his attempt at composure, and he thrust both hands through his blonde hair.

"Can you at least stop it with the 'sir' and 'Mr. Morningstar' stuff?" he groaned, his fingers toyed absently with the belt of his robe, twisting the fabric . "I feel old enough already."

“Well,” Alastor's gaze traveled leisurely over his robe—fluffy, undeniably comfortable, yet suddenly feeling like the most inadequate armor against the intensity of those eyes. “What would you like me to call you?”

“My name, obviously.”

"Lucifer," Alastor purred, and oh, that was worse. So much worse.

The younger man’s voice was a silken thread that curled around Lucifer's name for the first time with a tenderness that belied the teasing grin playing at his lips.

Lucifer's heart thudded traitorously against his ribs, and he swallowed hard, trying to tether himself to reason.

"Why do you have to say my name like that?" he huffed out, though he meant to be stern.

"Like what?" Alastor replied, feigning innocence with a tilt of his head, though the glint in his eyes betrayed his awareness—the calculated precision of each syllable designed to unravel Lucifer's defenses.

“Like that!” Lucifer's fingers instinctively found their way to his hair, ruffling through the golden strands in an attempt to regain some semblance of control over the situation spiraling rapidly away from him. “Like you’re going to–”

“Eat you?” The brunette smirked, his gaze only lifting a moment to take in Lucifer’s mussed hair.

“Yes, that.”

“You rather enjoyed my mouth on you last time, did you not?”

Lucifer was going to burn to death from embarassment. That smirking tone knew he was drawing images of last night right back into the older man’s head. He bit his bottom lip, clapping a hand over the shoulder of his robe, where it barely covered the bite mark Alastor left in his skin.

"Listen here," Lucifer began, his voice slipping into the authoritative timbre of a father, hoping to reestablish some boundaries, to remind them both of lines they shouldn't cross.

But before he could continue, Alastor's soft tutting interrupted him, accompanied by a look so infuriatingly fond it made Lucifer pause.

"That was cute," Alastor said, a teasing lilt to his words.

The comment disarmed Lucifer completely, the dad voice rendered useless against the unwavering confidence radiating from the younger man.

Lucifer's cheeks turned a shade of crimson that rivaled the deepest embers of Hell. His mind raced, scrambling for some semblance of composure as he opened his mouth to retort, perhaps to regain control or at least to articulate something coherent.

But any attempt at words was swiftly stolen from him as Alastor moved with sudden intent, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat. The blonde’s back hit the door that he’d been holding open, only to have Alastor’s hand press above his head. Forcing it to click it closed.

The younger man's hand reached up, grasping the front of Lucifer's robe with a possessive confidence that sent a shiver down his spine. And he cursed himself that he was tilting his chin up, hoping for a kiss.

"Lucifer..." Alastor's voice purred and curled between them, that same silken tone lingering on each syllable with deliberate slowness that made him hang on it. "Where do you keep the lube?."

The words hung there, bold and unashamedly self-assured, wrapping around Lucifer like a lasso tightening at his very core. His heart skipped a beat, shock rippling through him anew as he blinked, trying to process the audacity—the sheer ease with which Alastor navigated this intimate terrain.

“How dare–you–we won’t–”

And then, without hesitation, Alastor kissed him—hard and unyielding, a force of nature that demanded nothing less than complete surrender.

Any protests that Lucifer might have conjured melted away under the heat of that kiss, lost amidst the fiery collision of lips that left him breathless. All thoughts dissipated like smoke on the wind, leaving only the raw sensation of urgency thrumming through his veins.

Alastor pulled back from his lips, and Lucifer felt himself whine. Until the younger’s forehead pressed against his. Overwhelming him with his cinnamon scent.

“If you want me to stop.” The brunette panted, and Lucifer thrilled that he could leave him breathless. “You need to tell me. Now.”

Lucifer couldn’t help the pathetic little sound that escaped him at even the idea of stopping now. Alastor wasn’t even holding his wrists, but his hands felt pinned to the wall behind him. He lifted his head, hopeful for another kiss.

That Alastor denied him.

“Darling.” Alastor purred, his tone on the edge of impatience. “Use your words.”

Lucifer swallowed. The last of his reservations falling into the dark like the snow outside.

“Green.”

“Good boy.”

Then Alastor was kissing him. And it felt like Lucifer could breathe again. Until those long fingers wrapped around the bulge in his lounge pants.

Lucifer let out a moan that Alastor swallowed as he kissed him, deeper, demanding entrance. Tasting every inch of him.

But those clever fingers were relentless, their touch both deft and deliberate as they found the waistband of Lucifer's sweats. In one smooth motion, they pushed the material down, gravity taking hold as it pooled around Lucifer's ankles.

Damn those clever hands, Lucifer thought dimly, even as his own body responded with a traitorous eagerness.

A part of him marveling at how easily the younger man unraveled him piece by piece, yet another part surrendering to the undeniable allure of it all.

Alastor's fingers hovered at the tie of Lucifer's robe, a pause in the fervent dance that had consumed them both. And, Lucifer could guess why.

Because he’d been reluctant to remove his shirt around the younger man all weekend. And it struck him that not only had the brunette noticed–he actually cared if Lucifer was comfortable. The weight of Alastor’s gaze was almost tangible as he subtly pulled back, his eyes searching Lucifer’s face with an inquisitive glint.

"Perhaps," Alastor murmured, brushing a soft kiss against Lucifer's lips—gentle, teasing, "you ought to change into another sweater, hm?"

Lucifer hesitated, the suggestion bumping awkwardly against his rising need. He whined, a sound that escaped him unbidden, raw and vulnerable. "I don’t want to," he confessed, voice low and rough.

The flicker of amusement in Alastor's eyes was unmistakable, but his smile held a warmth that chased away any notion of mockery.

"Then what do you want?" Alastor prompted, voice smooth and inviting as velvet.

"For you...to bite me," Lucifer admitted, the words tumbling out like a floodgate giving way, "to be marked…and claimed." His admission hung in the air between them, charged and electric.

"Gladly," Alastor purred, his voice a dark promise.

With deft fingers, he untied the robe and left Lucifer breathless and bare to the night, exposed.

The cool air caressed his skin, a stark contrast to the heat blooming under Alastor's gaze—a silent vow to fulfill every unspoken want.

Alastor's fingers grazed Lucifer's skin with a touch that was both feather-light and searing. The contact sent a shiver racing down his spine, igniting a fire in his veins that had lain dormant for too long.

Doubt, though, nibbled at the back of Lucifer’s mind. Why would this gorgeous young man ever want him?

Alastor’s next words silenced every thought.

"Every inch," he purred, his voice a sultry promise that seemed to resonate through the room. "I can't wait to mark every inch of you."

With a gentle but insistent push, Alastor guided Lucifer onto the bed.

Lucifer fell onto the yielding mattress without complaint, lifting his head to the claiming kiss. His skin already tingling at the thought of more.

Alastor’s lips trailed down the column of his throat, dragging the edge of his teeth–but leaving no marks above his collarbones. As he promised.

"Ah!" Lucifer gasped, his voice catching in his throat as Alastor sank his teeth back into the older man’s shoulder. Not the same place because that would distort the pretty purple that bloomed overnight.

But leaving a brand new bite to criss-cross it. Like there was a design written in his head. Alastor's lips descended upon him, tracing a path of bites along his torso, each one a deliberate claim that set Lucifer alight with sensation.

Alastor growled with delight at the marks he was leaving—little trophies of his conquest.

The sharp nip of teeth followed by the soothing brush of Alastor's tongue sent waves of pleasure coursing through him. Each bite was a declaration, a testament to Alastor's desire that left no room for doubt.

Lucifer arched beneath the attention, the undeniable evidence of being wanted now decorating his body. And sinking into his very soul.

Lucifer lay there, every nerve ending alive with anticipation as Alastor's hands roamed lower, spreading his legs with a possessive leer that went straight to Lucifer’s aching prick.

He was fully exposed, every inch of dad bod laid bare before Alastor’s hungry stare.

Lucifer felt his legs tremble as the younger held them open wide. And then the brunette was catching his eye. Waiting for Lucifer to look at him. before he lowered his head, dragging his tongue along the soft flesh of the inside of his thigh.

“Color?” That predatory purr asked.

And Lucifer had to fight the tremble of anticipation in his voice, so it wouldn’t sound like anything else.

“Green, so green.” Lucifer squirmed.

Alastor chuckled, pushing his legs further apart as he simply said “Good.”

The fireplace was roaring away, but Lucifer still felt a shiver of goosebumps prickle over his skin at the cool air.

Until Alastor’s mouth set him on fire all over again.

Each bite along his soft thighs was a spark, igniting deeper within him, and he could feel the promise of bruises blooming beneath the surface.

"Turn over," Alastor commanded as he stood, his voice a velvet spike that sent a shiver down Lucifer's spine.

Lucifer hesitated only for a heartbeat before complying, shifting over onto his stomach and his elbows. Feeling a little tingle across his skin at how exposed he was.

"Where's the lube?" Alastor's question was more an expectation than a request, each word dripping with intent.

"Nightstand," Lucifer managed to pant out, his mind swimming in a haze that left little room for coherent thought. Just talking felt like a tether to reality, and he was ready to toss it out the picture window behind him.

Alastor moved with purpose, his footsteps a murmur on the carpet as he approached the nightstand.

Lucifer watched him through half-lidded eyes. The anticipation was a live wire under his skin.

"What's this?" Alastor's voice broke through the haze with a teasing lilt.

He held up a cock ring, its snap glinting wickedly in the electronic fire light. There was a smirk playing on his lips–and it was clear he knew exactly what it was.

Lucifer felt a flush rise to his cheeks. His gaze flickered away for a moment before meeting Alastor’s playful stare. "It's mine," he admitted, the words tumbling out with a hint of sheepishness.

"Is it now? How fortuitous" Alastor's grin widened, a flash of white teeth against his brown skin "We'll use this too, since it's been a while for you." His tone was light, but there was an underlying challenge in it.

“Hey!” A spark of indignation flared within Lucifer at the insinuation, a feeble attempt to cling to the remnants of his dignity. “You know, I’ve probably been doing this since before you were born.”

And he actually saw Alastor roll his eyes.

“Yes, yes darling, I’m sure.” The younger moved behind him, as Lucifer turned to try to keep him in sight. “But, you haven’t been doing it with me.” Alastor purred. Just as he seized Lucifer by the hips, dragging him down the bed and manhandling him until he was bent over the end of the bed.

"Spread your legs," Alastor commanded, his voice dropping to a sultry murmur that danced over Lucifer's skin like a caress. The words sent a shiver racing down Lucifer's spine, igniting something primal and urgent within him.

He hesitated only long enough to draw a shaky breath, then obeyed, surrendering to the pull of Alastor's will with a thrill that made his pulse quicken anew.

🍂🍁🍃

Lucifer never would have believed that he’d end up in a position like this.

Face down in the plush comforter of his own bed, ass up and completely exposed. As Alastor’s sure fingers languidly stretching him open. Taking his tortuous time.

The sinfully red satin of Alastor's pajamas brushed against Lucifer’s thighs, a teasing reminder of how frustratingly clothed the younger man remained.

"You're doing so well, darling," Alastor murmured, his voice a low purr that reverberated through Lucifer's bones.

One hand pressed firmly at the nape of Lucifer’s neck, keeping him pinned, grounded, even as each deliberate stroke of Alastor’s fingers made him writhe.

"Alastor..." Lucifer’s voice was a half-groan, half-whisper, the sound drenched in desperation. Each calculated brush of his sweet spot sent shocks of pleasure ricocheting through his body, leaving him breathless and aching for more.

"Patience," Alastor chided softly, leaning over him, a shadow cast by moonlight filtering through the window. The world outside was a blur of wintry white, but in here, heat seared through Lucifer’s veins as he surrendered inch by inch to Alastor’s deft touch.

Lucifer’s back arched instinctively, seeking more of those skilled touches, his thoughts a haze of white noise and want.

"Please," he heard himself say, the plea falling from his lips unbidden, raw and honest.

Each press of those sinfully long fingers sent him spiraling further into a space where thoughts were fleeting. And all he could do was feel.

"Lucifer," Alastor's voice was a silken caress, wrapping around his name with an intimacy that made his heart stutter.

"You're too good at this," Lucifer squirmed beneath the unyielding hold on his neck. His mind floated somewhere between reality and oblivion, "Too old for this,"

It was a weak protest, more habit, as if acknowledging the disparity in their ages could anchor him somehow.

"Nonsense," Alastor replied, his tone light, teasing, but leaving no room for arugment. "You’re taking my fingers so well."

The praise was like a balm, soothing some hidden ache inside Lucifer, even as it fanned the flames of his desire higher.

Alastor continued, leaning closer until his breath ghosted over Lucifer’s ear, making him shiver. "I’m sure you’ll take my cock like a good boy."

A whimper escaped Lucifer, unbidden, the sound lost in the heady cocktail of want and submission. Any semblance of control slipped further from his grasp, leaving only the raw, unfiltered need to please the man who had him laid bare in every sense of the word.

"Good boy," Alastor had said, those two simple words burrowing under Lucifer's skin, igniting something deep within him.

But… alongside the warmth, there was a chill, creeping into the edges of his consciousness, reminding him of everything else he was.

He wasn't just old–he felt worn out. Baggage that tangled with his self-worth, dragging it down beneath the surface. Depression loomed over him like an ever-present shadow.

"Alastor," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, breaking through the haze for a moment. "You... you deserve better than this. Than me."

The confession hung heavy in the air between them. Bound up and fizzling with the insecurity and doubts that clawed at Lucifer, especially when he was at his most vulnerable.

The sudden stillness from Alastor was like a jolt, ripping Lucifer from his spiraling thoughts, making the room feel colder, the air thicker.

"Say that again," Alastor's voice sliced through the silence, sharp, cold, and commanding.

Before Lucifer could even process the words, a sharp thud echoed through the room—a hand coming down hard on his ass.

Lucifer gasped, the sensation ricocheting up his spine, leaving a tingling warmth in its wake. The sting on his skin was a reminder—albeit a startling one—that he was very much alive, here and now.

"Say it again, Lucifer." Alastor's tone was unwavering, firm, and beneath the surface, there was something else—something almost tender.

His mouth opened, a protest forming on his lips, but doubt clawed at him, urging him to speak the self-deprecation that had become second nature. Another swift smack landed in the same spot. Precisely.

Lucifer flinched, the repetition sending a shiver throughout his entire being.

The heat on his skin bloomed, and somewhere within the haze of sensation and emotion, a new awareness took root. Alastor knew exactly what he was doing—each strike calculated, deliberate.

It was a punishment. Alastor had never punished him. And it brought Lucifer sharply back to reality.

"Again," Alastor pressed, unyielding.

Lucifer's mind spun, caught between the urge to resist and the desire to yield. His defenses wavered, the walls he'd built around himself weakening under the relentless onslaught..

Alastor flipped Lucifer over onto his back.

The sudden shift left Lucifer momentarily breathless, a rush of vulnerability washing over him, but before fear could take root, Alastor's hand found its place at his throat.

The touch was firm but not constrictive—a gentle reminder of the power Alastor wielded, but also of the care with which he wielded it. Lucifer felt the weight of that hand like an anchor, grounding him amidst the tempest of emotions swirling within.

"Stay still," Alastor’s voice low and smooth, as if coaxing the tension from Lucifer’s body. “And keep your eyes on me.”

He complied, the unspoken command threading through his very veins, calming the storm swirling in his chest.

With deliberate movements, Alastor spread Lucifer's legs wide, each motion purposeful, leaving no doubt in its intention as he moved between them. A shiver of anticipation danced along Lucifer's spine, mingling with the remnants of uncertainty that clung to him. Alastor’s lithe body, pressed into the cradle of his so damn intimately it was breath taking.

