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liketolaugh-writes · 6 months ago

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I've been playing with a no-one-knows AU where Danny has been married to Jason for years but hasn't told him his secret. Jason knows that Danny isn't human, but hasn't pressed because Danny is so terrified when he approaches the topic. The Batfamily do not know.

Presently, the GIW are in Gotham and closing in, and the Box Ghost has come to Danny seeking help.

----

“You’re a ghost,” Jason said gently, pulling one of Danny’s hands away from his face to wrap it in his own. Danny let him. “Aren’t you?”

Danny’s breath hitched again.

Surprisingly, the Box Ghost looked almost as horrified as Danny.

“What? NO! I, the BOX GHOST, would not out Danny Fenton to his human family! For he is as human as I once was!” He flailed his arms in blatant panic. “There is nothing to reveal, for Danny Fenton is most certainly NOT a ghost!”

“What’s wrong with Danny being a ghost?” Box Lunch wanted to know, tilting her head up to peer up at her father in confusion. “Is it a secret?”

“BOX LUNCH!” the Box Ghost wailed, every inch a mortified parent.

“Yes, it was, or your father would not be so blatantly lying about it,” Damian told her, taking pity on the child ghost.

“Oh!” Box Lunch nodded seriously. “Danny isn’t a ghost!”

Danny let out a slightly hysterical laugh, and then started to cry, gasping quietly with tears pouring down his face, hunched down to hide from them. He didn’t pull his hand out of Jason’s.

“It is no longer a secret here, as it has become apparent,” Damian elaborated.

Box Lunch scrunched up her nose. “Oh.”

“Ghosts are not bad,” Cass said softly, “if ghosts are Danny.”

“Danny.” Jason scooted closer and pulled Danny against him, and Danny let him, pressing into him without unwinding at all. “Danny, I already knew. I’ve known for years.” Danny tilted his head up to give him an incredulous look, and Jason grinned at him. “You’re not good at hiding it, stardust. Your freckles glow when you’re excited and your eyes flash green when you’re frustrated. You walk through closed doors when you’re sleepy and things fall through your hands when people startle you. I’ve known you aren’t human since we moved in together.”

“…Oh,” Danny murmured, guilt and relief and wonder swirling together in his still-wet eyes.

“Phantom!” the Box Ghost scolded. Jason took note of the sudden change in address. “You are the worst secret keeper ever!”

“Shut up, Boxy,” Danny snapped. He pulled away from Jason and wiped his eyes, sniffling. Their hands stayed locked together. “We, we need to hide you and bitty-bite b-before we talk about this any more. I wasn’t joking about the Guys in White.”

The Box Ghost flapped his arms dismissively. “They will not find us! They are looking for YOU, and their instruments will not be prepared for such subtle spirits as Box Lunch and I!”

“They are looking for me while I am hiding,” Danny said, soft but barbed. He wiped his face again and turned around to better face the other ghost, glaring sharply. “Something I am well known to be very good at. Far better at than you.”

The Box Ghost went so pale he was almost translucent.

“You don’t look like a ghost at all,” Tim said, studying Danny. “Your skin is pink, you don’t glow… most of the time, no pointed ears or fangs. Your eyes are normal.” His eyes narrowed. “Is this… not your natural appearance?”

Danny flinched. “I… I…” He swallowed, staring at nothing, and then forced his attention back onto the Box Ghost. “Your base signatures are pretty low. If you stop using your powers and suppress your auras as much as you can, you can probably bring them low enough to hide.”

No answers would be forthcoming for now, Jason understood. He signaled sharply to Bruce and Tim, the most likely to try to interrupt. Wait. Time-sensitive, finish operation before proceeding.

Bruce didn’t look pleased, but he nodded sharply. Tim just watched, thoughtful eyes fixed on Danny. Damian was scowling, Dick frowning faintly, but Cass’ curiosity looked borderline idle. Jason watched Danny interact with the other ghost with a healthy blend of interest and concern, and tried not to wonder if Tim was right.

“Box Lunch, do you know how to land?” Danny asked. It seemed like a silly question until Box Lunch wrinkled her nose and cocked her head.

“Land?” she asked, audibly uncertain. For that matter, her father looked vaguely baffled too. “Like… with my feet? On the floor?”

Danny managed a smile and nodded. Box Lunch eyed the floor, then drifted down to hover at floor level. “Like this?”

“Not exactly,” Danny said, sounding more fond than anything. He slid off the bar stool and knelt down in front of Box Lunch. Jason couldn’t look away; he’d been deprived of any open knowledge of Danny’s nonhuman side for so long that his curiosity was damn near insatiable now. And Danny teaching a kid of his species? That was doing things to Jason. Good things. “Close your eyes.” Box Lunch did. “Feel the energy in the air. Do you feel gravity? Do you sense how it pulls things down?” She nodded uncertainly. “Hold onto that feeling. Let it hold onto you. Do you feel it?” Nod. “Good. Now- let go of the sky.”

The instructions didn’t make a lick of sense to Jason, but Box Lunch dropped right out of the air and landed on her feet. Her eyes flew open, and she pinwheeled dramatically until Danny caught her.

“Ahh!” she squealed, looking dismayed. “I’m heavy!”

Danny chuckled. “No, bitty-bite, you’re still light as a feather.” He picked Box Lunch up and held her out in front of him, smiling. She squealed again, kicking her feet, her eyes bright with delight. “Good job. Do you think you can hold that?”

“Um, sure,” she mumbled, not looking at all sure.

The Box Ghost landed on the floor with a grunt - Jason suspected that he’d been listening to Danny’s instructions too. He held out his arms for Box Lunch, and Danny handed her over willingly.

“Now what?” the Box Ghost asked tentatively, staring at the floor like it would eat him. Yeah, Jason could definitely believe that he’d never landed before either.

“Now, you listen to me,” Danny said seriously. He reached out and grabbed Box Ghost’s arm, demanding his attention, and forced eye contact. From the Box Ghost’s wide eyes, this behavior was as new to him as it was to Jason. But then Danny continued, speaking as firmly as if he were willing his words into existence. “You are not a ghost. You are not a ghost.” Understanding flickered across the Box Ghost’s face, and he screwed his eyes shut. His glow started to dim. “You are solid. You are heavy. You are warm. You are made of flesh, blood, and bone. You are not a ghost. You are not a ghost. You are human.”

The Box Ghost’s glow receded and disappeared. Except for his blue skin, he almost looked human now. He opened his eyes uncertainly, and Danny gave him a weary smile and a nod, letting go of his arm and leaning back.

“But what about Box Lunch?” the Box Ghost asked anxiously, looking down at Box Lunch. She’d squeezed her eyes shut to try and follow Danny’s instructions, but didn’t seem to be meeting with the same success.

Danny sighed. “I’m not sure how to explain it to her,” he admitted, reaching up to run his fingers through his hair as he looked at the little girl with worry. She opened her eyes and gave him an anxious look, and Danny gave her a small smile. “It’s not your fault, bitty-bite. It’s just… you’ve always been a ghost, so you don’t have your dad’s memories of what it felt like to be human.”

Box Lunch stomped her feet. “I can pretend!”

“Then pretend,” Danny said seriously. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just do your best.”

“Wehh!” Box Lunch flailed her arms, brow furrowed in concentration. “I am human! My body is super solid and I crash into things a lot! And I run around on the ground and eat human food! Fear me!”

It was so cute that Jason muffled a laugh, and he wasn’t the only one. Box Lunch ran a circle around the floor, then crashed into a wall on purpose and bounced off, giggling. Even Bruce’s hard expression softened into a fond look.

“That should keep you off the sensors,” Danny said to the Box Ghost, voice low. Something about his eyes looked exhausted. “Just make sure Box Lunch maintains it. Maybe keep playing human with her.”

The Box Ghost nodded uncertainly. “Thank you, Phantom,” he said quietly. “I know that we can count on you.”

#yes i am sharing this excerpt EXCLUSIVELY because of the box lunch bits #she's just very cute in this okay #dpxdc #danny fenton #jason todd #dead on main #box ghost #box lunch #my writing

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falesten-iw · 10 months ago

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Urgent 🆘️ call: 🚨🍉 Please help..🥺😓🙏

My name is Falastin, and I am a mother of three small children, ages 5 years, 2 years, and 3 months. I am not very good with social media, but I am writing to seek your help to give my family in Gaza the chance to live their lives again.

Due to the ongoing genocide we in Gaza are experiencing, my family need your help to survive, leave Gaza, and find safety.

In november 2023 last year, i lost three of my cousins from my mother's family with their wifes and children's, some of them still under the rubble untill now.

In mars 2024 this year i lost another 2 cousins in Alshifa hostpital, this shock after three months of the first lose was a big slap into our face, it was a harsh reminder that death didn’t stop, and that none of us is an exception in this genocide, not a woman nor a child, everyone of us is a target to the death machines above our heads.

My family has lost everything. Some of them have tragically passed away, and those who remain are without shelter, moving from one temporary place to another in a desperate attempt to stay alive. Currently "After more than 20 times of being displaced and having to leave our house escaping from rockets and death " they have fled south and are living in a makeshift tent made from plastic bags and torn clothes.

Each day is a battle for survival. Each day, my family wakes up not knowing if they will have food to eat, clean water to drink, or a safe place to rest. Their homes have been wiped, and their children sit sleepless waiting their death. In Gaza, there is no where to seek shelter, no bunkers, nowhere to hide. Gaza is no more than 40 kilometers long and 10 kilometers wide with a population of just over two million. Gaza's border is completely surrounded by fences and barbed wire. The only way out of Gaza is to Egypt.

I used to introduce myself as the youngest in the family but in this GENOCIDE I’m a big sister who see her siblings’ future getting lost in front of her eyes, as i see my brothers kids who are still young and supposed to be in school, my mom who is 73 years old unable to find her medicine, as I see them, I made it a mission to myself to save my family or who’s left alive from it, to save their future from all of this and to escape Gaza.

Despite everything, I still have hope to save those who remain of my family. But I need all the help I can get from every person on earth. This challenge is not easy for me, especially since I am not good with social media and i dont have so many follower to reach and ask them for help. However, I am trying, and maybe with your support, the impossible can become possible.

Asking for your help is the only way I have to save my family’s life and future. Your help can be our hope when hope seems far away. Because of that, I appeal to your generosity and compassion, asking for help so that we can gather the necessary funds to help my family.

Photos of "Lina," who was born at the start of the war, and she is now 9 months old. Your donation could give her the chance to survive, leave Gaza, and find safety with her family.

I would like to thank everyone who has donated, shared and supported my campaign so far. Your generosity has given us hope in the darkest of times, and I am deeply grateful.

So far, we have raised 3,950 SEK of our 2,000,000 SEK goal - August 15th. While this is a small step, it is a crucial one, and it shows that together, we can make a difference. We still have a long way to go, and I urge you to continue sharing our story and contributing if you can.

Every donation, no matter the size, brings us closer to saving my family and giving them a chance at life. Please read and act as if it were your family, your mother, your siblings in these conditions. 🙏🙏🙏💔💔💔💔

Important note: Donation value:

** 1$ = 10.5 Swedish kr

** 10$ = 105 Swedish kr

** 100$ = 1050 Swedish kr

** 1000$ = 10500 Swedish kr

VETTED and shared by 90-ghost, also as no. 282 in The Vetted Gaza Evacuation Fundraiser Spreadsheet compiled by el-shab-hussein and nabulsi and shared in the masterpost.

We have also been verified by Al Jazeera News. Here is the video. I added this video today, august 15th. Its showing my cousin and aunt in the hospital, where she shares how the Israeli army airstruck them with their kids. Listen to my aunt Suad "Em Mhammed".

Best regards,

Falastin and her family.

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daycourtofficial · 1 month ago

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Tell me I’m the only, only, only, only one - part 8

Pairing: Eris x Azriel x reader | WC: 5.9k | warnings: discussions of pain? idk

Summary: the aftermath of sleeping with Eris isn’t as confusing as you thought it would be. Things with Azriel are getting better in a way you hadn’t expected, until a discussion with Rhysand opens the two of you up to a new idea that might solve all of your problems

Author’s note: happy @polysjmweek !!! Yall have been feral for this and I’ve been doing my best to get this out. It’s a bit fillery, but we have to set some stuff up!!

Previous part | Masterlist

The afternoon passed in bed with Eris, the scent of Azriel becoming weaker and weaker as the minutes ticked by. Eris had asked you to try to inflict pain, allowing you to touch him without any hesitancy.

It was a strange sensation. You were used to stitching pieces back together (either by hand or by magic). Decades of your life were devoted to learning everything about the varieties of fae - different skeletal structures, the extra musculature of winged fae. Illness, disease, injury - you were a generalist, preferring to be able to treat any ailment you ran into.