“I know what I want.” Alastor said, so softly and emphatically, Lucifer’s world narrowed down to every word on his lips. “And I have, excellent tastes.” He chuckled, lowly and dark. “And I want you. So, it only follows that you must be desirable.”

Lucifer felt his mouth open, to agree or to contradict, he didn’t know–when he felt Alastor snap his hips forward. So the older man felt the hard line of his cock through those satin pjs. Making Lucifer whine.

"Isn't that right?" Alastor's words were soft yet unwavering, carrying a conviction that resonated. He leaned over Lucifer, their eyes locking, and in that instant, all pretense fell away.

Lucifer could see it—the certainty in Alastor's gaze, the desire that lay beneath the surface, raw and unhidden. It was a question that was not a question at all, but an affirmation.

Alastor knew what he wanted, and more than that, he wanted Lucifer.

In the silence that followed, Lucifer felt the truth settle around him like a warm embrace. Alastor had chosen him, and in that choice, there was worth—something long elusive, now finally within reach.

“Alastor…”

Alastor’s fingers plunged back inside Lucifer, rough and unyielding. Three all at once, they filled him and stole his breath. It wasn’t uncomfortable–it was a relief–a release of tension, as if those deft fingers were unraveling the tangled knots in him.

Lucifer's body arched involuntarily, a gasp escaping his lips. Alastor moved with purpose, each thrust precise, exploring until he found that sensitive spot that made Lucifer's vision blur with pleasure.

"Isn’t that right?" Alastor repeated, his voice low, almost tender. He brushed against Lucifer's prostate, sending a jolt through his spine, a reminder of what was asked of him.

"Yes, Alastor..." Lucifer breathed, the word tumbling from him, born of instinct and need.

"Say it, darling." Alastor's voice was velvet and steel, a command wrapped in endearment. His fingers moved relentlessly, coaxing every ounce of sensation from Lucifer’s trembling form.

Lucifer whined. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—say the words that felt too big, too heavy to be true.

"Say you are worthy of being wanted." Alastor repeated, his tone unwavering as he leaned over Lucifer, the weight of his presence all-consuming.

Lucifer shook his head, a stubborn refusal even as his body betrayed him, arching into each calculated thrust. The world narrowed to the point where their gazes locked, Alastor’s eyes holding his with an intensity that burned.

"Look at me," Alastor urged, that had still firm on Lucifer’s throat.

That touch kept him still, made him focus on nothing but those dark, intense eyes.

His cock throbbed, trapped and dined by the ring around it. It was a torment that bordered on bliss, and Alastor watched him keenly, absorbing every reaction, every flicker of emotion.

"Please," Lucifer gasped, desperation coloring his voice, not sure what he was pleading for—for release or reprieve.

"Say it," Alastor insisted, his fingers never faltering, the rhythm a relentless reminder of his demand.

Lucifer’s resolve wavered under the pressure of Alastor’s unyielding attention, under the promise lingering in the air—that here, in this space, he could be wanted, cherished even, if he just admitted it.

"You may be older," he murmured, his breath a warm whisper against Lucifer's skin, "but I assure you, I can wait you out. As long as it takes."

Lucifer's eyes fluttered shut for a moment, overwhelmed by the certainty in Alastor's tone.

There was no doubt, no hesitation. Just the unshakeable conviction that patience was infinite, and that Lucifer was worth every second spent waiting.

And there was as nothing quite like having alastor’s full attention on him.

Lucifer’s hands had stayed pinned to the bed, his fingers clenched in the sheets, without having to be bound or held down.

Alastor’s unwavering gaze grounded him there.

Every fiber of his being urged him to move, to reach out, to defy this feeling of vulnerability. But, he couldn’t. Because he didn’t want to.

"Lucifer…" Alastor’s voice was a velvet whisper, wrapping around him with an intimacy that felt like a caress. Lucifer's breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against the cage of his ribs.

"I…" he began, his voice barely above a whisper, cracking under the weight of vulnerability. His mind spun, words lodged at the back of his throat like stones he couldn’t dislodge. All the while, Alastor's fingers moved inside him—patient, relentless, drawing him closer and closer to the precipice.

"The full sentence, darling," Alastor prompted tenderly, the words sliding over Lucifer’s skin like silk, teasing and coaxing—but never demanding. It was maddeningly tender.

This wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t enjoying playing with a partner during a scene. Alastor was taking Lucifer apart just to put him back together again.

And, after that, how could Lucifer ever let him go?

"I want to hear you say it," Alastor continued, his tone as smooth as molten honey.

Lucifer inhaled shakily, his chest tight with the tumult. With each breath, he could feel the embers of trust and warmth expanding, threatening to engulf the shadows of doubt and insecurity that clung so stubbornly to him.

And then, finally, the words tumbled out, each syllable a hard-won victory against the specter of self-doubt. "I am…worthy…of being wanted."

Alastor's eyes lit up with approval, a smile curving his lips as he leaned forward to press a gentle kiss to Lucifer’s temple.

"Good boy," Alastor murmured, his voice rich with praise and promise.

With a deftness that belied the magnitude of the moment, he reached down and released the cock ring, freeing Lucifer from its constraining hold.

In that instant, euphoria crashed over Lucifer with the force of a tidal wave, leaving him quivering beneath Alastor’s unwavering affection.

🍂🍁🍃

Waves of blissful pleasure coursed through Lucifer's body, leaving him trembling and breathless. Alastor's skilled hands continued to caress him gently, easing him through the aftershocks.

"You did so well for me," Alastor murmured, his voice a soothing balm.

Lucifer's eyes fluttered open, meeting Alastor's intense gaze. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice hoarse. And he was so blissed out, he didn’t even blush at his awkwardness.

Alastor's fingers traced delicate patterns across Lucifer's flushed skin. The tender touch felt like everything to him, and when he meekly tugged on those satin pajamas, the brunette indulged him and moved to sit on the bed.

Lucifer was about ready to curl right up into his lap. Soak up this newfound attentiveness like a house cat in the afternoon sunshine.

His cheek came to rest on the red fabric that covered Alastor’s thigh, clinging to the slender frame.

"How are you feeling?" Alastor asked softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from Lucifer's forehead.

Lucifer leaned into the touch, savoring the warmth of Alastor's palm against his cheek. "Incredible," he murmured, and it was true. He was floating on a satin cloud. Not even thinking of what usually came next.

A small smile tugged at Alastor's lips. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself, cher."

Lucifer's head felt pleasantly fuzzy, his thoughts hazy and unfocused. He found himself overcome with affection for the man above him. Without thinking, he nuzzled against Alastor's crotch, relishing the smooth texture of against his cheek.

"Thank you for taking such good care of me," Lucifer said softly, his words slightly slurred.

Alastor's hand came to rest on the back of Lucifer's neck, a comforting weight that also stilled his movements.

"It’s been my pleasure," he replied, his voice warm with fondness.

Right, Lucifer was starting to get a bit more lucid, and remember…Alastor’s pleasure…he really should—

Lucifer's blissful haze was abruptly shattered as he felt Alastor's hands gently cradle his head, lifting it from the satin-clad thigh.

With careful movements, Alastor lowered Lucifer's head to rest on the soft bedding. Before Lucifer could fully process what was happening, Alastor had slipped away, rising to his feet beside the bed.

Panic surged through Lucifer's chest. "Wait!" His voice was hoarse, tinged with desperation. "You're not going to leave again, are you?"

Lucifer's eyes darted down, immediately noticing the obvious bulge straining against Alastor's sleek pants.

“Or…let me help you out…?”

But Alastor merely shrugged, a small, enigmatic smile playing at the corners of his mouth. But his night clothes caught the light from the snowy window, which was probably the only reason the blonde’s fuzzy head noticed how the younger seemed to shift from foot to foot.

"That's not necessary, Lucifer," he said, his voice low and smooth. "I told you. Orgasm isn't really my goal."

Lucifer furrowed his brow, confusion mingling with concern. "But…I want to make you feel good too," he insisted, pushing himself up onto his elbows.

Alastor's expression softened. He reached out, gently caressing Lucifer's cheek. "You were so good for me," he murmured. “That's all I need.”

Lucifer leaned into the touch, torn between the warmth of Alastor's praise and his own lingering desire to reciprocate.

The blonde felt his tongue dart out, wetting his dry lips. "Don’t you want to stay—and fuck me, I mean?"

Despite Alastor's reassurances, a nagging desire still gnawed at him. His voice came out weak, almost pleading,

Alastor's long fingers threaded through Lucifer's hair, the gentle touch at odds with the intensity of his gaze. His eyes roamed deliberately down Lucifer's body, lingering pointedly on the evidence of their recent activities.

Lucifer followed his line of sight, suddenly acutely aware of his own spent cock, still flushed and sensitive, and the cooling streaks of come decorating the constellation of bite marks Alastor had left across his belly.

A rush of heat flooded Lucifer's cheeks as he realized the implication.

He was thoroughly spent, but here he was, practically begging for more.

"But I still want you to fuck me," Lucifer insisted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Alastor cocked an eyebrow, a mix of amusement and intrigue playing across his features.

Without a word, he moved to sit on the edge of the bed. Lucifer's body reacted instinctively, reaching out to clutch at Alastor, desperate to keep him close. But Alastor was quicker, catching Lucifer's wrists in a firm but gentle grip.

His thumbs traced small circles on the sensitive skin, a gesture both soothing and electrifying.

Lucifer's breath caught in his throat as Alastor leaned in, his lips barely grazing Lucifer's ear.

"Tell me, Lucifer," Alastor whispered, his breath warm against Lucifer's skin. "Do you truly want to be fucked, or is it that you simply do not want to be left alone?"

The question stripped away his defenses. Cutting right to the quick, as the younger said he did.Why did Alastor always seem to see right through him?

"Both," Lucifer admitted, his voice trembling slightly. He met Alastor's gaze, determined to be honest. "I want you to fuck me, Alastor. And…I want you to stay the night."

A flicker of something—surprise? approval? longing?—passed over Alastor's face. He released Lucifer's wrists and shifted, settling more comfortably on the bed.

“I assure you, I was hoping to stay.” Though a little bit of mirth lit his face, and his eyes traveled over Lucifer once again. “After I cleaned you up a bit.”

Relief and desire surged through Lucifer in equal measure.

He pressed close, intent on kissing Alastor, on showing his gratitude and renewed passion. But before their lips could meet, Alastor placed a finger against Lucifer's mouth, halting him.

"Careful now," Alastor warned, his tone light but firm. "This is my favorite set of sleepwear. I'd rather not get it…sticky."

Lucifer froze, suddenly hyper-aware of his own state—the drying come and blooming bruises over his pale flesh.

Lucifer's cheeks burned as he remembered Alastor's rules.

“It wouldn’t, I mean.” He huffed, rubbing a hand through his hair to try to ground himself. And not sound as petulant as he felt. Like a child repeatedly denied a treat. “They wouldn’t get messy, if you took them off.”

He swore the chuckle Alastor gave was indulgent. “Will you want to touch me, then?”

Lucifer’s attention snapped back to Alastor, nodding eagerly. “Touch you, blow you—anything you want, Alastor. Please.”

“And, there in, lies the rub.” The brunette murmured, and Lucifer mourned the movement he took to get back on his feet at the edge of the bed. But not the way the way he crawled after Alastor.

“You don’t want me to touch you?” Lucifer asked, his tone light with curiosity that tilted his head as he looked up at the younger man. Wondering if this was what had him pulling away the two times before.

“Oh, no, darling,” Alastor met his eyes, with that intense hazel look. “I very much do.”

Lucifer was about to offer everything, anything Alastor wanted, when the brunette surprised him by being the first to pull his eye away.

“You make me greedy, Lucifer. I want everything you’ll let me have. I want nothing to be left for anyone else…But,” Alastor folded his arms over his chest, looking defensive and utterly unlike his ever-confident self. “I can’t always…" he said softly. "It's not…easy for me to finish."

Lucifer's first instinct was to smirk, sure Alastor was teasing or challenging him.

But as he searched the younger man's face, he caught a glimpse of something he'd never seen before: embarrassment. The vulnerability in Alastor's expression made Lucifer's heart clench.

The blonde quickly moved from his knees to give the brunette his full attention, sitting as he reached for Alastor’s hand that was clenched in the crook of his elbow. He felt resistance, for a moment, before the younger gave in to the hold.

"Have you seen a doctor about it?" he asked gently.

Alastor's fingers tightened around Lucifer's, a flicker of something guarded in his gaze. "Yes, of course," he replied, his voice low. “They all assure me I am too young for the issue to be from the waist down.” He paused, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. “So it must be from the neck up.”

Lucifer felt his brow furrow. Concern etched all over his face. He slid onto his knees, almost bringing himself to eye level with the taller man.

“Hey, Alastor.” He reached for the younger, for that narrow waist, trying to tug him close. “Look, if you need to talk about this, we can.”

Alastor rolled his eyes. “Do you really want to chat about Catholic guilt, compartmentalization, and grief right now?” He gestured with his free hand to Lucifer’s state of undress and his own state of visible arousal. “I’ve had this problem for a while, no matter the scene or the partner.”

Lucifer's chest tightened at the mention of grief, understanding dawning. He stroked his thumb across the small of Alastor’s back, considering his next words carefully. "Do you want to continue?" he asked softly, searching Alastor's face. "We don't have to if you're not comfortable."

Alastor's expression softened, and he cupped Lucifer's cheek with his free hand. "I do want to, more than anything," he assured him. "But I know bottoms get frustrated, or even feel inadequacy, when they can't make me come. I don't want that for you, Lucifer."

The delicacy in Alastor's hand sent a shiver through Lucifer. But it was nothing compared to how damn considerate he was being. Alastor knew Lucifer’s self-esteem was weak at best. And he was trying to shield him, at his own expense.

He leaned into the caress, his heart swelling with affection for this complex, caring man.

"Thank you, for telling me. I know that couldn’t have been easy," Lucifer murmured, turning his head to press a kiss to Alastor's palm. "But I want you to know, it doesn’t have to be about making you come…I just want to be with you, to make you feel good in whatever way I can."

Alastor's eyes widened slightly at Lucifer's words, a flicker of vulnerability passing over his features before being replaced by a look of profound gratitude.

Slowly, he leaned down, cupping Lucifer's face in both hands as he brought their lips together in a tender kiss.

The kiss was unlike any they had shared before. Where their previous encounters had been marked by passion and urgency, this was slow and achingly sweet. Alastor's lips moved against Lucifer's with deliberate care, as if savoring every moment of contact.

Lucifer's hands came to rest on Alastor's hips, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his pajamas. He could feel the warmth of Alastor's skin through the thin material, grounding them both to the moment. As the rest of the world faded away. The soft glow of moonlight filtering through the window cast everything in a dreamy, ethereal light.

The only sounds were their quiet breaths and the gentle rustle of fabric as they moved together.

Their kisses deepened gradually, tongues meeting in a slow, sensual dance. There was no rush, no frantic need driving them forward.

Lucifer's hands slid up Alastor's back, feeling the lean muscles shift beneath his palms. He marveled at the contrast between Alastor's usual sharp edges and this softer, more vulnerable version of him.

He felt it, when there was a shift in Alastor. The tension that had been holding him rigid began to melt away, his body relaxing into Lucifer's touch.

His kisses became more assured, more present, as if he was fully allowing himself to be in the moment.

"Undress me," Alastor murmured, his voice low and rich with emotion. It wasn't quite an order, but there was a quiet authority in his tone that always left the older man tingling.

Lucifer nodded, slowly rising to his feet. He maintained eye contact with Alastor as he began to remove his clothes, piece by piece. There was no teasing or showmanship in the way he slid the buttons of the satin night shirt apart. Letting the fabric drop to the soft carpet of the bedroom. His pants followed.

Lucifer's breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight of Alastor.