But he insisted you try and try again, each attempt at streamlining your magic in the opposite direction going nowhere, leaving you exasperated and slightly embarrassed at failing before the Vanserra. Despite that, it was almost nice being in the cabin with him. He was still Eris, spouting off insults every five minutes. As the afternoon wore on, his barbed words seemed less sharp, almost lazily thrown in a half assed attempt.

But still you felt a deep ache inside of you, some small pang in the back of your throat like something wasn’t quite right.

After about an hour or so, you wanted to give up. It was just a theory Eris had - in all your years of studying and meeting healers, you had never heard of this ability. You became more exasperated with each attempt, growing more and more convinced this was Eris’s attempt at procuring his own amusement.

“Think of Azriel.” Eris’s voice had cut through the thick air of disappointment you were suffocating in. What did Azriel have to do with this? And why had he been so far from your own thoughts for hours, when he was always at the forefront of your mind these past few months?

“What?”

“Think of Azriel. Think of the arrows in his back and in his wings. You felt his pain. Now remember it.”

You took a deep breath, stilling yourself, allowing Eris’s words to wash over you. You closed your eyes, trying to step into the memory. You thought about the living room of the cabin, the open space with minimal decoration. Azriel’s shallow breaths filled your ears, only allowing yourself to breathe after each of his. Your nose twitched at the copper smell, how every part of you had been roaring at the scent of his blood. How you clung to hope, wanting that feeling to surge through your hands and make its way into Azriel’s skin. You wanted him pieced together with every bit of hope or happiness you harbored, his skin a mosaic of your affection.

Your stomach dropped at the memory, pouring yourself fully into the moment that was days past, not allowing yourself the comfort of knowing he is somewhere in Velaris and he is fine. You had to live in the past, reaching for that feralness you dampened way down. Every sense heightened, the pain you took from Azriel was on the tip of your fingers. You were giving the pain life, letting it live in the very tips of your hands, feed off your blood and energy. its sole creator.

If one's lucky, pain only lives on in memory. Now it lived at your fingertips, growing and festering, waiting to latch onto a new host.

You exhaled slowly, grabbing Eris’s hand one last time. You weren’t really sure what to do, so you just swirled patterns on the palm of his hand, your fingers moving up to his wrist but going no further. You were tracing nonsensical swirls to etch into his skin, maybe even his soul.

The male did not react, staying as still as he had during all of your other attempts. Your heart dropped at the disappointment, feeling shame creep up your neck at having Eris watch you fail again.

So much for him considering the two of you equals. Fitting he’d only consider someone capable of inflicting harm to be an equal.

Your ministrations stopped, the silence of the room stilling your movement. Every other time you had tried, each failure was met with some response from the redhead. Now he sat silent, a sight you had never seen before.

Slowly, you cracked open an eye, unsure of what you wished to see. His pale arm was still extended toward you, but the freckles were now hidden beneath raised red abrasions. Your path of swirls overlapped each other, but they were easy enough to still follow. They all made varying trails of raised red skin, some parts more scratched, others looking more like painful welts.

You gaped at him, surprised such a thing could come from you. Something took root in your chest - pride, maybe? Healing magic was one of the most well documented types of magic, one of the most common and most useful. A large percentage of high fae had varying degrees of healing powers - from accelerated self healing to regrowing limbs. And you had just done something never documented before. Perhaps never even accomplished before. A huge, cheesy grin overtook your face, and a shocked laugh came out as well.

“Even songbirds have claws, don’t they?”

Finally looking at Eris’s face, his sharp features were an attempt at indifference. He held his face neutrally, and weeks ago you would have been fooled, but his eyes gave him away. They sparkled a rich amber in the light, losing the dark edges to make way for something brighter.

Looking at him now, the mask peeled back enough to see his enjoyment, you knew this was the Eris that Azriel had fallen so in love with. So disarming not even centuries of hatred could withstand it.

You left the cabin behind you not long afterward, the door finally giving so the two of you could leave. Maybe the shadows heard your laughs, allowing your exit? Or maybe Azriel wasn’t willing to allow his mates to miss dinner?

Whatever the case, you were happy to winnow back to Velaris, your stomach desperate for food. You had a one track mind as you headed for one of your favorite restaurants, a casual, quaint restaurant that had your favorite booths to curl up in and read on lunch breaks. The glow of the restaurant met your eyes, but someone bumped into you, their shoulder hitting you lightly. You looked as they apologized, continuing to shuffle off before you could say anything, their brown hair swaying.

Your gaze lingered just long enough at their retreating form that you noticed the stationary shop you had passed by. Without thinking, you doubled back, walking inside to find perhaps the most gorgeous shop you’ve ever been inside. Dark wood floors and counters, notebooks and pens and every organizational need was color coded.

You get your bearings long enough to pick up some pens and a journal, not really thinking, just doing. Seeing the shop made you think of Azriel, his secret devotion to journaling offering you insight into his inner life.

The past few weeks had been a tangled web of emotion, a back and forth of what lay ahead of you. You needed to unscramble your own inner life, figuring out what you thought and how you felt and write down every detail to look back on. You paid for your supplies, cradling them beneath your arm as you walked back across the street before being recognized by your hostess. She immediately found a small booth, offering it to you before scurrying off.

The hum of other patrons, bits of their conversation, and the hustle of the staff allowed your mind enough background noise to sort out the day you had. This was exactly where you needed to be. Alone with your thoughts, but productive. Now you get to spend a few hours tucked into a booth, scribbling it all out. You started the journal where this whole saga began - when your mating bond with Azriel snapped into place. Four months now felt like a lifetime ago, but that first day was seared into your memory.

It was a usual day. You had gone to work. You had a few patients that needed immediate tending to, the four males having been lost in the woods for quite a while. They would be fine, but you had stayed late to ensure a continued watch, waiting for one of the other junior healers to take over for you.

In the chaotic stretch of time you and Madja were helping them, you hadn’t been aware of just how much time had passed until your patients had been stabilized and a large Illyrian had made his way into the workshop.

Azriel’s face betrayed nothing, except a bit of relief at you being alive in front of him. At the sight of him, you turned to the window, not having noticed the setting sun that had sent the place into darkness.

“Az! I hope you’re not upset with me, merely lost track of time.”

He looked over the four beds, the four males all tucked into multiple blankets, redness in their cheeks and noses.

“I can see that.”

“They’ve been in the woods for a week,” you whispered low enough so the patients would continue sleeping but Azriel would still hear. He hunched over slightly, getting closer to you as you continued. “Poor males lost themselves on the Atterage Slope.”