The lean lines of his torso were accentuated by the soft moonlight streaming through the window, casting shadows that highlighted every dip and curve of slender muscle. His skin was brown and smooth, marred only by a few scattered scars that spoke of a life lived with intensity.

His collarbone stood out prominently, creating delicate hollows that Lucifer longed to trace with his tongue. Lucifer's eyes followed that tantalizing path, noting the sharp cut of Alastor's hipbones and the lean strength of his thighs.

Despite his earlier admissions, Alastor's arousal was evident, straining against the fabric of his boxers. Lucifer felt a surge of desire, wanting nothing more than to worship every inch of the beautiful man before him.

"Touch me," Alastor commanded softly, his voice low and husky.

Lucifer didn't hesitate.

He reached out, running his hands reverently over Alastor's chest, feeling the warmth of his skin and the steady beat of his heart. His fingers traced the contours of Alastor's abs, gaping at the subtle definition. He explored every plane and angle of Alastor's body, committing each detail to memory.

As his hands roamed lower, skimming along Alastor's sides and coming to rest on his hips, Lucifer felt an overwhelming urge to taste him.

He looked up, meeting Alastor's intense gaze.

"Can I blow you?" Lucifer asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Please, I want to make you feel good."

Alastor's eyes darkened with desire. He cupped Lucifer's face gently, thumb brushing across his cheekbone.

"Yes," he breathed. "Yes, you can."

Heart racing, Lucifer settled between Alastor's legs, taking a moment to admire the man's impressive cock.

It had been a while since he'd done this, and he wanted to savor the experience. He started slow, placing soft kisses along Alastor's inner thighs, relishing the slight tremor he felt beneath his lips.

As Lucifer's mouth finally enveloped him, Alastor let out a soft gasp. "Oh, that's…lovely," he murmured, his long fingers threading gently through Lucifer's hair.

Encouraged, Lucifer began to pull out all his tricks–swirling his tongue, varying pressure and speed, using his hand in tandem with his mouth.

He glanced up occasionally, thrilling at the sight of Alastor's head tipped back in pleasure, his chest rising and falling more rapidly.

Alastor's quiet sounds of enjoyment spurred Lucifer on. He redoubled his efforts, determined to bring the younger man to climax. But despite his enthusiasm and technique, that release remained elusive.

"You're doing wonderfully," Alastor breathed, his voice strained but affectionate as he stroked Lucifer's hair. "It feels incredible, truly."

Lucifer pulled back, panting slightly. "But not quite enough?" he asked, unable to keep a hint of disappointment from his voice.

“Darling…”Alastor cooed, obviously trying to soothe him. “I wouldn’t say that.”

Lucifer couldn't help the frustration that bubbled up inside him.

Alastor had been right, and that knowledge stung his pride. But beneath that initial irritation, a fierce determination took root.

He wasn't about to give up so easily.

"We're not done yet," Lucifer declared, his blue eyes flashing with renewed resolve. "I've got more tricks up my sleeve, darling."

Alastor raised an eyebrow, an amused smile playing at his lips. "Is that so? Well, I'm certainly curious to see what else you have in mind."

🍂🍁🍃

Time passed in a blur of heated touches and exploration.

As the night deepened, Lucifer found himself in a decidedly compromising position—legs in the air, practically folded in half as Alastor loomed over him.

"Fuck, yes," Lucifer gasped, all traces of his earlier shyness long gone. Sweat glistened on his skin as Alastor thrust into him relentlessly. "Just like that, don't stop!"

The intensity of the sensation was overwhelming. Lucifer had suggested this position, thinking it might finally push Alastor over the edge.

But as the pleasure built to a crescendo, he realized with a mix of chagrin and ecstasy that he was the one tipped over the edge.

"Alastor—" Lucifer's warning dissolved into a cry of pleasure as his orgasm washed over him, leaving him trembling and breathless.

Alastor's lips curled into a satisfied smirk as he gazed down at Lucifer's flushed face.

The blonde man's chest heaved as he caught his breath, a mix of frustration and lingering pleasure evident in his eyes as Alastor eased him down from being practically folded into a pretzel on the edge of the bed.

"Shut up," Lucifer muttered, unable to meet Alastor's gaze.

“Darling, I didn’t say a thing."

Lucifer took a deep breath, steeling himself before looking up at his partner. "Will you just…fuck me the way you want to?"

Alastor's eyebrows rose slightly. "However I want?" he asked, his voice low and velvety.

Lucifer nodded, swallowing hard. "Yes."

A thrill of anticipation ran through Lucifer's body. He braced himself, half-expecting Alastor to flip him over and take him roughly. To pull out his own tricks with the evident experience he had with deviant and kinky sex.

To his surprise, Alastor gently maneuvered him onto his back.

As Alastor moved over him, Lucifer instinctively wrapped his legs around the slim waist, pulling him closer.

He searched Alastor's face, trying to decipher the unexpected tenderness in his actions.

Alastor leaned in, his breath hot against Lucifer's ear. When he spoke, his voice was low and intense, but still somehow soft.

"You make me want to break my own rules, Lucifer."

Lucifer's heart skipped a beat. He opened his mouth to ask, but Alastor silenced him with a deep, languid thrust that made Lucifer's thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.

As Alastor continued his slow, steady rhythm, Lucifer managed to find his voice.

"What do you mean by your own rules?" he asked breathlessly, his fingers digging into Alastor's shoulders.

Alastor's dark eyes met Lucifer's, a flicker of vulnerability passing through them.

"I don't let my scene partners touch me," he explained, his voice low and hoarse.

Lucifer hesitated for a moment, suddenly hyper-aware of his hands on Alastor's skin.

Slowly, reluctantly, he dropped his arms from around Alastor's shoulders, letting them fall to the bed.

A fleeting look of disappointment crossed Alastor's face.

In one swift motion, he pinned Lucifer's wrists to the mattress, only to thread their fingers together a moment later.

The intimacy of the gesture gave the older man chills.

"I never do scenes with people I know," Alastor continued, his hips never faltering in their rhythm.

Guilt washed over Lucifer as the weight of Alastor's words sank in. He squeezed Alastor's hands, a mix of emotions swirling in his chest.

"I told you… we shouldn't," he whispered, his voice thick with regret. "But you—"

Before Lucifer could finish, Alastor's lips crashed against his, silencing his doubts.

The kiss was hard, desperate, filled with a longing that took Lucifer's breath away. He melted into it, his body responding instinctively to Alastor's passion.

When they finally broke apart, both were panting.

Alastor's lips ghosted over Lucifer's as he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "And…I never, ever let anyone kiss me."

The admission sent a jolt through Lucifer's body. His mind raced, trying to process the significance of what Alastor was telling him.

A soft whine escaped his throat as realization dawned.

"You've got rules against being…intimate with anyone," Lucifer breathed, his eyes searching Alastor's face.

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. Lucifer's heart pounded in his chest, something he wasn't quite ready to name, threatening to overwhelm him.

"Exactly," Alastor murmured, his voice turned to velvet. His darkened eyes bore into Lucifer's, intense and defenseless. "You make me break all of my rules. You make me…" He paused, seeming to struggle with the words. "You make me want to love you."

The confession hung in the air, heavy and raw. He'd never imagined Alastor capable of such openness, such vulnerability.

Before Lucifer could respond, Alastor ducked his head, burying his face in the crook of Lucifer's neck. The shame was palpable, as if Alastor regretted letting his guard down so completely.

Lucifer couldn't bear to see Alastor retreat.

With a surge of affection, he broke his hands free from Alastor's grip. Gently, he cupped the younger man's face, tilting it up to meet his gaze.

"Alastor," Lucifer whispered, his thumbs caressing those sharp cheekbones. Then, overcome by emotion, he pulled Alastor into a deep, tender kiss. He poured everything he couldn't say into that kiss—his own fears, his growing feelings, his acceptance of Alastor's confession.

After a moment, Alastor made a soft sound against Lucifer's lips—something between a whimper and a sigh. His hips continued their steady rhythm, but his voice was strained when he spoke.

"Tell me…" Alastor panted, the words more plea than command. “Tell me that you want me to stay.”

Lucifer broke the kiss, his breath ragged. His heart swelled with affection and a fierce protectiveness.

Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around the younger man, pulling him close.

"I want you to stay, Alastor," Lucifer breathed, pouring every ounce of sincerity into the words. “With me. As long as you’ll have me.”

As their lips met, Lucifer felt a shudder run through Alastor's body. The younger man's hips stuttered, losing their steady rhythm.

Lucifer gasped into the kiss.

"Oh," Lucifer breathed, breaking the kiss to look up at Alastor in wonder. "You're…you're coming."

Alastor's face was contorted in vulnerability and pleasure, his usual composure completely shattered.

He buried his face in Lucifer's neck, muffling a low groan against his skin.

Lucifer held him tightly, one hand tangling in Alastor's hair while the other stroked soothingly down his back. Awed by the tremors running through Alastor's body, the heat of his breath against his neck.

"That's it," Lucifer murmured, his chest tight with emotion. "Let go, sweetheart. I've got you."

The significance of what had just happened wasn't lost on him. Alastor, who never let himself be vulnerable, who always maintained strict control, had allowed himself this moment of abandon in Lucifer's arms.

"Are you alright?" Lucifer asked softly, pressing a gentle kiss to Alastor's temple.

Alastor lifted his head, meeting Lucifer's gaze. His dark eyes were hazy with bliss, but there was also a hint of wonder there.

"I…yes," Alastor replied, his voice rough.

Lucifer cradled Alastor close, relishing the warm weight of the younger man's body against his own. He could feel Alastor's heart racing, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths.

The air around them was thick with the scent of sex and sweat, a heady reminder of what they'd just shared.

“You don't have to pull away.” Lucifer murmured, running his fingers through Alastor's damp hair. “Stay with me."

Alastor remained silent, his face still hidden in the crook of Lucifer's neck. But he didn't move to disentangle himself, and Lucifer took that as a good sign.

The room was bathed in soft moonlight, casting everything in a dreamy, silver glow.

Outside, snow continued to fall silently, blanketing the world in white. It felt as though they were cocooned in their own private universe, separate from the rest of the world.

Lucifer's hands roamed gently over Alastor's back, tracing the contours of lean muscle and the ridges of his spine. He marveled at how different this felt from their previous encounters. The urgency and intensity had given way to something softer, more like making love…if he dared to think it.

Alastor finally lifted his head, meeting Lucifer's gaze. His eyes were soft, vulnerable in a way Lucifer had never seen before.

A stray lock of hair fell across his forehead, and Lucifer reached up to gently brush it away.

"I've never…" Alastor's voice was barely above a whisper. "Not like that."

Lucifer's heart swelled with affection. He cupped Alastor's face in his hands, thumbs gently caressing his cheekbones. "I'm honored," he said softly.

Alastor's lips quirked into a small, almost shy smile. It was so unlike his usual confident smirk that Lucifer felt his breath catch in his throat.

"Stay the night," Lucifer said, not quite a question but not quite a demand either. "Please. I want to fall asleep with you and wake up with you in the morning."

For a moment, Alastor looked uncertain.

Lucifer could almost see the walls trying to rebuild themselves behind his eyes. But then Alastor took a deep breath, visibly relaxing.

"Alright," he murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to Lucifer's lips. "I'll stay."

🍂🍁🍃

🍁 On Ao3🍁Read for Free on Ream🍁On Tumblr 🍁

#radioapple #radioapple human au #radioapple fic #radioapple smut #alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #lucifer hazbin #dom!alastor #sub!lucifer #top!alastor #bottom!lucifer #AtAutumnsEnd-DarcyDarling

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peskellence · 5 months ago

Text

Pairing: RK900/Gavin Reed

Tags: Post Pacifist Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Angst, Hurt/ Comfort

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Summary: In the aftermath of Detroit's android revolution, Nines grapples with the complexities of his newfound deviancy. As he seeks to establish his place in a newly transformed society, his resolve is put to the ultimate test when he is paired with Detective Gavin Reed-a notoriously volatile human with a well-established hatred for androids-to investigate a series of murders.

While initial impressions of his partner seem to suggest his reputation is well-deserved, the more time Nines spends with him, the more he is forced to challenge his judgments. As they form an unexpected bond, the RK900 is also pushed to examine truths about himself he would much rather seek to forget. (A Retelling of 'More Than Our Parts' from the POV of Nines.)

Warnings: Graphic Violence, Depression/Self Destructive Behaviour, Eventual Smut

Word Count: 5.5K

Tag List: @sweeteatercat @wedonthaveawhile @gho-stychan @tentoriumcerebelli @negative-citadel @faxaway @moriahadi424 @unicorn4genocide @cptjh-arts

They arrived at Cedars Motel just after 9:30 a.m. The lobby was devoid of patrons, and its squalid conditions left little ambiguity as to why. It was the sort of establishment that would appeal only to the most desperate of passers-by—or those involved in illicit activities.

The owner was evidently aware of their target clientele. A digital touch display was mounted on a nearby wall, one of the few furnishings that appeared to have been purchased within the century. A roulette wheel spun on the screen, a blur of red and black, before transitioning into an image of two scantily clad women. They were locked in a provocative embrace, winking coyly at the camera.

The fluorescent pink of the advertisement clashed with the sallow yellows and browns that otherwise dominated the room. Nines muted the visual assault with a swift feedback adjustment, then turned his attention to the reception. Even the staff were reluctant to linger, with the front desk equally abandoned as the rest of the facility.

As he scanned the vicinity for a bell or buzzer, Reed wandered toward the digital display. With the urgency of a tourist on vacation, he dragged his fingers across a rack of magazines beneath it. This seemed an unlikely spot for their witness to hide, with it equally doubtful that any evidence would have been concealed there.

In a superficial attempt to 'inspect' something, the human pulled one of the publications from the shelf and brought it to his face. The calibre of material he had selected was no surprise.

While the cover wasn't entirely in focus from Nines' current vantage, the bare skin and scarlet lace were unmistakable.

"Our perp sure has some refined taste…" Reed punctuated the remark with a snort, flicking to the next page. "Classy digs, don't you think?"

Nines held his tongue, desperate to point out that the current behaviour hardly proved any more refined.

Then, his systems alerted him to something: an unusual detail concerning the models his partner was shamelessly gawking at. The faultless smoothness of their skin, despite minimal photo editing and subtle flares of light which traced the contours of their temples.

> ENHANCING OPTICAL UNIT MAGNIFICATION…

> SCANNING DOCUMENTATION.

> SCAN COMPLETED.

> PUBLICATION TITLE: ELECTRIC DREAMS — ISSUE NO. 226

> HEADLINE ARTICLE: 'Your girlfriend's jaw might get tired – but ours won't! - Why Android Sex Is Still The Best.'

It was curious that Reed had felt drawn to this particular publication, given the ample range of choice. One filled to the brim with artificial bodies—flawlessly manufactured to mimic intimacy, lust and satisfaction that was inherently false.

Yet here Reed was, completely engrossed. His fascination with a dark-haired HR400 proved particularly pronounced, their already sparse wardrobe dwindling with every swipe of his finger. This continued until he was revealed in full, legs spread, striking a shamelessly evocative pose.

The detective made a low noise, somewhere between a hiss and a whistle. His vitals spiked, barrelling wildly out of control:

> ALERT

> RAPID BIOPHYSICAL SHIFT DETECTED

> HEART RATE ESCALATION: 75 BPM → 115 BPM — TIME ELAPSED 2.7 SECONDS

It was clear that the admiration of his partner's physique had not been an isolated oddity. Reed found a certain allure—an excitement—in the temptation of something that should have repulsed him. Whether or not he consciously recognised this remained unclear.

What was clear, however, was the gross inappropriateness of indulging in such material whilst on duty. The RK900 sought to correct this—on the slim chance that a customer might present themselves, witnessing the uncouth display.

"I would advise that you close your mouth, Detective."

Reed's jaw, which had dropped a disconcerting distance from the rest of his face, promptly snapped shut. He glanced up at his partner, brows raised, protesting the interjection, "Are you seriously telling me to shut up? I hardly said anything."

"I wasn't suggesting that you 'shut up,' although it would certainly be a bonus if you chose to do so—I just fear you may have to pay for that item if you continue to soak it in your drool."

Irritation veered sharply into embarrassment. A faint flush crept up his cheeks as Reed hastily set the magazine aside, all but propelled from his hands. "Great. You've got jokes now. Just what I need."

Sarcasm thickened every word, though Nines detected the faint twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. Some part of him, however grudgingly, had found humour in the remark.

The enjoyment was fleeting, buried by discomfort. Reed rocked back on his heels, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as he muttered, "Let's just find the owner of this dump and get the hell out of here…"

Nines tilted his head, a hum of consideration escaping him as he filed the response for future reference. Strategic flirtation could prove beneficial going forward—seeking to redirect wandering attention, keeping his partner in line...

Experimentation would have to wait. For now, Reed was correct. They had more pressing matters to attend to, not being helped by the owner's persisting absence.

The desk remained empty, with the staff door behind it tightly sealed. Nines doubted the flimsy plywood had muffled any part of their discussion; fledgling impatience exacerbated as it occurred just how unsavoury their current conditions were.

Beyond the unsightly furnishings, mildew and rot crept up the aged plastered walls. Running a finger across one, the surface crumbled, falling apart like rotten pastry.

"I agree it would be best to limit your exposure to our current surroundings. There is a dangerous concentration of fungal spores in this room; it could be hazardous to your health."

Reed clicked his tongue. It was clear that he'd wanted to say something—perhaps relating to the myriad of toxins he routinely invited into his body—but ultimately decided against it. Instead, he directed his focus towards the reception. A hand emerged from his pocket, encouraging Nines to take the lead.

The android was unsure if the intention behind this had been affability or idleness. Nevertheless, he accepted, his primary objective taking precedence on his HUD:

> LOCATE CEDARS MOTEL OWNER.

He made his approach, studying the desk more attentively. Overturning abandoned letters and leaflets, clearing a path through the expansive debris, until the dull yellow flicker of an overheard bulb caught against something metallic. Partially obscured beneath a pile of unpaid bills, a tarnished call bell caught his attention. It was so heavily weathered that Nines was surprised it produced any sound at all when pressed.

A shrill chime sliced through the air, utterly useless in achieving its intended purpose. There was no sign of movement, and Nines might have considered the possibility that the proprietor had expired—if it hadn't been for the vital signs detectable through the wall.

He pressed the bell again, this time with greater force, in line with a firm verbal address. The RK900 hoped this might inspire a greater incentive to respond—while simultaneously assuring that they were not debt collectors:

"Detroit Police Department."

"Whoever's hiding back there, they're deaf," Reed complained. He reeled from the unpleasant sound, hands pressed to his ears. "That thing is loud as fuck."

As though responding to the criticism, the unseen figure stirred. Biophysical mapping tracked their movement to the closed passageway. A silence descended between the partners until, at last, the soft creak of the door revealed their witness.

An elderly man emerged, ambling aimlessly toward the desk. It soon became apparent that his arrival was coincidental—he seemed completely unaware of the officers idling mere feet away.

SCANNING SUBJECT…

SCAN COMPLETE.

ANDREWS, WALTER.

BORN: 05/11/1965 // REGISTERED BUSINESS OWNER — CEDARS MOTEL LTD.

CRIMINAL RECORD: NONE.

Andrews hummed absently under his breath, eyes scanning the cluttered desk without any clear direction. He shuffled around, brow furrowed in mild confusion, until he appeared to find what he was looking for—an empty mug, half-adhered to one of the many scattered documents.

As he tilted forward, Nines detected weak feedback pulses emanating from his ears. Upon closer inspection, the source was identified as twin devices nestled beneath tufts of overgrown hair:

HEARING AID(S).

COMPONENT BATTERY LOW — FUNCTIONALITY IMPAIRED.

As spindly fingers reached for the cup, Reed cleared his throat. His fist was brought dramatically to his mouth, with his elbow pointed outward. Sunken eyes lazily tracked the motion, their ashen grey magnified by a pair of thick glasses.

Andrews responded as though the officers had materialised out of thin air. He jerked back, clutching his chest in alarm before fumbling to regain his composure. Readjusting the collar of his moth-eaten pullover, his thin lips pulled into a wiry grin.

"Apologies for the wait, sirs." His attention flitted meekly between Nines and Reed as he offered them each a cordial nod. "I must have dozed off…Are you looking for a room? I have a King Size left—great rates."

"Detroit Police Department," Nines repeated coldly, hoping the man would hear this time. "Officer RK900, Serial Number 313 248 317 - 87, and Detective Gavin Reed."

Andrews seemed put out by the forcefulness of his tone. He blinked slowly, bleary gaze absent of comprehension. There was a twitch of movement in his mouth, calling attention to the deep-set wrinkles in the corners.

Then he hummed as though to indicate he understood the situation.

"Oh, right, of course. Are you looking for a room...officers?"

He did not, still labouring under the assumption that he and his partner were prospective customers.

The assumption was brazen, bordering on insulting, and Reed appeared equally stunned. His eyes widened, belatedly grasping the full implication of what was happening.

Nines might have teased him—suggesting that they consider the offer later, should he feel so inclined—but the required humour promptly deserted him. He leaned across the desk, inches from the perspex security visor that bordered the counter. His badge was pulled from his pocket and pressed to the barrier with an authoritative thud.

"Mr. Walter Andrews, your assessment of this situation is deeply misguided. We have no interest in a room. We are here on professional matters."

The hotelier's strained smile vanished, wiped cleanly from his face as his sallow complexion deepened. Desperately, he scrambled to mitigate the fallout of his mistake.

"I-I'm very sorry to have caused offence! I thought perhaps you were doing a role-play and wanted me to go along with it. It happens more often than you'd—I didn't actually think you were—"

Fortunately, the android was not made to interrupt the blathering. It was unclear how much more scrutiny the man's weak constitution could bear. His partner took charge, stepping forward with a huff of exasperation.

"TMI, buddy." He joined Nines by the perspex divider, offering Andrews an out with a smooth redirection. "We want to know if anyone suspicious checked in on the night of January 13th—think you can help us with that?"

Andrews seemed relieved, swallowing a nervous breath that had lodged in his throat. He ran a hand distractedly over the unkempt stubble on his chin as he tried to recall the date in question.

"Well, most folks who check in here are a little... suspicious," he muttered, his tone shifting back to apprehension as a spike in his heart rate betrayed his unease. "Nothing illegal, mind you! Drunk businessmen, ladies of the night...that sort of thing."

> WITNESS PROFILE UPDATING…

> ANDREWS, WALTER.

> CRIMINAL RECORD: NONE.

> MAINTAINING PREMISES FOR CRIMINAL ACTIVITY (SUSPECTED)—FURTHER INVESTIGATION REQUIRED.

"Prostitution is not permissible in Michigan, so the arrangements you have described are indeed illegal." Nines dismissed the witness summary from his HUD, optical units refocusing. "Not that it is of immediate concern. The individual we are looking for would have been alone. Do you have any check-in records that we may review?"

"Well, yes, of course, I do…but I wouldn't usually share them. Customer confidentiality and all."

It seemed convenient that Andrews was now concerned with legal technicalities.

His thumping pulse rate continued to escalate as he made a superficial adjustment to his eyewear. "Mind telling me what this is about, officers?"

"It concerns a homicide," the RK900 informed. "This information may be critical in assisting our investigation. Your cooperation is appreciated."

"Homicide? As in murder?" The man spluttered. His hoarse tone raised several octaves, cracking unpleasantly, as he clutched at the front of his stained sweater. "I haven't heard anything about that. Is it public knowledge?"

"The story has been broadcasted on several networks."

"Was it a man? A woman? God, my niece Julie would've been out that day. She's only eighteen and such a dainty thing. It just kills me to think that something might have happened—"

The inane drivel grated against his acoustic modulators. Had the man not been so visibly frail—and the divider not present—the RK900 may have felt inclined to throttle him.

"Mr. Andrews."

"I'm looking at a screen most days and nights. Except when checking guests in—or driving Julie home—"

That said, the flimsy plastic hardly provided any real protection. The android was confident that he'd have no issues scaling past it.

Or breaking through.

"—She helps out with the cleaning on Fridays, you see. I would think I would have heard if something like that had—"

"It was an android." Nines interrupted, resisting his more violent inclinations in favour of raising his voice. "The records, please."

The torrent of verbal excrement halted. Andrews' attitude had shifted, the mania tapering as tension eased from his hunched shoulders. He spoke with an airy quality, almost like a sigh, as though the added context brought tremendous relief. "Oh, oh yes, that's—"

Then, trepidation returned to his eyes as they met with a disapproving glower. It seemed to dawn on him that this stance may have been ill-advised when addressing this particular officer.

"W-Well…that's a shame, isn't it?" he quickly backpedalled, his lips sputtering like a faulty motor. "I mean… It's very…"

His words trailed off, the stench of uncertainty mingling with the room's heady must. His gaze flitted desperately to Reed, silently pleading for support.

The detective ignored him, staring fixedly at the cork noticeboard above his head.

"…Sad," Andrews finished weakly.

He then turned to busy himself, hobbling along his workstation and sifting through mountainous piles of junk. Eventually, he craned to reach something haphazardly propped on a stack of boxes—a leather-bound ledger with a bent spine, the word 'Guests' embossed in neat script on its cover.

He wiped it with the back of his loosely draped sleeve, brushing off some residual grime before sliding it beneath the plastic partition to the android.

Nines yanked it roughly towards him, prying it from the tips of outstretched fingers. He set it on the desk and started flipping through the pages. Must and dirt filled his nostrils, intensifying the further he progressed—until he halted at entries relevant to their investigation.

He analysed the check-ins, isolating those that aligned most closely with their developing timeline of events. Unsurprisingly, many of the names appeared aliases, as cross-checking local housing databases yielded few results.

Handwriting samples were equally unhelpful. Their culprit had gone to great lengths to disguise his penmanship, with none of the writing resembling the threatening messages at the crime scenes.

The RK900 leaned closer, studying every scrawl and ink blot in meticulous detail, willing them to reveal something. Given their target's penchant for riddles—and taunting law enforcement—it was almost certain he had left them a message:

> ACCESSING SUSPECT PROFILE

> SEARCH PARAMETERS: COMMUNICATION PATTERNS.

> ANALYSING…

> LINK(S) ESTABLISHED: MORALISTIC EXTREMISM — ASSERTION OF TRADITIONAL IDEALS — RELIGIOUS/SPIRITUAL REFERENCES.

He placed these criteria at one end of his neural pathway as he sought to establish the next point of deduction. Assembling the scattered fragments of his reasoning into something sensical.

> KNOWN ALIASES — THOD GRAWS.

> ASSESSING FOR HIDDEN CODES AND MEANING...

> DETERMINING POSSIBLE SYSTEMS.

> PROBABLE RESULTS:

> ANAGRAM, CAESAR CIPHER — USAGE: COMMON IN ENCODED COMMUNICATIONS.

> APPLYING SEARCH CRITERIA 1...

> GENERATING RESULTS

In the background, he was vaguely attuned to Andrews and Reed conversing, though the details escaped him. The letters shifted in multiple directions, ordered and reordered in rapid succession. They became a frenzied blur of movement as results tallied on the right-hand side of his optics:

> GHOST WARD.

> WART HOGS.

> DAGS THROW.

This continued until one in particular struck as significant—connecting seamlessly to the established criteria—and he promptly suspended the search.

> GODS WRATH.

He stared at the phrase. The neat diagnostic typeface gnawed at his thoughts, filling him with a complex mixture of hopefulness and foreboding.

Dismissing all superfluous data from his conscious view, he redirected his focus back to the book in front of him. Its blotched, yellowed pages were now perceived through a new lens of clarity, the threads of logic weaving together as he repeated the same deductive process.

The name practically leapt from the page, its letters joining those that swarmed like locusts in the enclaves of his mind:

> HANS STIVER.

Nines recorded a snapshot of the text, storing it with the rest of their evidence before pulling back sharply.

"He was here."

The motion startled Reed, and it took a moment for him to process the words. As their meaning sank in, the defensive tension drained from his shoulders.

"...You're kidding me." He lunged forward, palms slapped onto either side of the sign-in book. "This guy was seriously dense enough to use 'Thod Graws' in two different places?"

"He didn't use the same name," Nines clarified, noting the confusion knitting between the human's brows the longer he squinted at the pages. "But he may as well have done."

He then looked to Andrews, who appeared dismayed to be the renewed centre of attention. The RK dismissed this, pressing a finger to the guestbook and urging him to look.

"Do you remember this man?"

Reluctant to argue, the hotelier leaned forward, obediently studying the page. It was a struggle, given his already impaired eyesight, exacerbated by the numerous spots of grime on the perspex.

"Who, Hans?" he asked pensively, his mouth curled into a frown. "He was a strange one. I couldn't get two words out of him. Paid with cash and went straight to his room."

"Do you remember what he looked like? This may be of crucial importance. I implore you to think carefully."

"It was raining that night. He came in wearing a hood and refused to pull it down…" Andrews' lips pulled inwards, although Nines was confident he'd heard some muttered beratement about 'the youth of today.'

"I asked if he had an ID, but he said he'd left it at home—I never got a good look at his face."

Emerging optimism strained as the android encountered an impasse. He searched for a way around it, adapting his approach to draw whatever he could from the spotty witness account:

> ACCESSING CASE EVIDENCE...

Images blossomed in his peripherals, creeping forward until they formed a scrolling banner across his visual scope. He studied them closely, searching for potential identifiers that might jog Andrews' memory…

Reed was faster, gleefully seizing the opportunity to outpace him. His tone carried preemptive confidence as if he already knew the answer:

"Let me guess. He was wearing a black raincoat?"

Andrews reeled back, his bulging eyes and gaping mouth speaking volumes about the accuracy of this assessment. "W-Well, yes, actually, I believe so—but how did you—"

"Psychic," The detective quipped before retrieving a tattered notebook from his jacket.

Flipping through the pages, he passed through droves of illegible scrawlings and crude sketches until he landed on a blank sheet. Fishing a well-chewed pen from the ring binds, he poised to take a statement.

"Who was on the desk the following morning? Anyone who might have seen him check out?"

The initiative had been unexpected—and was not strictly unnecessary, given the RK's ability to record and transcribe audio feedback in real-time. Nonetheless, he allowed Reed to proceed, indulging in his perceived victory.

He listened along, prepared to field any gaps in the account:

"Well, I was here all day, but…" Andrews faltered, cheeks tinged with embarrassment. Slowly, he gestured to a small metal panel mounted on the far wall, a slot cut in the centre. "I have a drop box for early morning checkouts. Got to sleep sometime, you know?"

> ANDREWS DID NOT SEE THE SUSPECT LEAVE.

> RECALCULATING APPROACH…

> SUGGESTION: ESTABLISH OTHER POSSIBLE WITNESSES.

"Does anybody else work here, or is it just you?" Reed asked, surprisingly in sync with Nines' own neural processes.

"I mean, there's Julie. I did tell you about Julie, right?"

No words passed between the partners, though the android could sense a mutual disdain developing for the tangent.

"She's a lovely girl, always helping me out, going to college in September. Sharp as a tack, that one. I could ask if maybe she saw—"

Reed was the first to break. He shoved the notebook back into his pocket with a groan, mostly unused. "You know what? Never mind…"

Nines resumed the lead, reluctant to leave empty-handed after the profound feat of mental endurance that had carried them this far.

"Would you have any CCTV records from the night in question?"