Azriel sucked in a breath, somewhat familiar with the rocky terrain. He looked at the males again, wondering how they managed to make it out that far.

“What were they doing out there? Usually only Illyrians go out that way. Uneven paths are difficult without wings.”

“Tell me about it.” You chortled. “They seem pretty young. I think they’re in their thirties.”

Azriel nodded as if it was reason enough, remembering the dumb adventures of his own youth. The ridiculous schemes Cassian and Rhysand had pulled him into. The few schemes of his own he pulled them into.

It was a miracle none of them were this bad off.

“Ah, to be young and so brave.”

“You sound old saying that.”

Azriel’s wings fluttered slightly, the slight gush of air causing you to snort. In that breath of a laugh, your world tilted as if you had lost your balance, but you hadn’t moved. The air held a heavy dusting of magic to it, your vision nearly sparkling with it. Everything felt stronger, some sense of connection holding you steady despite your wobbly knees.

Looking at Azriel now felt as if you were allowed to look at the sun. What it must feel like to gaze upon the one thing that gives everything life, every aspect of your world orbiting around it just for a flash of its warmth.

The breath caught in your throat, before allowing for a new inhale of air that somehow felt crisper, as if the oxygen in it knew you weren’t the same as you were thirty seconds ago. As if every piece of life were more intense now that your universe had an anchor.

Azriel was your anchor, your lifeline, your tether to this world. Someone who was supposed to see your darkest parts and love them. Someone who would do anything for you.

There were theories about mates. Some people thought it was a matter of fertility, others thought the Mother was selecting for complementary traits in mates. You always liked the idea that mates were what you weren’t, giving one a new perspective to consider.

Reflecting on that day, it felt silly to wait so long. Each attempt you made to tell him the truth that lingered on your tongue at all hours failed miserably. The timing never felt right, and as happy as you had been about it, you had needed some time to adjust.

You adored the shadowsinger, his company one you always enjoyed. But were either of you ready for a long term commitment? Feyre had told you over a glass of wine once that all Azriel had wanted was a mate, leaving him pining after females in hopes they were his.

You had spent so long devoted to your studies, and now as a junior healer, were truly feeling your stride. Flings and short term relationships happened, but nothing you’d ever want to commit to for a year, much less the rest of your life.

But you spent those four months observing Azriel. How he drank his coffee, how he liked to sit in front of windows in the morning to warm his wings, how he always sat next to you and was the first to get up if you wanted anything.

You saw his pessimism, catching glimpses of the self-loathing that threatened to drown him. Some deep part of you knew that if you were right about mates, if they were chosen for complementing each other, your optimism and hopefulness was exactly what he needed. And his loyalty and steadiness was what you needed from him.

But how did Eris play into all of this? What did he provide that Azriel needed?

All of your thoughts had been logged in your journal, your food here and gone in the time you spent in your mind, deciding it was time to go home.

You had no way of making it up to the House of Wind without a winged escort. You could winnow, allowing the drop to just bang you up a little. Or you could walk the ten thousand steps and continue to think.

Restlessness crept up inside you, your foot tapping to expel the nervous energy. The steps would take longer and allow you to clear your head a bit more, potentially allowing you to sneak in unnoticed.

But they would suck.

Nesta’s smug face appeared in your mind, echoing her sentiments of a ticking clock. You sighed, making your way into the stairwell, letting the stone help still your racing mind.

***

The ascent hadn’t been as bad as you thought, even though your thighs were on fire. You couldn’t look over the side of the stairs, the dizzying height enough to make you want to hug the wall as you climbed up the quiet stairwell.

But you made it. Barely breathing, but you made it.

All you wanted was to collapse into bed, or to even lean against the doorframe for a few minutes, but if you stopped now, it’d take you ages to get back up. Rest was not an option until you were sure it would be hours before you’d expect to rise again.

The house was quiet as you crept through it, the pain in your legs sending hissing sounds from your mouth with each step. The halls were dark, a stillness in the air only there when all three of your roommates were away for training. The stairs to your bedroom were so close, you just have to make it through the kitchen where you can easily creep past Nesta and Cassian’s floor and make it to where yours and Azriel’s chambers lie.

“Have fun wherever you snuck off to?”

You stilled, Cassian’s booming voice bouncing off the walls of the stairwell. The laugh behind the words wasn’t quite right, a bit stilted for the usually jovial Illyrian.

“I didn’t do much sneaking.” Cassian shrugged as if you hadn’t said anything at all, either completely ignoring the lie or not believing it.

“Elain dropped off some cookies earlier. Want one? Otherwise I’ll eat them all and Nesta will be mad I didn’t save you any.” You turned, coming back down the stairs as he held out the box stiffly. The cookies did look great, a sweet aroma wafting from them you had missed in your panic to get to your room.

“Couldn’t you just not eat them all?”

His jaw clicked, the slight grind of his teeth loud enough for you to hear. He rummaged through the box before he held out a cookie, pointing it at your neck. “Couldn’t help myself. Just like whatever leech you tangled with today.”

Your hand flew to your neck, trying to shield whatever hickeys laid there. Beneath one of your fingers the skin was tender to the touch, a sure sign of Eris’s pleasure. You untucked your hair, draping it over your neck in a shameful attempt to hide away the day’s activities. The movement wafted the scent of Eris through the air, a quick momentary flash of pale skin and bedsheets, his intoxicating scent of whiskey and bonfire leaving you hungry for more than the cookie in front of you.

Cassian just watched, his outstretched arm acting as a guide to the marks on your now semi-covered neck. The two of you stared at each other, neither conceding in this strange standoff. The general was almost disappointed and upset to find you in such a state, as if he were your jilted lover.

You hadn’t done anything wrong. Not even the mating bond in your chest was upset.

So why was Cassian?

You gave up, snatching the cookie from his hand a bit more forcefully than you should have.

“Does Azriel know?”

You choked on your cookie, coughing lightly. Heat climbed up your chest at Cassian’s question and the fact that you could feel a slight ache in between your legs. You crossed them, trying to limit the smell of your arousal from making its way to Cassian.

“Yes. Azriel knows.” He didn’t - at least not yet. There was no way to properly tell your mate you slept with his other mate.

But he knew you were with Eris. Was the reason you were with Eris.

It was Cassian’s fault for not specifying.

He eyed you wearily, not touching the cookies as you turned from him, ascending the stairs and away from his scrutinizing gaze.