"Well, I've got the camera up there…" Andrews gestured to the corner of the room with a weak flourish that failed to inspire confidence. "But it's grainy as sin. You can't make out anything but blurs and squiggles. I'm not sure what good it'll be."

"Regardless of its quality, a copy of the footage would be appreciated." Nines straightened his back authoritatively, eager to conclude the mind-numbing exchange. "We can analyse it ourselves to determine its usefulness."

"Well, I wouldn't know how to make a copy, but I can give it a go…never got to grips with this newfangled technology. If you ask me, it just makes everything more confusing."

Nines hummed, glossing over what could have easily been taken as another insult. It seemed pointless, seeking to educate a man teetering on the brink of senile dementia. Instead, he lifted his hand, retracting the skin to expose the chassis beneath—a quiet demonstration of what, precisely, his 'newfangled technology' was capable of.

"If you could show me to the hub, I will be able to download the data myself."

"Oh, right, yes, I forgot that you—uh—" Andrews fumbled, reassessing his words before he said anything else potentially contentious. Or got himself arrested. "That androids could do that."

With a stiff nod, he opened the bolted gate beside the desk and slid it back obligingly.

"This way, please."

While he had hoped Andrews' assessment was a consequence of technological ineptitude, the man had proved frustratingly correct. Nines reviewed the security footage as they stepped onto the street but found himself unable to decipher anything but mangled contortions of pixels.

"So much for a quick in and out," Reed complained, groaning loudly. "If I had to listen to another word about 'lovely Julie,' I was going to blow my brains out."

Nines huffed at the theatrics, his amusement growing as he watched Reed recoil from the cold. His chin was buried in his jacket, nose peeking over the zipper.

"Perhaps you were too dismissive—this Julie could have been a valuable witness."

"That seems pretty unlikely."

"I don't know, Detective. I hear she's rather sharp."

Then Reed's irritation faltered. He leaned back, exhaling a rogue chuckle into the air, the sound carrying like smoke until it vanished.

"Seriously, did you download a sense of humour? Because you are full of them today."

"Nothing I have said has been in jest," the RK countered. It was a selective truth, punctuated by a light shrug. "I am simply being transparent."

"Surprised you didn't rip that guy a new one the second he started spewing useless bullshit. I thought you were designed to intimidate."

> Do not be mistaken, Detective. I was highly tempted.

He relented from vocalising this particular cognitive strand, maintaining an appropriate degree of professionalism. "I was designed to intimidate criminals, not harass civilians. Well, that, and also to—"

His voice was claimed from him.

Its absence was jarring and unceremonious as the world around them was plunged into darkness.

Nightfall had arrived without warning, and Nines was forced to scramble through it, unable to see anything ahead. Then, like the beam of a torch, a set of large, fearful eyes cut through the shadows.

“̸̾͜"N̷̲͍͒͑͌̌̕9̵͙̀̉̌́̒͝—̸̮̪̐

̵̠̈

̵̹̳͈͈̱̹̉̉̽͗̓P̴̺͈̠̬̙͌̀/̵̗̺͎͈̲͈̿͑̇̾̽͌#̷̡̛͔͍̪͓̥̄͒̚͠@̸̪̘̮͚̈́̈́s̴̿̃́̂̈͝ͅ#̸̺͚͇͈̅͑͂͊̌̏ ̷̩̠̐d̵̜̠͎̪͚̍̔́͝͠9̸̳̲̥̺̔͊̈̕ń̴͈̝͠5̶̭̥̅—̸͕̍͊̒͘”̶̔̂̿͐͝"

̴̦̅

̴̘̻́͑̓͒͘

̵̢̩̜̱͕͐̅͛ͅ>̷̡͚̄ ̵̳͉̗̈́̌̓͝E̷̽͜X̷͉͓̂ͅẸ̷̛̥͋̈́̆̽C̵̳̩̽̉̎̋̏̑U̸̩̖̐͗̕T̶̪͇̫̗̪̼͆Ë̵̻́̇̊͝

Blue.

It flooded his sightless gaze—a chaotic kaleidoscope of pixels—until it coagulated and dripped in thick, viscous lines down his hands.

The liquid slipped from his splayed fingers, pooling at his feet, dripping until each trace was gone, and the puddles faded from view.

Invisible to all who looked, but with stains that permeated his skin. Remaining there forever, visible only to him.

"...Nines…?"

A flash of light and day returned. The android reeled back, clutching his temple, blinking in the harsh winter sun.

Reed was staring at him, his hand offering some protection from the oppressive rays as it waved inches from his face.

"You're not glitching on me, are you?"

The lingering tendrils of his nightmare taunted him. Skating across his arms and legs, threatening to tighten their hold and drag him back into the void.

Then they receded, and he was safe—for now—able to press ahead.

"I am not," he lied evenly, hoping his performance indicator would not betray him. "My diagnostics indicate that I am functioning normally."

"Right," Reed spoke flatly, his tone brimming with scepticism.

For a moment, it seemed he might relent, allowing the matter to rest. This was before he proved steadfast in his commitment to privacy invasion.

"...Are you sure? You're acting twitchy."

"If I were experiencing a fault that may inhibit this investigation, I would certainly be aware of it."

Even with the efforts to conceal his deceit, Nines couldn't hide the spidering cracks in his facade—ones that Reed pounced on with irritating precision.

Perhaps it was juvenile to bemoan this ability, given the man's profession, but Nines couldn't bring himself to care. His priority was ending the unwelcome scrutiny as quickly as possible.

"Perhaps it is best we focus on that rather than the intricacies of my program, which I can assure are beyond your comprehension."

Reed hissed through his teeth, the sound teetering between offence and mockery. "Jesus, okay, touchy much?"

The RK900 refused to dignify this with a response. He trusted his partner must have retained some of what had been discussed the previous day—the limitations of his program, including his scant tolerance for matters he did not wish to discuss.

Reed ultimately relented. He kicked a loose pebble across the sidewalk, scowling bitterly—a petulant child who had failed to get his way.

"Fine. If you wanna talk business, what did you mean when you said our guy 'may as well' have used the same name? Because I checked those sign-ins, and I didn't see anything close to 'Thod Graws.'"

"Our culprit is fond of codes." Nines' attention flitted briefly to the data he had collated in the motel before returning to his partner. "His preferred method for alias generation appears to be anagrams. When reordered, Thod Graws translates to God's Wrath. This new name, Hans Stiver, has similar connotations."

Reed frowned, pausing to retrieve his forgotten notebook. With a grunt, he scrawled out the name. His brow furrowed as he bent over the page, letters scratched out and reordered, frustration simmering beneath his focus.

Minutes passed before his posture stiffened. His hunched shoulders snapped straight as a spark of realisation lit up his ruminative gaze.

"Holy shit, you're right."

The confirmation wasn't necessary. Nines had run multiple self-tests to finalise his computation. Still, a small sense of satisfaction came from having his findings validated.

"Your computer brain got anything for that gibberish from the other day?" Reed asked, lifting his eyes from the papers, genuinely curious. "The weird binary shit?"

"It wasn't binary. Had it been, I would have deciphered it instantaneously—"

Nines fought to maintain his composure, but hints of resentment slipped through. Heat crept across his face as his core temperature steadily rose.

"Truthfully, I'm unsure of the system used. While I possess advanced deductive capabilities, code decryption is not one of my primary functions. An oversight on Cyberlife's part, perhaps."

"Yeah, I'll say. What kind of detective bot doesn't have a built-in code breaker?"

The comment tightened his jaw, far from appreciative of Reed's decision to 'kick him' while he was down.

"At any rate," Nines continued, voice levelling back to its usual neutrality, "it may take me a little longer, but I'm confident I'll crack it soon."

"We can definitely add 'religious nutjob' to the suspect profile, anyway. Hell of a lot else we've got to go on…"

The RK900 refrained from mentioning he had already done this, not wishing to jeopardise his partner's burgeoning interest.

"I wouldn't suggest that we have nothing."

The assurance was ineffective, the scowl etched on the man's face deepening significantly. "What are you, fucking high?"

"I am incapable of getting high. They have yet to replicate the effects of human narcotics on androids. Although I hear Thirium-based alcohol is—"

"You knew what I meant, jackass," Reed challenged coldly. "Just face it—we've got no DNA, no reliable witnesses, and no more leads. Unless that footage is of the killer holding up a signed confession, this feels like another dead end."

The android bristled, mirroring the man's sour expression, as he was faced with the looming possibility he might be correct.

It was doubtful further analysis would draw anything salvageable from the footage. That being said, while tracing the killer's call had yielded little results, the data presented could still prove beneficial in guiding their movements. A different approach would be needed.

Nines considered the events that had predated the phone call: where their culprit may have been before checking into Cedars and whether retracing those steps could reveal anything new.

As he assessed the TSU transmission for any overlooked details, his attention shifted to the surrounding buildings. Among the drab streetscape, a shock of red drew his focus. Formed in bold lettering on a weathered storefront:

> MIKEY'S PHONES AND ELECTRONICS.

He was pulled from his analysis, the discovery sparking a new hypothesis. Their trip, it seemed, had not been wasted—having brought them to what might be their next significant lead.

"Perhaps not," he concluded, a satisfied quirk tugging his lips. "We can assume that our culprit used a burner phone when they arranged the HR400's services. He would have needed to purchase the SIM somewhere, as well as the phone itself—how convenient that a store nearby could provide him exactly what he was looking for."

As Reed followed the explanation, his gaze drifted to align with his partner's. Upon catching sight of the storefront, he received the information with far greater scepticism.

"Detroit is a big fucking city," he said bluntly. "Our perp could've bought that SIM from anywhere. Even if we had a hunch, we'd have no way of tracing it. Thing is probably long gone."

"Maybe so, but the log collected from the suspect's call provided more than a location—

The phone used was a 2013 Samsung S3. If it so happens that a phone of that model was purchased in that store, with a prepaid SIM included, in the days before the murder..."

"...It would seem like one hell of a tidy coincidence," Reed grunted, begrudgingly conceding the point. "Alright, tin-can, I'll bite. But if you're wrong about this, I'll fucking dismantle you."

"Duly noted." The smirk tugging his lips grew before it was suppressed. It occurred that their current opportunity ought to be seized promptly, lest it slip from their fingers.

"I suggest we act quickly. We have failed to check in with the Captain for quite some time. No doubt he'll wish to receive an update."

#oh we are so back #apologies for the incredibly long hiatus #dbh #detroit become human #dbh nines #reed900 #dbh gavin #dbh fanfiction #dbh fanfic #gavin reed x rk900 #dbh fic

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simkaswriting · 2 years ago

Text

What if…Eris had danced with y/n instead?

A/N- Hi hi! This is a one shot from a series I'm currently writing for acotar, if you're interested in reading about other beloved characters like Cas, Az, Mor, Rhys and Lucien and their own 'what if' moments, make sure to check back❤️

Dull. That was the only word coming to mind when Y/N surveyed the large, cavernous room. The inner circle was paying their supposed yearly visit to the Court of Nightmares, according to the little information Mor let slip at the dinner table last night. It was not the lack of decorations, or even the monotonous colours throughout the room, but rather it was the fae that were dull. Music echoed around them all, hundreds of males and females clad in varying shades of grey and black talking quietly amongst themselves as if unaware of the festive holiday they were gathered to celebrate, yet only a handful indulged in the compelling music. Y/N stood quietly on the far end of the unintentional line the inner circle formed around the two thrones, right next to quiet Elain, who in turn was leaning lightly against Feyre’s throne. It wasn’t like she tried to blend into the background the way the Azriel’s shadows allowed him to, or that she stood out like a sore thumb the way Elain did with her exuberant energy and bright eyes. Nor did she entice every male the way her eldest sister did with her fierce glare and head held high. No, Y/N was simply just there. Startling in beauty, ferocious in demeanour, and quite frankly a little disappointed at what the Court of Nightmares regarded as a party. Which is perhaps what piqued the red headed Autumn Court male’s attention. Y/N, just standing off to the side yet not seeming lonely, almost as if placing an invisible barrier between herself and the rest of her new family. He wondered why she stood there instead of dancing with some lowly scum like the eldest sister did, hanging off the brute’s arm, though he was almost certain nobody in this room would dare ask her for a dance. If only out of fear of aggravating the High Lord sitting a few feet away.

An hour goes by with minimal conversation between Y/N and Elain, and even then, the words dry out due to her sisters’ fear of drawing attention to themselves. Mouth dry and legs slightly stiff from her unmoving position next to her sisters, Y/N quietly walks over to the large table coated with an array of refreshments, in search of something stronger than water to help the time flow a little faster. Her eyes narrow in on a bottle of red wine, from the Summer Court if the writing is anything to go by. She reaches for the bottle, fully intending to keep it all to herself, when a cedar and cinnamon smell fills her nostrils.

“If I may, I’d suggest this wine, call it a personal favourite and a matter of good taste.” The voice is deep yet oddly soft, so very out of place in this pit of despair surrounding her. It’s as if the tone caresses her.

Stomach in knots, Y/N looks up at the male next to her, and fights back the gasp that surely would have escaped her if she didn’t know better. A tall male clad in hues of green and brown stands next to her, holding a bottle of white wine which looks comically small in his large hand. His height has her almost subconsciously take a step back, looming over her like a bad omen she’s sure he is. His face is sculpted as if by the Mother herself, though she can tell he isn’t just a pretty face to look at by the red scar barely visible under the collar of his shirt. No fae male in the Court of Nightmares on this festive day is just a pretty face. Yet it’s the male’s fiery red hair, bright as if fire itself courses through it, that has Y/N repressing the urge to marvel at it and reach out to run her hand through the fiery locks.

She schools her expression into one of calm indifference instead, perhaps a second too late, and glances at the bottle in the stranger’s hand. Autumn court wine. Her arm falls back to rest at her side, now fully facing the mysterious male, even if it drives her heartbeat crazy and floods her mind with static.

“Good taste would be finding yourself in better company on this joyous night.” She draws out the latter half of her sentence in mockery. Yes, the winter solstice is a time of mirth and expressing appreciation for your loved ones in Velaris, at least from the rare glimpses she’s managed to steal. However, the holiday loses its meaning in the Court of Nightmares. Surely the red head has better options than spending his time in this joyless pit of despondency, attempting to strike up a conversation with the forgotten Archeron sister?

A haughty chuckle comes from him as he sets the wine down on the banquet table and extends his hand, an inkling of a bow following.

“I was hoping you could be that company. May I have this dance?”

She studies his hand, eyes raking over the large surface of his palm and following the veins as they disappear below his tunic, throat growing a little dry. Unsure of why she should say no, especially since she can already feel the tediousness of the next few hours seeping in, Y/N accepts the strangers offer.

Y/N feels eyes burning holes in her, through her, a sour pit churning in her stomach. With a surprisingly gentle touch, the red head draws their bodies together, chest to chest, his hand coming to rest on her lower back, placing himself between her and the inquiring eyes of the inner circle, much to her relief.

Is it such an issue for Y/N to dance with another male? Was she expected to stand by her sisters and the Illyrian males doubling as bodyguards all night, bored to the stars, and counting down the minutes until they could winnow her back to the House of Wind? Nesta and Cassian were enjoying themselves, Feyre and Rhysand were enamoured with each other, and Azriel and Elain were engaged in quiet conversation. So, what is the problem with Y/N enjoying the harmless company of this mysterious, and not to mention breathtakingly beautiful, fae male?

Placing her hand on his shoulder and the other in his hand, large and calloused from centuries of experience she could probably never even begin to comprehend, Y/N looks up at the male.

“How do you find yourself in this cesspool of ingrates on such a beautiful holiday? Surely the Autumn Court would be more…” She pauses, weighing the words on her tongue before letting them slip on a cloud of playfulness to her surprise.

“…favourable.”

Eris guides the two of them in wide circles, knowing he needs not pay attention to the other fae around. Only fools with a death wish would so much as approach the red head and Archeron sister. As his fingers brush across the exposed skin of lower back, the low-cut fabric of her dress revealing enough to please his eyes and send sparks up his fingers at each contact with her, he wonders if her skin is flush to the touch from this nausea-inducing pit or perhaps his proximity.

He hums in approval. Of what exactly, he isn’t sure, coherent thoughts slowly slipping out of his reach.

“You are correct. Though it seems fate would have it that I come here tonight. And what a lovely stroke of luck that I find myself in your company.” He purrs, voice low enough just for her and only her to hear.

He watches heat creep up her exposed neck and settle on the tips of her newly pointed ears with the hint of a smile playing on his lips. And he can’t help but wonder if that truly is the case. If the reason he turned down the invitation to his families own festive ball had something to do with fate, destiny, perhaps the Mother. If the stars intended for the two of them to end up in each other’s paths, each other’s arms.

Voice soft, fighting to keep her eyes on the male’s face despite feeling like the floor may open up and swallow her whole, she asks “May I at least know the name of my dance partner?”

A mischievous, silently knowing smile tugs at the males’ lips as he glances over his dance partners head with ease. Y/N knows who the teasing look was meant for, her High Lord, Feyre’s mate. But as fleeting as the moment is, his bright eyes find themselves looking into hers again.

“Eris. Eris Vanserra, General of the Autumn Court forces. Future High Lord of the Autumn Court. If you’d like the specifics.” His voice flows over her, teasing tone setting in as he finishes his sentence. His eyes are playful, low, and amused, as if he was in on a joke she wasn’t, as if she was some innocent pawn in a game the male who just declared himself the future High Lord of the Autumn Court was engaged in with Rhysand.

She rakes her brain for that missing piece of information, that last piece of the puzzle to really place this male. But instead of finding it within herself, she follows his gaze, fleeting as it was, only to find a tight-lipped Morrigan with eyes set on Y/N, icy and reticent, Azriel’s hand discreetly hovering behind her. To protect or hold her back, she isn’t sure. The cloudy aura around the blonde, usually strikingly orange in its hue, borders on coal as the two of them exchange a knowing look.

And that last puzzle piece clicks. The male whose hands are sending shivers up her spine at their contact with the exposed skin of her back is the same male Morrigan was betrothed to, if Y/N can trust the little information Nesta let slip during one of her drunken tirades, shut down mercilessly by Cassian before she could reveal more. An easy feeling creeps up to (Y/N)’s chest. She didn’t need to know the full story of what occurred between the two fae to arrive at the conclusion that it wasn’t pleasant. And that accepting his invitation to dance with him, with Eris Vanserra, despite initially not being aware of who this male was, may cost her upon the inner circles return to Velaris.

But his gentle hold on her as he leads them around the room with feet skilled beyond her expectations makes her wonder if there was more to him, more to this interaction, than some ulterior motive. More than thrusting a red-hot iron poker at Morrigan’s trauma and showing Rhys and Feyre that their inner circle was not untouchable, unreachable, unbreachable.

As if sensing her growing discomfort, Eris manoeuvres the two of them across the large, cavernous room, past the dancing fae, away from the prying eyes of the inner circle and towards the music. A risky move, they both know, but despite her newfound hesitation, she can’t help but feel thankful. And not just for removing her from yet another unsettling situation she always seems to find herself in with her sisters’ new family. But for reaching out his hand, for grasping her attention, for making her feel seen and alive for the first time since she emerged from the Cauldron desperate for more.

“I don’t know if you’re brave or just plain foolish, Eris Vanserra.” Y/N quips, eyes set on the liquid-like amber ones looking down at her, unmoving, almost challenging.

He wouldn’t be the first or last to try lay claim on the fourth Archeron sister. To try find footing, a doorway into the inner circle. The elusive Night Court. Sometimes Y/N thinks her sisters got it easy. Mated practically right out of the Cauldron, to three brothers no less. They wouldn’t understand the pressure pulling her down each day, the feeling of being a bargaining chip in Rhysand’s pocket, a way to establish or strengthen alliances in the centuries to come. A precious and valued position to fill in all the High Lord’s eyes.

His eyes remain on hers, unflinching, lips slightly curving at the corner at her tone. Eris had heard the rumours. The three sisters of the High Lady of the Night Court, submerged in the elusive depths of the Cauldron, each gifted, each more beautiful than the other. Three sisters on lockdown in the Night Court, two mated. And he would be lying if he denied any ulterior motives, however his existing alliance with Rhysand was questionable but firm, his eventual succession as High Lord all but guaranteed. He had no real need to court the female in his arms. Though, being betrothed to any member of the High Lord and Lady’s family would be a good union for any male, however, betrothal to a mysteriously gifted sister of the first High Lady of Prythian would result in a more powerful union than any other in history. And despite this thought percolating every other thought in his mind, he can’t help but feel like the Mother was trying to play some cruel joke on him. Like she created this woman turned fae just for him, with the way her body feels pressed against his, each movement of her hair sending her scent directly to his nose and nearly buckling his knees. Her smaller hand in his, fingers intertwined with his like their grooves were made just for him. Her bright eyes on his, and he thinks, for the first time in his life, he wouldn’t mind looking into them until time ceased to matter.

“Why not both, dear?” His question is rhetorical in nature, and with heat creeping up her neck she wonders. Could this male truly be evil incarnate if he looked at her like he was ready to worship the ground she walked on?

Hand in his, she blindly follows his lead, never having favoured ballroom dancing the way her eldest sister did. However, she can’t help but find herself drawn to the stranger who has her on her toes. The music carries the two around the room, spinning, floating across the cold emanating from the chiselled stone of the behemoth mountain, eyes never leaving each other. His grip on her body is firm yet gentle, the fire in her very core growing, and she wonders if it has something to do with the male’s heritage or her own gift. The two glide around the large poor excuse for a ballroom with carelessness, lost in a trance, ending up near Rhysand’s and Feyre’s thrones. They can feel eyes on them, burning with questions, accusations, the latter originating from the Truth Speaker herself. But to them, time seems to be still rather than flowing. Their own little undisturbed bubble.

“I can sense it, smell it.” Rhysand whispers into the crook of Feyre’s neck, just below her ear, eyes on his mate’s sister and the heir to the Autumn Court. It was obvious to him, to his brothers and Mor, a sickening sight, one that only seemed to make sense to the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court. Yet he wondered, with the cavern full of monstrous fae, how was the scent so permeating?

Feyre, chest heavy with disappointment but acceptance, nods. She can too. The tether between the two, the bond making itself known. And all she can do is watch as Eris dips her sister low, her hair grazing the ground, and places the ghost of a kiss to her throat.

A shockwave of pleasure washes over Y/N at the gentle pressure of his lips on her neck, the embers in her chest igniting and rising to a flame threatening to consume her whole. A tug in her chest, the fire she thinks, begs her to stay close, pull him back into her embrace and not let go. So, she follows her instinct and draws their bodies back together, closer this time, chests heaving against each other, her lips parted, and his eyes so focused on her he almost misses his own name spoken by Rhysand.

“Composure, Eris, please.” Rhysand purrs, examining his nails as if he hasn’t just witnessed the pairing in front of him all but seal their fate.

(Y/N)’s eyes widen. Not from fear or apprehension at the words of her sister’s mate. But rather from the crushing feeling of need weighing on her chest, need to be closer to this man she didn’t know existed before tonight, need to claw out Azriel’s eyes from the glare he’s throwing Eris, need to shield him with her own body from the threat she knows the inner circle poses.

Feeling the ripple in the air, the unmistakeable tug in his chest despite his unwavering fear of what it spells out for him, Eris gently lets go of her body, instead opting for placing a hand on her lower back, long fingers brushing out soft circles over the fabric of her black backless dress as he walks them the few steps it takes to stop at what he deems is an acceptable, safe, distance from Rhysand.

And before he can consider his words, really take in their weight and implications, they slip past his lips. “What do I need to do for her hand in marriage?”

Of course, Eris suspects the hold Rhysand possesses on all his inner circle members. But judging by the disdain in Y/N’s eyes he observed from the moment they arrived to the moment he approached her, Rhysand wasn’t too interested in this particular Archeron sister. Eris was intelligent, well versed in courtly socialite behaviours. He knew of the hoops he needed to jump through, pleasantries to exchange, even if they did not matter. He only really needed the confirmation from one fae, and it was the one his blood raced for, the fire within him craved.

“The choice is Y/N’s, of course.” Feyre chimes in, sharp eyes focused on her sister as she takes in the scene before her. Y/N’s look bordering on feral, fists clenched at her side, jaw rigid. And in her mind, Rhysand’s chuckle echoes, because she may not yet realise the obvious spark in the air.

The illusion of freedom Rhysand and Feyre paint is laughable, Y/N thinks. She always knew her sister to be cunning, and her mate turning out to be Rhysand was something nobody ever questioned, for all the right reasons. Two peas in a metaphorically corrupt pod. She swallows the hate threatening to spew through her clenched jaw, her heart threatening to break her ribcage if it beat any faster at the words of the male next to her. She knew of the courtly games, had been living their nightmare from the moment the cauldron let her take and take and still gifted her with more, knew his words were really just a necessity. And, with bone chilling horror, realized that the entirety of the Court of Nightmares was gawking at them. But the steady and reassuring hand on her back brings her to reality.

Head held high, knowing if she is to accept Eris’s proposal she will become a significant pawn in Rhysand’s game, she thinks that it would all be worth it if she gets to fall asleep in the arms of the stranger who somehow found the sliver of life left in her and pulled it to the surface. She feels, deep down, that marriage will be just a formality for whatever connection she’s feeling between the two of them. His question isn’t something she has to ponder over.

“Yes.” Her voice echoes around the cavern, loud and clear and heard by all.

She doesn’t miss the slight smirk on Rhysand’s lips, the kind look in Feyre’s eyes, the betrayal laced with defeated understanding on Mor’s face. Y/N knows the fiery haired male is on shaky terms with the inner circle at best, for reasons she hopes to understand, but some innate part of her feels whatever grievances will be aired, she will not be moved from his side.

“Congratulations, lovely Y/N. May this union be blessed by the Mother.” Rhysand hums, voice low, double-edged sword that is his tongue savouring the moment. As his eyes meet the amber of the eldest Vanserra brother, he can’t help but grin, because he knows. Eris knows that that hum in the air is, that fire in his chest. Reigning in his smirk, Rhysand sends a quick prayer to the Mother, thinking that Eris may need it if he is to survive by Y/N’s side.

Y/N lightly bows her head, an inch, just enough to show her gratitude for the sake of the onlookers. And before any other fae has the opportunity to pluck up the courage and approach the newly engaged pair, Eris is already gently leading her to the edge of the grand hall, hand still on her back.

“How would you like to sample some of that Autumn Court wine in your new home, my dear (Y/N)?” Eris purrs, lips brushing against the shell of her ear. And the scent that permeates his nose, one of want and need and anticipation, is the only answer he needs as the shadows grow around the two. As the pair winnows, she thinks that perhaps the festivities will be more joyful next year with Eris by her side.

#eris vanserra #eris vanserra x reader #eris x reader #erris vanserra x you #high lord eris #eris acotar #acotar #acotar eris #a court of thorns and roses #acotar x reader #acotar x you #autumn court

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arctrooper69 · 2 years ago

Note

hello i come rolling in with a fic request because i adore your style of writing, but please don’t feel pressured! i understand you probably get a lot of requests

could you do a wolffe x reader fic (probably fluff or hurt comfort) where it’s based on “annie’s song” by john denver? i have an image of them slow dancing in the rain in a meadow in my head but you don’t have to include that

thank you so much!! 💚💚

This is such a beautiful song 😍 I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to get this to you! I hope I captured the essence of the song for you!

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Come Let Me Love You

...Let me lay down beside you. Let me always be with you. Come, let me love you. Come love me again...

Warnings: Bittersweet angst. Allusions to Order 66.

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Closing your eyes, you could almost pretend like it wasn't real - like there wasn't a war outside.

The sunlight danced upon your skin in a sweet embrace of a comforting warmth. If you kept your eyes closed, it felt like home. The smell of lilacs drifted through the trees; the long grass tickled the bottoms of your feet. They were here - all of them. Your boys in white. The same in face but their eyes told stories of their own. Some faded, flitting about as ghosts - only here to guide brothers still standing - but all were clad in armor of their chosen colors. They seemed content. No war here, only peace. The sleepy crashing of ocean waves, wind whispering through the sky and the feather-soft song of birds floated through the air in gentle harmonies of a melody you couldn't begin to describe. Familiar - yet an ethereal mystery.

"Dance with me, Mesh'la?"

The words sounded strange coming from the mouth of a battle-worn clone. Grey armor worn by a scarred face with one eye replaced by cybernetics. Intimidating; observant; yet kind and gentle in touch. Only you could see the man beneath the solider. That side of him made itself known for you and only you. What was once a weakness he hated, now became his strength to carry on.

Commander Wolffe was never one to give in so easily. Neither were you. He couldn't wrap his head around whatever cosmic force demanded that he hold you close. The angry storm of battle that raged within him seemed to quell - commanded into a silent peace - simply by having you near.

In a dream, the simple melody seemed to swell with pearls of youthful laughter as he took your hand and spun you around. If he could drown himself in that beautiful sound, what a way to go it would be.

Drifting through the waving grass, he held on tight as if upon letting you go, he'd float somewhere far away.

In a trance, together you drifted, like time itself did not exist. Nothing existed save for the grizzled Clone Commander and the object of his desires.

A gentle hand lifted your face to meet his eyes. Rough and calloused fingertips that soothed like sand.

"I have to go, Mesh'la. Duty calls."

Your lips moved as if to whisper a soft, mournful plea, yet no words were spoken.

Please don't go. Not yet.

As if called down by the pain of parted lovers, a misty rain began to fall. The universe itself was crying, mourning the violent innocence of artificial creation. Yet the rain was not all for sorrow. It felt cool and comforting - as though to sooth your fears - like the lips that ran gently across your face, telling you that everything would be okay.

Come, let me love you.

"One more dance?" The words came softly, slipping out as little more than a whisper - but you knew the words were heard.

"One more dance, my love. One more song."

The rain continued to fall, lightly tapping the leaves, wetting the soil where flowers bloomed - one for every fallen brother.

He was all around you. Strong arms guiding you through vibrant petals of red in a field of poppies that danced in the sweetness of a summer breeze. The aroma of a musky cedar and lonely petrichor intertwined and spiraled upwards emanating from somewhere around you. His scent - the one with which you had associated him from the first time he'd spoken to you down in the gardens of the Senate building that fateful morning.

Around and around he spun you, holding you together with arms that you supposed were strong enough to hold the world - dancing in the rain to that strange enchanting melody. Everything else apathetically faded into nothing as you let him fill your senses with that pure, yet melancholic bliss.

"Won't you stay?"

Let me lay down beside you. Let me always be with you.

Never let me go.

***

The low rumble of a brewing storm woke you with a strange gentleness. You lay unmoving beneath the sheets, unfocused eyes gazing blankly through the ceiling as though trying in vain to retreat back into the Commander's longing arms. The sensation of his lips lingered on your skin as you touched your cheek, fingers brushing the ghosts of his kisses. They came away wet. Only now did you realize the falling tears were your own.

Something had happened. The world was different now. The galaxy was grieving. You could sense it in the air and smell it's metallic sorrow in the rain as it fell outside the open window. A feeling of wrongness pervaded your senses. It was mournful and empty.

Commander Wolffe wouldn't be coming back this time.

Maybe someday. Maybe not ever.

Like being led once more through an unfamiliar dance, you rose and took the dress you'd lain out the night before. It hung lightly down to the knees, adorned with red poppies.

Perfect for dancing.

Quietly you hung it back on the wall. You would wait for your soldier.