Your first day back at work was less than fantastic. Madja hovered over your shoulder, watching your every move. You bit your tongue the whole day, knowing better than to ask her to give you space. She’d respond with some variation of ‘I don’t want to, but you leave me no choice’ or ‘I trained you to not burnout, what other teachings have you foregone?’

Easy, menial tasks filled your day, but your mind was so numb by the end you walked much more leisurely to where you usually meet up with Azriel. Your feet strolled the familiar path, everything familiar and ordinary while you felt anything but.

You could have mentioned to Madja the progress you had made with Eris, but it felt too much like a secret between the two of you. You also didn’t want to tell anyone before fully gaining control over it. You were able to hurt him once. You needed more practice, more control over it.

You had soaked in the tub for a long while last night, scrubbing away all traces of Eris. Your neck had healed overnight, gone were the purple and red marks Cassian had seen in the kitchen. Though they were gone, you still felt their bite whenever you pressed into the skin, the dull pain enough of a reminder that it had been real and not some figment of your imagination.

Catching sight of Azriel at the end of the road sent flutters through your stomach, your mind restarting again as you blinked away the mundanity of your day. You couldn’t stop the smile that broke out on your face, your steps quicker to reach him. The matching smile on his face was like a siren song, pulling you to him.

“You are a nice sight after the day I’ve had, even if you did lock me in a cabin yesterday.”

It surprised you how light you felt seeing him. The past few weeks his face had made you into a melting pot of emotion, but now you only felt calm. Even if he had locked you in a cabin, the outcome was quite fruitful for you, so your ire was in short supply.

“Surely any face is better than boils and warts.”

“None of those today. Just Madja lecturing me every ten minutes. I hope your day fared better.”

His eyes twinkled as he looked down at you, a few of his shadows gently rolled down your arms, intertwining in your fingers. Their cool touch was familiar, a stark contrast to the heat that had radiated from Eris’s skin the previous day.

“Not much better. Tedious. Annoying brothers.”

“Oh, not both of them I hope.”

“Rhys wasn’t too bad, Cassian was the main bother.” You grimaced, lightly toeing your shoe in the street.

“That might be my fault. He found me when I came home last night and he force fed me a cookie.” His eyebrows raised at that, a confused laugh coming from him.

“Why didn’t you say no to the cookie?”

“It was one of Elain’s, who am I to turn that down?”

“Have you eaten anything since the cookie?”

You thought back over your day, the wearisome day not even broken up with a nice break for food.

“I had some coffee this morning.”

“That’s not food.”

You rolled your eyes, lightly jabbing him in the ribs with a finger. At that moment, your stomach decided to growl loudly enough to bring a slight smirk to Azriel’s face.

“Are you doing anything tonight? We could get dinner somewhere.”

“Yeah? Where would you want to go?” You stepped closer, invading his space. He smelled just like he always did, that comforting scent of night chilled mist and cedar that felt like a romanticized version of camping. You picked up hints of the bonfire smell that clung to Eris, melding so perfectly with Azriel’s scent it was practically hidden to everyone but you.

“Do you like comfort food?”

“Love it.”

“Then it’s a surprise.”

“So full of secrets.”

He only smiled, his arms wrapping around the backs of your legs and your shoulders, quickly pulling you into his chest before shooting off into the sky. Your laughter echoed down the street, bouncing down the alleyway.

How many times have you been cradled by him as he soared through the skies, his great wings beating against the air? The number could be in the thousands and it would not matter. Your heart stalled each time, and if you looked down you were sure to find the organ in the place you had just stood.

“You’re cruel!” You shouted over the wind directly into his ear. He flinched at your volume.

“I believe cruelty is in my job title.”

“I believe it has a stipulation that you’re not allowed to be cruel to me.”

“Forgive me. I’m not a fan of such formalities as titles.”

“You brought it up!” Azriel landed the two of you onto the balcony, his feet cushioning the impact. You laughed into his ear, incredulous and loud, not adjusting for the stillness his landing provided.

“Must you assign blame for everything?”

The sun cast away his shadows, his smile bright as the warm rays hit his wings. He looked wonderfully happy, practically glowing in the light. You weren’t sure you had ever seen him so happy. His eyes were on your face, golden flecks nearly blinding with joy.

“Ah, great for you two to join us!” Rhys’s voice burst the bubble, Azriel’s beaming face turning into a scowl before he looked at his brother. The spell was broken, the shadows back over his face before speaking.

“What is this?” His grip on you slackened, your body practically spilling from his arms. You stood unsteadily, not expecting the sudden loss of him. Gaining your balance, you looked around to find several familiar faces around the usually empty dining table. Despite it being Cassian and Nesta’s home, Rhysand sat at the head with Feyre on his left, Cassian and Nesta on his right.

They all looked serious, their faces not giving anything away. You knew Nesta and Rhys were usually at odds, but to see them seemingly united on some front slightly concerned you. Nesta wouldn’t even look at you, her jaw tight as she looked at Rhys.

“We wanted to discuss something with you.” Rhysand was clearly the one taking charge with whatever this intervention was. Azriel stood guarded, one of his wings slightly blocking you to keep him between you and his family. He stayed silent, waiting for Rhysand to say more.

“The gala in Hewn City is next week - Eris will be attending.” Azriel stiffened next to you, the color draining from his face. Everyone else was quiet, Azriel’s plea loud at the pause. “Rhysand-“

Rhys put his hands up, leaning back in his chair, his eyes focused on you, not even looking at his brother.

“Well he does like you, doesn’t he?”

“What? What’s the problem, Az?” Azriel ignored you, his glare fixed in Rhys, only occasionally flickering to Cassian. None of what Rhys was saying made any sense. What do you have to do with Eris and Hewn City? And why was Azriel acting like it was a death sentence?

“Surely you don’t think Eris is so foolish to fall for the same trick a second time.” Gone was Azriel’s joyous laughter, his voice on the precipice of violence.

“Somehow I think it’ll work quite well this time.” Rhys looked at you, every ounce a feline predator having found their next meal. You stepped back at his gaze, never having felt so pinned in place before. “Won’t it?”

The question lingered in the air, but you still weren’t quite understanding. They were gaps in your knowledge, but you had always figured Rhysand wouldn’t leave you in the dark quite like this.

“Azriel, I don’t- what’s he talking about?”

“Yes, Azriel. What are we talking about?” Rhys cocked his head at Azriel, mimicking your questioning tone.

“They want to offer you as bait to Eris. Charm him to what - propose?”

Rhysand finally turned to his brother, violet eyes desperately searching into Azriel’s. You could feel Azriel’s apprehension and rage through the bond - he felt like a cornered animal, ready to attack and maim at any minute.

You still weren’t quite getting what the problem was. No one other than Rhys would look at you, their eyes focused on the ringleader of this intervention. But interventions had a reason, one you were only tangentially understanding.

You had spoken to Nesta before of Eris, asking her if he was as difficult as he seemed. It was practically a lifetime ago when you told her you pitied the fae mated to him. Looking at Azriel, you felt heat creep up your chest and neck at how wrong you had been.

“We can’t let potential allies slip through our fingers, Azriel.”

Rhys deflated just slightly, clearly unsatisfied with what he found in Azriel. He turned back to you, sizing up his prey. It sent shivers down your spine. You looked to Nesta again, looking for some sense of solidarity, of not feeling like a cow at auction, but she gave you none, only looking at the table in silence.

“Think about it, sleep on it, give me an answer in a few days.”

Azriel’s palm was gentle as it pressed against your back, quickly ushering you from the room, shielding your body with his wings. His long strides conveyed his urgency to get you out of there, your own feet barely keeping up with his speed.

Azriel pushed you into your room, his shadows scoping every inch of the room, tugging on every door and window, ensuring the room was secure. His face darkened, his hands almost shaking with rage. You had never seen him like this, his anger chilling the room by a few degrees.

“I can’t believe they’d do this. Suggest this. Allow you, urge you to marry him.” Every word was hurried and rushed, each a half formed thought you didn’t fully follow. His words were biting, but you didn’t flinch nor back down.

“I don’t understand, Az. Eris isn’t the evil villain they think he is.” You were certain you could talk him down, get him to see that this isn’t the death sentence he’s acting like it is.

“Thankfully. But they don’t know that. They’re offering you to this evil monstrous version of him. As well as marching you straight to Beron.”

He was practically on high alert, his body still guarding you, his shoulders straight and ready for any enemy attack.

You had forgotten about Beron. For one brief moment, you had forgotten the danger that Eris lived in constantly.

“I will be okay.” You didn’t have any reason for such confidence, but deep in your chest you knew it to be true. You knew Eris wouldn’t allow any harm to come to you.

“I don’t like this. I don’t like how they’ve banded together on this.” You could practically hear how loud he was thinking, his mind racing as he paced back and forth in front of you.

“They know something.”

It came through like a clang, the thought rattling around your mind.

“They think they can use me to get Eris to do whatever they want.”

Azriel looked at you, realization dawning on his features. His lips parted, making a slight ‘o’ as he stared, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

“They want to use him through you.”

You nodded, your jaw ticking at the idea of making anyone beholden to them through their mate.

“They think he’s my mate.”

You wanted to tell Azriel about your romp in the sheets with Eris. The urge wasn’t coming from a place of guilt, but rather just the urge to confide in him, to ask him what it could mean.

But now didn’t feel like the right time. There were more pressing matters.

“They think he’s my mate.” It was half-formed, the idea coming through to you. How you could play this, how all of this could play out. As nosey and annoying as Azriel’s family was, they may have just handed the two of you the perfect card.

“Azriel, this could solve everything. I go to Autumn as Eris’s bride..” you trailed off, hoping he would pick up on your train of thought. A moment later he was standing straighter, his shadows moving to swirl on the floor instead of at his shoulders.

“And I could join you as a guard, as your protector.”

“Do you think Beron would allow that? He’d assume you’re there to spy.”

He thought for a long while, his face scrunching with the effort of concentration. He was still annoyed, but his breathing was slowing down, his stance relaxing.

“It would allow me to visit Autumn more without them becoming suspicious at least.”

A hazy plan was forming between you two. Could this actually work? You certainly weren’t Eris’s favorite person, but surely you could get along well enough to live together. And maybe he could provide some protections for you against Beron.

“I think there’s more to-“ he was cut off by someone at your door, three quick knocks telling you exactly who it was. Azriel disappeared into the shadows in your closet as the door opened, Nesta making her way into your room. She looked around the space, expecting to find someone.

“I heard voices.”

“You’re hearing things, Nesta.” You were a bit cross with her, unable to help the betrayal you felt as she allowed Rhys to offer you up to Eris. Nesta had been your friend and watching her sit idly by as you continued asking questions, not understanding, only enraged you more.

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know Rhys was going to ask you to do this.” She looked sincere, the care for you she harbored clear across her face.

“It’s fine, Nesta.” It wasn’t, but you wanted her to leave so you could keep talking to Azriel. You didn’t want to have this conversation now, didn’t want her to know how happy it would make you.

“No. I didn’t - I think Cassian told him.”

“Told him what?”

“That I think you and Eris are mates.”

Wherever Azriel was, you were sure he was listening. You felt tingly at having figured it out yourself, but you played dumb, the shocked expression on your face was one that was just fake enough to continue to lead her on this trail of thinking.

“Why would you think that?” You had already deduced their idea, but you didn’t quite know why. Her eyes tracked the book that still laid on your nightstand, the book you had gotten in secret to mourn the mating bond between you and Azriel.

“Is that the secret? Is that what you can’t tell me? Azriel knows, right? He’s been covering for you.”

“Yes.” The lie rolled off your tongue, “Azriel knows.”

You hated lying to Nesta, the action nearly giving you a rash somewhere on your shoulder. It was your one tell, but you couldn’t give it up now. You’d let them think you and Eris were mates, slowly easing them into the actual reality of how messy and entangled yours, Azriel, and Eris’s lives were.

It was a bit silly. Surely Azriel could just tell his loved ones about his own mateship.

But now, looking at Nesta and seeing the depths of pity in her gaze, you knew why Azriel had never told them.

For a moment, you wondered if that’s how they’d look at him if he told them of your mating. Would they be happy it wasn’t Eris for you? Your heart panged a bit, so much heartache and pain over Eris.

“I didn’t tell you because I had a hard time believing it myself.” You chuckled self-deprecatingly, rubbing your arm as you stood awkwardly. “You caught me.”

If she thought you were lying, she didn’t say. Or give anything away to indicate it.

“Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad.” You looked up only to find her face full of resolve. “I’m much younger than all of you and unaware of the full history, but Eris seems… well, surely if the Mother mated the two of you it was for a good reason.”

“Perhaps good breeding stock.” Nesta shook her head, looking you over.

“No, there’s something about you. There must be something about him, too. He’s very lucky.”