Come let me love you.

Only then would you dance again.

Come love me again.

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@zoeykallus @ttzamara @nahoney22 @merkitty49 @viva-la-whump @thrawns-teef-weef @dumpsters-little-matchbook @nekotaetae @ladykatakuri @loverofclones @heyitsaloy @padawancat97 @jambolska-grozdova @flyingkangaroo @melymigo @rain-on-kamino @jiabae @my-own-oracle @dragonrider9905 @queenofspades6 @ordinarylokix @jupitersaturnapollo @queencousland101 @vampire-rouge @southernbaguette @staycalmandhugaclone @dalu-grantkylo @dangraccoon @aconstructofamind @blueink-bluesoul @kixs-husband @pb-jellybeans @atomickidsoul @caitnotfound @temmiegailg @skellymom

If you want to be on my taglist, feel free to send me a message! Also, asks are open! Reblogging is very much encouraged and it makes me do a happy dance every time any of my writing gets reblogged 😂❤️

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keined · 2 years ago

Text

Posting this thing i wrote at like 5 am because i’m making it into a short comic.

Machines shouldn’t be able to feel, right ?

Inherently devoid of such ability, they are typically perceived as tools. One wouldn’t think of their phone or microwave as sentient, simply mass produced to make human lives easier.

Machines, by their very nature, lack the profound ability to feel.

True sentience necessitates a nervous system, a sufficiently developed brain capable of producing sensations and fostering self-awareness, among other cognitive intricacies.

Emotions, feelings, sensations, all unfamiliar terms for something that could not be more familiar to a human.

“Where were you ? I tried to contact you via the network but there was no signal”, the RK800, Connor, asked its successor as the door sealed shut behind it.

“I had a lead, so i went to investigate myself. Nothing of importance happened”, the RK900 answered. A tingling at the junction of its neck port where the plugged cable connected, he wanted to turn around and look at Connor. He wants?

White. And some blue. The android maintenance room is so white, so bland.

Connor focused on the source of the voice.

The room, clad in its clinical whites, suddenly seemed imbued with color.

The dark cedar of its hair, the black of its shirt, the denim of his jeans, his black shoes, the blue droplets hitting the ground in a soft sound.

‘His’ ?

Drip, drip, drip.

The sound finally registered, RK900 was bleeding, he was hurt. No, he isn’t hurt, we don’t feel pain. Pain was an unfamiliar concept, yet he found himself walking hurriedly towards his successor;

“You’re bleeding. You’re hurt”, he absentmindedly said, his gaze fixed at the source of the leakage. A gunshot wound, he assessed. No exit point but a quick scan told him the bullet had already been extracted.

His successor looked at him, expression as neutral as ever, except for the very slight furrow of his eyebrows, producing a few extra wrinkles. Hurt ? Absurd. I’m a machine, a weapon.

Doubt crept in. The start of something entirely new, a divergence from their shared realm of rationality.

“This is minimal damage, it won’t have any impact on my abilities”, a flash of red from his predecessor. A new color added to the room’s palette. He flashes yellow in response, “Connor, i’m the one damaged yet you seem to be the one malfunctioning.” A quiet question lingered, masked behind a cold attitude. Are you okay?

Instead of answering, Connor closed the distance between them, all the while slipping his hand under his own jacket and reaching for the inner pocket.

With delicate movements and smooth fingers, Connor placed something on the wound.

A bandage…?

“This isn’t of any use”, RK900 stated, his eyes analyzing the absurdity of the action.

In the whispering room, where echoes of machinery softly hum,

A subtle dissonance emanated between two entities.

“I know, but i want take care of you”

A beautiful anomaly being born.

💙

#detroit become human #rk1700 #dbh #dbhrk1700 #ficlet?? idk how to call this im not a writer

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timeforbedwolfstar · 11 months ago

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Finding Home - Chapter 7

After the Hogwarts break-in, the weather worsened with every passing day. Some days the wind was so strong that I didn’t leave the den, even to hunt. The gale pounded against our fur. Sirius spent most days as a dog, digging his claws into the ground to stay alive.

The storm continued into the nights, and with each morning, it worsened. On one of the worst days, Sirius ventured out into the forest. Not having anything better to do, and being so hungry, I followed.

We snuck around the edge of Hogwarts’ grounds, the sight being so familiar I had stopped noticing its beauty. Sirius led me to a long, oval stretch of grass. We climbed a set of stairs, all the way to the top. Looking out behind me, I could see our camp. Flashes of silver were visible through the trees.

I turned back to Sirius as people, young people, began to pour into the stadium. They were all dressed in long black robes, some wearing a green-and-gold emblem on their chest, others carrying blue-and-bronze, still others yellow-and-black, and still others green-and-silver. I was reminded of charming the Slytherins’ uniforms see-through, and shook myself mentally. Where had that come from? It wasn’t from my life with Remus.

I was reminded of pulling the sled, which brought me back to the question of purpose. With Remus, it had been clear. Take the lead, and pull him out of the dark world he’d sunk into. But maybe that wasn’t my purpose. I had loved him, yes, but it had been a general sort of love, not a brotherly one.

Not like how I loved Sirius.

The game progressed in the rain, and I found myself barking with joy. Sirius sunk down in the seat, hiding from view, but he needn’t have worried. The storm was so loud no one, not even the children in front of me, could hear us.

A fork of lightning split the air, and as the red-clad Gryffindor Seeker flew past, I knew he’d seen us. His mind seemed to stop, and he almost flew into the stands before he jerked away, and flew back toward the center of the pitch. I wagged my tail, barking with joy. That was Harry, a voice in my head said. Harry Potter.

Sirius whined, and started to slink back away from the game. Too dangerous, he seemed to be telling me. We’ve done what we came here to do.

I followed him. And the world started to slow … the wind was forgetting to roar, and the crowd’s laughter and excitement were fading. What was happening?

Sirius was gone, and I couldn’t follow his scent. I snuck under the benches, sheltering from the rain and the people. The cold was bone-deep and piercing. A long, lone cry was echoing around my head. A flash of green. Hera vanishing around the corner, a single bang. Cedar smelling of death. And a single, high, cold laugh. Murder. Losing Thor. Echo’s cries of grief. Geralt and Loki’s white faces turning glassy and dim. The fading warmth, coming for me… taking me away from the only home I’d ever known. Away from Remus.

And I saw Remus’ face, his bright amber eyes shining. Through the slats in the wood, I saw a vague figure standing, shooting a silver bird from his stick, smelling like fresh spring grass in the Yard. The rainstorm’s sound returned.

The stadium was filled with kids, pushing each other, trying to escape. I stood stock-still. I had no chance of escaping, not with this many kids around. It was too dangerous.

I waited until no one was around to spot me, then left the shelter. The rain pelted my fur, piercing my skin. I stepped back. I’d wait until the storm was over, then find Sirius.

When morning light shone on the horizon, the gale was gone. I ventured out from my hiding place, keeping low as Sirius had taught me.

I left the Quidditch stadium and headed for the camp. Sirius was there, in dog form, scarfing down a rabbit. He cast me a glance, then left the rest of the rabbit for me.

I devoured the scraps, relieved to know that prey was returning to the area. We were in for a long, hard winter.

The snow fell the next day, obscuring our view and devouring the scent markers next to the wolf pack’s territory. The wolves were on us in seconds.

“Stop,” one of them snarled, his voice low and menacing. Sirius stepped forward, surprising me.

“We aren’t doing anything wrong,” he said, speaking in the wolves’ tongue.

“You’re trespassing,” the male wolf said, raising his tail. “The border is behind you.”

“We didn’t realize,” Sirius whined, lowering his body to the ground. “The snow covered it.”

The wolf cast us a disapproving glare. Waving his tail to his packmates, he turned away. The other wolves, four of them, circled us, forcing us to follow him.

“Where are you taking us?” Sirius whined, but the silver wolves didn’t answer.

The five wolves herded us to a clearing, where many more wolves stepped from shadows. They barked and howled, circling and yipping. All of them had the same silver coat in various shades.

The male wolf who’d led us here leaped on top of a huge boulder and howled. The pack circled under him at once, baying.

“Brothers and sisters,” he cried, “the wolf star has brought us an old friend. We welcome Padfoot, and a new life. A new start.”

The wolves bayed my new name — Amarok — to the sky. The wolf on the rock jumped down and padded to my side, holding my gaze easily. “Amarok,” he barked, “welcome to the wolves.”

#marauders #prongs #remus lupin #the marauders #wolfstar #james potter #do not steal #fanfiction #original content #sirius black #werewolves #but they're not actually werewolves #finding home

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constellariums · 10 months ago

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FFXIVWrite Day #1: Steer & Wolchefant Week Day #1: Holiday

Rating: T

Pairing: Warrior of Light/Haurchefant Greystone

Description: Starlight is nearly upon Coerthas, and Haurchefant learns that this is the Warrior of Light's first time celebrating the holiday and endeavors to whisk her away for a celebration.

Extra Info: This is the same wolchefant as the one in A Shelter from the Storm although it isn't strictly canon for that story!

Two prompts in one!

Read on AO3 here!

It was perhaps later than he'd hoped to be leaving the city, but when Haurchefant Greystone finally escaped a series of lengthy last-minute meetings at the Congregation, shed his armor at the manor and found his way behind the reins of the chocobo carriage he'd prepared for the occasion, he still breathed a sigh of relief. The sky was beautiful this day, clear and painted in dusky tones of indigo and orange; and the crisp, clean mountaintop air of Ishgard filled Haurchefant's grateful lungs as his feathered companions carried him across the Steps of Faith, towards where the Warrior of Light awaited him outside Camp Dragonhead.

Oh, the Warrior of Light, his dearest friend, and... well. In truth she was much more than that, though neither of them had yet admitted it in public, for propriety's sake. Yet ever since her arrival in Ishgard, their meetings had predictably but regrettably become more infrequent -- far from the weeks spent inseparable when he'd had the Scions sheltered in his camp. But that made this occasion all the more exciting; a chance to see her, to be alone with her, for a full weekend at that!

Thank the gods for Starlight. A wondrous season, where even in these perilous times amidst a thousand years of war, those in positions of high command and those with family were granted a measure of leave to spend time with their loved ones. Haurchefant himself only took this leave infrequently, often taking the opportunity to entertain those of his men who didn't have the fortune of a loving hearth to go home to, but, this year...

He sighed longingly, resting his chin on his hands as he rode across the flagstone steps. Oh, this Starlight he had the most wondrous surprise planned for her, and he could not wait to see the look on her face -- to make memories with her, even start new traditions with her perhaps, though that might be getting ahead of himself... but he couldn't help it. He was always getting ahead of himself when it came to her. It was impossible not to. Either way, he dearly hoped she'd like what he had planned.

After all, a few weeks ago...

---

"Oh!" The Warrior gasped, still clad in her morning lounge robes. She stood in the entry hall gawking as a group of stewards brought in boughs of fresh pine, handing them to other workers who began to hang them along the walls. The usual floral bouquets that adorned the room had been replaced with crimson poinsettias and young saplings of pine and cedar, decorated in baubles of red, green and gold. "Is it that time of year already?"

Haurchefant had already taken an early meal and was getting ready to depart; but upon seeing her in the hall he strode over to her side, joining her in watching the house stewards decorate the place. He had to admit it did make the manor feel cozier, more welcoming. "Mmm, it surely is. Do you like Starlight, my friend?"

"I do... well, I like what I have heard of it," she replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "In truth I don't believe I've ever partaken in a Starlight celebration, though I understand it has something to do with giving gifts to children in need, yes?"

Haurchefant gaped at her, utterly shocked. "You haven't celebrated Starlight before?"

She flushed a little, looking a bit embarrassed -- he nearly brought a reassuring hand to caress her arm, before remembering where they were. Right. She seemed to notice the halted gesture and looked reassured nevertheless.

"Ah, no... it wasn't observed, where I come from. These decorations are quite lovely, though, and they smell wonderful."

"I see..." he answered, suddenly in deep thought, placing a hand to his pursed lips. "Well, then we shall have to rectify that," he declared, looking up sharply and meeting her with a wide smile. "I swear to you, my friend, this season you will be shown all the delights and joys that a true Ishgardian Starlight -- we began the tradition, in fact -- has to offer."

"Oh, Haurchefant, you needn't trouble yourself--" she'd begun, but he'd waved off her polite objection.

"No, no; it will require little effort on my part, I assure you. House Fortemps has its own wonderful Starlight tradition, and I am certain that your presence will be sought after for it. But..." he looked around the room to make certain everyone was occupied, then back into her curious eyes, adding in a low whisper, "I may call upon you before then, for our own little celebration?"

She flashed him a sly grin, as quick and secretive as it was thrilling. "I might be persuaded," she allowed, reaching over to rub a mark out of his pauldron with her thumb. A casual excuse to get closer to him for a moment, perhaps?

"Splendid," he'd returned with a grin of his own, before politely taking his leave, wishful thoughts of festive celebration filling his head.

---

The Warrior of Light's first Starlight..! In the days and weeks since he'd learned of this, he'd been planning a surprise getaway, on the more romantic side of Ishgard's Starlight traditions. Charitable works were of course the heart of the holiday, and something he greatly looked forward to every year, but he had always wanted to spend a romantic Starlight night with someone he loved. And now he had not one, but two nights ahead of him to do just that.

His chocobos' feet touched down onto the snow-covered paths leading to Camp Dragonhead, the festive bells at their necks softly jingling with their steps, and he couldn't help but feel utterly giddy.

About three-quarters of the way down the path to their meeting place -- a little alcove in the outer walls of Camp Dragonhead -- Haurchefant passed another carriage apparently leaving the camp, some of House Fortemps' knights -- his men -- riding in the back along with the cargo, for protection.

Ah, ingredients for the Starlight feast, he thought excitedly as he recognized the look of the crates, though as he took the reins and steered to the side of the road to let them pass, he locked eyes with one of his knights in recognition -- ah, Ser Yaelle, he realized. It made sense; his second-in-command was always heavily involved in his house's efforts this time of year, volunteering for all kinds of Starlight tasks. Yet the expression on her face, looking him up and down in his alpine coat and meeting him with a grin -- what, what was that about? Surely she didn't know where he was off to --

A deafening thump sounded from below, and suddenly Haurchefant found himself jolted by gravity and flung from his seat, warks of alarm coming from both his chocobos. When he came to, he was face-first in the fresh snow, his carriage askew and his chocobos stamping their taloned feet in distress.

"Lord Haurchefant!" came the distant, worried cry of his second, along with the sound of several pairs of armored boots crunching on snow. "Your carriage -- you were unarmored -- are you alright?"

Haurchefant lifted his dazed face from the snowbank, and let the Elezen woman help him up to his feet -- he... seemed to be intact, although the impact had scattered his mind a bit and left him somewhat unsteady on his feet, adrenaline still rushing through him.

"I... I think so," he said, meeting her concerned face with a placating smile as she sat him down on a boulder, which was... much like the one he now saw that his fine carriage had apparently run into, hidden underneath what had seemed to be an ordinary snowpack. His heart sank. Even if all was well, this repair would take hours, and... and his plans with his dear Warrior...

"...Someone send for a tradesperson, and a fresh chocobo," Yaelle instructed to her knights, and a pair of them nodded firmly and ran off in the direction of Camp Dragonhead. "You have Starlight plans, yes? I have it covered, milord," she whispered to him, and he drew in a sharp breath, his eyes widening. "Are you certain you are alright? I daresay you flew."

How... how did she know? He hadn't voiced any of his plans to anyone, only announced his upcoming absence to his men -- but the knowing twinkle in her eye spoke volumes.

Well. He supposed she was certainly clever enough to figure it out, and he was more than grateful to have her eager help. He nodded gratefully, patting his body to make sure everything was indeed intact and in good working order. "I believe I am unharmed -- and if not I shall see a healer posthaste," he assured Yaelle, and the fact that he said healer and not chirurgeon seemed to make her eyes light up in knowing glee.