The two of you stared at each other for a few moments, letting the silence wash over you. Eventually Nesta lightly clapped her hands together before saying, “well, I’ll be off for the evening. I have to pick a fight with my mate for bringing Rhysand into all of this.”

You gave her a small wave before she turned around, closing your door softly as she exited. You listened as her footsteps retreated down the hall and down the stairs, the house now quiet before Azriel rematerialized before you.

“Do you want to come with me to see Eris? I’ll need to brief him on the plan.” Your feelings toward the redhead had become so complicated, you weren’t sure if you wanted to see him or not. The mating bond roared in your chest, some territorial ache winning out over the idea of watching the mated pair interact.

“I’ll stay behind.”

Scarred hands held the back of your head, pulling you closer, his lips gently meeting your forehead. The action warmed you down to your toes, such intimacy from Azriel a rarity you cherished.

“Be safe. I’ll be back.”

Permanent taglist: @vanilla-seabass @cyrygher @lees-chaotic-brain @topaz125 @chessebookgirl @fides25 @lady-of-tearshed @ashbatz @fxckmiup @lilah-asteria @justvibbinghere @daughterofthemoons-stuff @mybestfriendmademe @heartless-tate @tsunami-of-tears @idrkwhatthisisimsorry @olive-main @azrielsmate3 @pit-and-the-pen @durgenyx @dee-writes-angst @chairofchaos @thelov3lybookworm @throneofsmut @kennedy-brooke @prythianpages @itsswritten @acotarxreader @milswrites @the-golden-jhope @hannzoaks @secretlyhers @tothestarsandwhateverend @sarawritestories @chxosangxl @quiet-loser @thegreyjoyed @paankhaleyaaar @acoazlove

Azriel taglist: @brieflyclassymortal @thisiskaylin @magicstrengthandcourage @book-obsessed124 @slytherintaco @userxs-blog @emryb

Eris taglist: @magicstrengthandcourage @book-obsessed124

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel #azriel fanfic #azriel x you #acotar writing #azriel x y/n #eris x reader #eris x azriel x reader #eris x y/n #eris x you #azriel x eris x reader #azris x reader

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misc-obeyme · 10 months ago

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Side Characters as Doms Headcanons

And here we are, as requested by multiple anons lol. Yes, this includes the three newbies. I was thinking it was taking me forever to write this part, but actually it's only been a week since I posted the bros? Huh. Anyway. Enjoy!

GN!MC x the side characters

Demon Bros as Doms Side Characters as Subs

NSFW MDNI

Note: As usual, the warnings on this are off the charts but most of it's just briefly mentioned.

Warnings: Sub!MC, bondage, blindfolds, gags, shibari, dacryphilia, begging, overstimulation, praise, degradation, humiliation, biting, hickeys, roleplay, orgasm denial, edging, spanking, demon form, tail stuff (Barb you heathen lol), somnophilia, manhandling, collaring, whips, chains, magic stuff (do I even have to say who), aphrodisiacs, multiple orgasms, blood kink, exhibitionism, titles, jealousy, after care, I hope that's it sheesh.

Diavolo

Doms the same way he interacts with people - generally indulgent, amused, curious, and soft, but push too far and you’re no longer dealing with friendly Diavolo, but the Next Demon King. He prefers to pamper you, but he won’t show leniency to a brat for very long.

He’s also acutely aware of the fact that he is one large, powerful, and strong demon and you are but a fragile human. Even when you’re being punished, he’s gentle with you. His favorite thing to do when you get out of line is to overstimulate you. He wants to hold you in his lap with his fingers inside you, making you come until you cry.

Diavolo is vocal, he spends a lot of time praising you. He’s not really into degradation or humiliation. He wants to tell you how perfect you are for him. He wants to coo in your ear when you’re begging and whining. He’ll call you all sorts of sweet pet names.

Diavolo also likes to dress you up, usually with pretty ropes and a blindfold paired with something like a really expensive necklace. He likes to see his status displayed on you. If you ask for something specific, he’ll buy you the most fanciest and prettiest one he can find.

He also loves to leave his mark on you. His favorite is biting, he’ll be sure to cover you in his teeth marks. He also enjoys sucking on your skin and leaving hickeys all over. Too much bruising stresses him out a little because he’s worried about hurting you too much. But if you’re clearly enjoying it, he’ll keep going.

He won’t do exhibitionism, but he’s okay with close proximity type situations. Actually gets a lock installed on his office door because he really really wants to roleplay with you in there. Sometimes he has a hard time keeping a straight face when doing this, but he manages to school himself. Because he’s waiting for the moment when he can bend you over his desk and lose himself in how good you feel.

Barbatos

Another one who has two modes. Barbatos is a fair dom, but he’s also strict. He’s less indulgent than Diavolo and he’s less hesitant to punish you if you’re being bratty. He has no problem using all forms of punishment and will generally use whatever seems to work best for you. His personal choice is orgasm denial. He’s going to bring you to the edge, maybe multiple times, but never actually allow you to feel that sweet release. If you protest, he’ll just smile and shake his head. It’s meant to be a punishment, MC.

Don’t think that means that’s all he’ll try though. If he finds you respond better to other forms of punishment, he won’t hesitate to switch tactics. Whether he’s spanking you or overstimulating you, you’ll know he means business the second he takes his gloves off.

If you’ve really messed up, though, he won’t even bother with the gloves. That’s when you know you’re really in for it. Barbatos almost never loses his cool, so if you’ve managed to do that, watch out.

He likes to dom in demon form. His tail is useful for all kinds of things, like restraining you or gagging you. It also reminds him of the time when he wasn’t as restrained as he is now. He lets himself go just enough to make things exciting, but not enough that he loses control of the situation.

Barbatos is into just about anything and everything, so if you’ve got some kinda kink, be sure he will use it to his advantage. Oh, you like biting? Good, so does he. Now you're covered in bite marks. Perhaps you enjoy a little somnophilia? It's fine, he enjoys that, too. He'll be sure you're dreaming about his cock.

He likes it when you’re needy and when you beg for him. He can hold back and not touch you at all for a long time, letting you squirm and cry. When he finally does touch you, it’s soft and subtle and almost makes things worse.

Sometimes, he’ll go all out instead. When this happens, you find yourself absolutely exhausted. He’ll make you stay with him the whole next day so he can take care of you. Won’t let you go to RAD or do anything else. He just wants to pamper you.

Simeon

A very gentle and soft dom, Simeon is incredibly indulgent with you. He prefers praise to degradation and he’ll shower you in it. He likes to call you sweet names, too. His favorite thing is just to touch and kiss you. He wants you under him so he can kiss all the way up and down your body, running his fingers along your skin.