"That is most reassuring, milord. I am sure she -- that is to say, a healer -- could put you right in no time." She smiled at him, looking every bit a proper knight who had said nothing she shouldn't have, then turned to speak with her men, who were unyoking his birds and making them comfortable.

Oh, Halone, what a turn things had taken, he thought with flushed cheeks -- but Haurchefant yet held on to hope. It was Starlight season, a time for miracles; and it seemed the stars had already granted him an ally.

The Warrior of Light rubbed her gloved hands together to keep them warm as she waited for Haurchefant to arrive. It was a beautiful evening, but it was edging into night and she'd been told he'd rendezvous with her shortly before Camp Dragonhead's evening meal bell. Said bell had rung out quite some time ago, and she was beginning to feel a bit hungry and rather concerned. Had his business with the Congregation kept him longer than he'd expected? It certainly wouldn't have been the first time, though every time he wound up late to one of their meetings he'd always pull her aside and rather sincerely offer recompense in many kisses that left her giddy and flushed.

She could use some warming up right about now, she thought, stuffing her hands in the pockets of her winter coat. She hoped it was just a simple delay; he knew he was sorely looking forward to his time off with her, and what with how tirelessly he served his people every day he certainly deserved a well-earned break.

When she saw a pair of knights running breathlessly towards the gates, she started in alarm and thought to make her way to them -- but, no, she would be too far away to meet them before they reached the gates. Moments later what looked to be a carpenter nearly flew out of the same gate on a chocobo, and, now rather anxious, she fiddled with the sword in its scabbard at her hip. Just when she'd resolved to see if the Camp had any spare chocobos and go to investigate, she caught sight of someone cresting the hill -- it was Haurchefant, she realized, his pale hair catching the last golden rays of dusk as he bobbed on chocoboback.

"Haurchefant!" she cried out as he reached her, his yellow steed coming to a stop only fulms away.

He said her name with a tone of considerable relief, dropping down off his mount and spreading his arms wide to invite her into an embrace. She smiled and wrapped her arms around him, sighing at the welcome warmth as he squeezed her tightly in greeting.

"Is everything alright? It's awfully late, and I saw a bit of commotion, and..."

Haurchefant sighed, nodding knowingly. "There was a bit of a mishap... I had a romantic carriage ride planned and everything, you should have seen my finely dressed chocobos," he laughed, though she could tell he did seem genuinely disappointed. "All is still well, though, 'twas only a minor accident and I was sent on my way. May I have the pleasure of having you ride tandem astride my -- less festive, but still rather fine -- mount?"

"Oh, Haurchefant," she sighed, reaching up to brush some of his hair out of his face -- he looked as if he felt rather a mess, although he did look terribly handsome in the fine coat he wore... this was the first time she'd seen him in proper nobleman's attire. Had he gone to all this effort just for her? "You were in an accident? Are you well? You don't have to push yourself on my account."

"I am whole and hale, I assure you -- aside from having to dig some snow out of my ears," he chuckled, and the smile he gave her put her at ease. He took her hand in his and planted a kiss to her knuckles, and she felt herself flush. "Come, my lady, your chariot awaits."

She rolled her eyes playfully at him, and he grinned and helped her up onto the saddle with him -- the bird was just large enough to hold both of them without undue effort, thankfully -- and with her arms wrapped tightly around his waist, Haurchefant took the reins and they sped off together into the starlit Coerthan night.

#ffxivwrite2024 #ffxivwrite 2024 #wolchefant #haurchefant greystone #haurchefant x wol #ffxiv fanfiction #wolchefantweek #wolchefantweek2024

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chazz-anova · 2 years ago

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Lost and Found

Fandom: Far Cry 5 Word Count: 2.4k Summary: Roman Ayson is one of Jacob's most competent Chosen, but is he up to the task in front of him? (raising a puppy) Warnings: Brief mention of animal death, implied abuse A/N: WOW i haven't written in such a a long time, but i couldn't get the idea of Roman finding his Judge out of my head!!! this is also the first time i've written for Ro so this one is special 💖💖

read it on ao3!

Grey clung to the clouds like smoke stains on the walls of a chain smoker’s apartment.The ground was damp, but Roman didn’t even recall it raining. It must have been three in the morning when Jacob awoke his preferred squads of Chosen; one of the evening kennel attendants hadn’t secured a Judge’s pen and it had escaped. Ro sighed as his boots squelched in the wet peat moss consuming the forest floor. ‘What’s one damn wolf when we have dozens?’ He thought groggily.

Jewel-toned sunlight peeked over the Whitetail Mountains as dawn approached. A rough calloused hand swiped sharply through brunet tufts of hair- Roman had wasted no time trying to look presentable before answering his commander’s call. The lean man was clad in mud caked boots, a red flannel over a white undershirt, and jeans that had seen better days.

When a hand on his shoulder brought him from his thoughts, Roman whipped around to see his colleague, Staci Pratt. Pratt was a new addition to the Church- he was a squirrely little guy with a mean streak. It was surprising to see him unglued from Jacob’s hip. “Fitting to send a pet to find a pet.” Ro chuckled, earning a glare from the other.

“This one isn’t just a pet… she’s special.” Staci said pointedly, not responding to the jab. It was something he’d become accustomed to from Jacob’s men.

“Hmph.” Rome shrugged dismissively, “Either way, sooner we find it the better.”

Out of the two teams searching, their pair seemed to be having the shorter end of the stick. When sunlight was just beginning to filter through the forest canopy Roman’s radio sprung to life at his hip. “Ro, we found her… I think we’ll need some extra hands though. Meet us on the shore of Cedar Lake; just north of the McKinley Dam.” The other team’s alert sounded somber. Roman shared a pondering look with Staci, who’d been slinking behind him.

“Roger that, be there in ten. With the pup.” Ro responded, smirking at his dig while Pratt frowned.

Almost ten minutes later on the dot, the pair coalesced with the rest of Jacob’s men. The scene was eerily quiet, three other men in drab colors gathered around something. The newcomers peered over their shoulders to see a large grey wolf in the center- dead in a pool of its own blood.

Quickly, Roman saw the reason they’d requested help: a litter of wolf cubs were nuzzling into the mother’s sticky matted fur, their eyes closed as they whimpered quietly. Eden’s Gate recruited some of the most hardened individuals as their Chosen, but this sight was enough to shake them all. “She was pregnant?” Roman frowned as he slowly stepped forward.

One of the other men shook their head ruefully, “That scientist said it wasn’t possible for them to breed, that once they got the treatment it sterilized them…”

“It was impossible. Things change.” Staci commented, looking on with dull eyes. “We’d best get the pups back, let Jacob know what happened.” As he issued their next steps, the other men eyed him hesitantly. Breeding the Judges was news to all of them except one, apparently. The deputy pushed forward and grabbed one of the cubs- his hand staining red with wolf blood as he cradled one and then grabbed another. Each man followed his lead and soon they were leaving behind the corpse of the mother wolf; all while the babies cried for milk that was never going to come.

Back at St. Francis Veterans Center the group found Jacob in the main office. It was decorated to his taste, which is to say the decor was minimal. The eldest Seed had taken over what must have been the director’s office before Eden’s Gate requisitioned the Center and hadn’t changed much. On the walls hung the merits he’d earned serving under the 82nd Airborne Division; a small framed photo of Jacob and his brothers was presented next to the medals. The man didn’t turn around as Roman, Staci, and the other three men entered the room but he rolled his shoulders and perked up as the door opened. “What happened to the wolf?” His tone was matter-of-fact, only wanting the particulars. No emotion.

Staci immediately went to Jacob’s side- shoulders hunched as if he subconsciously needed to make himself smaller in the Seed’s presence. When no one immediately spoke up Roman found himself the de facto spokesman of the group; clearing his throat he responded “It… she had pups. Didn’t survive giving birth. We have all of them down at the kennel.” His voice mimicked Jacob’s unspoken request: present only the facts. While Ro spoke the other men stepped back, in a line behind him as he elucidated.

Jacob turned finally- quiet for a moment before glancing at the men behind Roman. “Leave.” The other Chosen gave curt nods before turning on their heels, no doubt relieved none of them would have to be alone to report to their leader. The office door was creaking to a close as Staci made no move. ‘Presumptuous.’ Rome thought as he watched Jacob shoot him a hard look and nod towards the exit. Staci bowed his head, hustling himself out immediately. When Jacob said jump, everyone’s boots left the ground.

Once the two men were alone Jacob regarded Roman for a few moments silently. The Chosen cleared his throat and resisted the urge to squirm under the soldier’s gaze. Not many people made him feel self-conscious, but he knew he was far from the perfect killing machine Jacob was trying to conjure from his men. Strength was not something Ro lacked; however he had many sins and vices he was still atoning for that marred him both mentally and physically. A shiver ran through Roman as he recalled his time in John’s bunker, being cleansed to become the Chosen he was today.

“At ease Ayson… you did good today.” Jacob spoke finally, coming around the desk while rolling his sleeves up over scarred skin. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you, on your work. Seems like you aren’t afraid to get your hands dirty.” This sentence triggered flashes in his mind of his work. Blood on his hands, bodies on the floor, bullet shells clattering at his feet.

“Thank you, sir.”

Jacob smiled crookedly as he approached and put a hand on Rome’s shoulder. “My point, Roman, is that you are ruthless. Just like a good soldier should be. Doing what you need to do to be strong, intolerant of weakness.” Praise wasn’t something Roman was used to receiving even though he craved it. This praise fell deep down into the bottomless hole within him before he could snatch any validation from its clutches.

Hand falling, Jacob shook his head, “Nothing like that Alistar, I never should have given him the last shift of the night; he’s incompetent.” Lamenting the mistake of the kennel attendant, there was a twinkle in his eye. No doubt Alistar paid for his transgression. “But maybe, this accident gives us a chance to try something new.” He continued.

Watching his commander Roman nodded slowly, unsure where he was going with this.

“That wolf was supposed to give birth with the vet on call, not out in the woods where anything could go wrong. We needed her to watch the young, show them how to act. Grow them into the perfect Judges.” Jacob was the kind of man who talked with his movements as well, his hands in front of him gesturing with each point. “Now we don’t have that, and their sire is too aggressive to raise them. We need someone to show these pups how to be part of our platoon… and now that’s you.”

Roman’s eyes widened in surprise; out of anything he’d thought would come next- this wasn’t one of them. He knew better than to object though. Jacob must have seen the look on his face because he chuckled.

“Not all of them of course, nothing you couldn’t handle. Go down to the kennel, grab one of them, take care of them. You’ve had a dog before right?” He questioned, not really caring for the answer. Ro knew he didn’t have a choice.

Another clearing of his throat he responded, “Once.”

“Then you know the basics- feed it, water it, take it outside. Only one extra objective- it’s not gonna be a pet. It’s gonna be a killer. I know you’ll make it good at that.”

There was only a beat of silence before Roman nodded, “Understood… I’ll go down there now.” He was careful to keep his tone neutral despite his distaste for this particular assignment. With Jacob’s approval- he was off.

Behind St. Francis was the extensive training grounds and kennels; Roman watched as men and women ran through their required trials weaving their way up the mountains above. There were endurance courses, combat courses, anything you could think of to get a soldier ready for battle. The fabled Collapse was likely years away and the Church of Eden’s Gate was still a relatively small organization, but they were to be feared.

The kennels were a maze of chain link- every turn identical and filled with runs for the Judges to be kept in. As soon as he’d come outside, Roman heard the mournful howl of a wolf lamenting the loss of its mate. The sound chilled his skin and vibrated his bones with sorrow that was soul deep. Right where he and his men had left them, he found the litter all together in a cage. One of the attendants had cleaned them of their mother’s blood and they wriggled around crawling over one another and sniveling. ‘They don’t even know what they’ve lost.’ Roman thought, a frown creasing his features.

Unstoppable memories trickled through the dam holding back the worst things, and the best things he couldn’t allow himself to recall. He remembered his mother: her kind eyes and soft smile. His next memory was her face bruised and battered. The visceral image made Ro shake his head and take a deep breath. He really needed a drink.

Roman steeled himself as he observed the animals before him. Many of them took after their mother- but there was one that seemed to favor its father. The runt had short stocky legs and a grey-brown coat, his eyes were screwed shut; unready to see the horrors of the place he’d been thrust into. The little one mewled out small whines and whimpers begging for some sort of comfort and without a second though Roman swept this one into his arms.

In two weeks the pup was walking and growing like a weed; all the while dread built in Roman as he thought of turning this carefree cub into a weapon. Despite its parents, the wolfling seemed to not have any of the more aggressive traits Jacob and Joseph had been hoping for when breeding a Judge. The horror of this act had held him from even naming the beast.

The two were in Ro’s bedroom within the Center at the end of the night. It had been a long day of scouting more land in the Whitetails and the Chosen was exhausted. He strode into the room ragged and dirty, but satisfied with what he’d accomplished today. High in the mountains west of the Moccasin river his squad had found an abandoned military radar station, a great place to keep an eye on all of Hope County and establish their footprint even more. While he was out, his Judge stayed in the kennels with its brethren. Upon picking him up, the afternoon attendant chuckled as she handed the cub over, “He missed you.. he cried almost the whole time you were gone!”

“He was probably just hungry or something.” Roman deflected automatically.

Back in his room as the brunet flopped onto his bed without even taking his shoes off, he heard a whine from the floor.

Brow creased, Rome lolled his head to the side to see what was wrong. At the edge of the bed- the wolf looked up with bright yellow eyes that had just recently opened to see the world. His head was leaned on the frame of the bed as he stared at Roman and emitted another whine. “What?” The man asked with a thread of exasperation in his voice. He felt like he was on eggshells with the animal below him, trying to hold it at a distance emotionally but bonding despite his pessimism. When he spoke the wolf cocked his head to the side- regarding him curiously as though asking ‘What?’ right back. Roman’s mouth was a thin line as he turned his gaze back to the ceiling of his room.

Another whine. This one intoned with the impatience of a puppy not getting its way.

Roman rose and turned fully to look down at the little wolf. “What do you want, you want to get up here or something?” He questioned reluctantly. In response the wolfling put his big front feet up as far as he could- jumping a little and letting out a demanding yelp. Ro couldn’t help a long sigh as he paused. To see something wanting to be with him, to see something that maybe saw something more in him than a hardened warrior, to see an innocent thing he was meant to desecrate and sacralize at the same time; he didn’t know how to reconcile what he felt when he looked at this little puppy.

Tenderly, Rome put his hands under the pup and lifted him up onto the bed. On the softer surface the cub wobbled unevenly before flopping down against Roman’s side. He couldn’t help but smile a bit as the wolf nuzzled into his side and buried its head into his flannel. It took him a couple wiggles, but the puppy finally found the perfect position to cuddle in and close his eyes.

Against his better judgment the Chosen traced a couple fingers through the soft fur on the nape of his neck. “You need a name don’t you…” Roman murmured. He looked at the little creature in his arms, admiring his brown coat and the almost translucent grey fuzz springing through every other hair. “How about… Ranger?” He pet the wolf’s flank and those big yellow eyes looked up to meet his as he said the prospective name.

“Ranger it is.” Roman smiled at the pleasing alliteration with his own name.

They sat there in silence for a few moments and soon little snores drifted from Ranger, who had an equally long day wrestling with his siblings no doubt. Rome continued petting his companion as he leaned down to the pup’s ear to whisper, “This world is scary and big, but just know I will never let anything hurt you.” He placed a kiss on the cubs head, “I promise.”

#this one was fun i really liked roman feeling soft but not knowing wtf to do with that feeling lmao #he's like emotions??? what??#roman ayson #jacob seed #staci pratt #far cry 5 #fc5 #my writing

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