You really have to push to get him to punish you at all, but if you go that far, he will put you in your place. You’ll need to brat like no brat has ever bratted to make it happen. But Simeon can quell a bit of a bratty outburst with nothing but a command. When he issues it, there’s a tone in his voice that speaks volumes, even though he’ll still be smiling at you.

If you keep pushing, he will warn you multiple times because he just wants you to be good for him. But eventually, he’ll give you the punishment you so clearly deserve. He doesn’t really have a preference himself, so he’ll do what he thinks will be most effective. He tries different things with you until he finds the one that works.

Surprisingly good at resisting begging. He won’t give in right away if you’re whining and crying in his lap, he’ll let you carry on for a bit first. He likes to listen to your pleas, he thinks you sound so cute.

While he doesn’t particularly enjoy hurting you too much, he does like to manhandle you. He’ll pick you up and move you around as he sees fit. He’s stronger than he looks and he likes to have that control over you. If he puts you into a particular position, you had better not move yourself from it.

Too shy outside the bedroom to allow much of a dynamic there, but he will absolutely give you a Look if you’re acting out. It’s his way of saying you might want to re-evaluate your behavior unless you want to be dealing with the consequences later.

He has a bit of a dark side that you can tap into when you're being really unmanageable. Don't worry, he'll have confirmed your safewords before ever starting anything, so if he's suddenly too much you can use them. But when he flips that switch, you'll find he can be unexpectedly harsh with you. He gets a certain look in his eyes and his voice gets very quiet. You've really decided to push him to his limit, haven't you, MC?

Solomon

Solomon is able to step into dom mode at will and when he does, he’s really good at it. He knows exactly what to do to make your silly little sub heart flutter. He won’t hesitate to keep you in line outside of the bedroom, usually by giving you a little squeeze or even an ominous smile. He likes to have you wear a collar all the time. He’ll corner you somewhere a little out of sight of anyone else, hook a finger into your collar, and whisper words of warning in your ear.

When it comes down to it, Solomon is willing to do anything at all. He’s a pretty fair dom and will always give you space at first to be a little bratty. But it doesn’t take too much to push him and then he’ll deal with you quickly. While he will switch up punishments to whatever works best, he likes spanking. He just wants you to fall apart in his lap.

He will employ anything and everything that will get a good reaction from you. Ropes, whips, blindfolds, gags, etc etc if you can think of it, he will give it a go. He likes to use magic to restrain you, though. If you really have a thing for ropes, he’ll use them sometimes, but his magic is so much more effective. He has all kinds of saucy little spells that make you feel all kinds of sensations~

Solomon wants to make you have multiple orgasms and he will employ aphrodisiac potions to do it if he needs to and if you agree. He just loves to watch you come over and over again. He wants to make your brain stop working for a bit.

He loves to praise you, but he enjoys dirty talk, too. You'll probably get a bit of a random mixture of them.

Solomon also enjoys cockwarming. If he's having a long night in his lab, studying ancient spells, he'll really appreciate you sitting in his lap as long as you can. He loves the way you squirm. He'll tell you to stay still, but the amusement in his tone is evident. If you keep moving like that, MC, he's going to have to do something about it. He won't make you wait too long because in the end, he gets impatient too.

He's very attentive when it comes to after care. He likes to dom and to have fun with you, but he also wants to remind you of how important you are to him. He'll pamper you, hold you close, kiss you, and tell you that you're his everything.

Mephistopheles

By far the meanest of doms. It depends a bit on what you respond to and also what mood he's in, but he's generally not going to give you an inch. Sometimes he's in a softer mood and he'll be a little nicer, but even then it's not by much. He expects you to follow his orders and be grateful about it. When he's like this, he won't tolerate brattiness. If you push, he'll double down and you won't like when that happens. He'll get stubborn and he won't indulge you at all.

He'll use all kinds of methods or punishment, but mostly it’s going to be edging and orgasm denial. He wants you to beg so he can ignore it. He’ll be sure to tell you it’s your own fault for thinking he’d go easy on you.

Mephisto will mostly use dirty talk and degradation, delivering praise only when you’ve really earned it. He likes to see you cry, so he will do everything he can to make that happen. If you do start, that’s the only time he’ll soften just a little. He’ll wipe away your tears and tell you how good you’re being for him.

He has a blood kink. He wants to see your blood on your skin and he will bite you. Leaves all kinds of marks across your body, mostly with his mouth.

He’s into exhibitionism and semi public sex. He gets cocky and wants people to know that you belong to him. Loves it when you wear a collar visibly. Doesn’t hesitate to grab you or whisper threats if he thinks you’re acting out in public.

Despite all this, he gets incredibly soft when it comes to after care. This is when he pampers you. Instead of threats, he's now whispering sweet nothings in your ear. He gets embarrassed about how much you matter to him, so it's easier for him to be mean. He might even confess all this to you in these quieter moments. He'll gently kiss every mark he left on your body. He'll tell you that he hates how much a human matters to him. Don't you see what you've done to him, MC?

Raphael

He's a little skeptical at first. You want him to do what exactly? It isn't that he's innocent, but he's not sure he understands the appeal. Give him some time and he'll fall right into it easily enough. Raphael seems like a strict dom, but he's more lenient than he first appears. He's just quiet, won't give you a lot of orders, really.

He does like to tie you up. Shibari is especially intriguing to him. He likes taking the time to create masterpieces out of rope on your body. He likes the way the ropes leave marks when he finally unties you. He'll kiss along the places where they were, indulging in the feeling of your heated skin.

Raphael might not think of it himself, but he'll lose his whole mind if you use a title for him. Call him Sir or Master and he'll be the one blushing like crazy. He'll be able to control himself, but he'll ask you to do it again.

He's more into praise than anything, he likes to tell you how good you're being. If you're being bad, he gets quiet. You'll know you're in trouble when he's suddenly not talking much. Perhaps giving you short one syllable responses.

Punishments will really be just about anything. It's whatever he's in the mood to do and whatever he thinks will get the message across. Fortunately, he finds that just giving you a certain look is usually enough to quell you. Because you'll find his punishments are quite harsh, so it's better to avoid them. Of course, if you really want to be punished, all you have to do is push a little harder.

Raphael is not super into exhibitionism, but sometimes he feels the need to pull you into an empty room, especially at RAD. He is surprisingly jealous. If he thinks you're getting too cozy with anyone else, he'll make sure you haven't forgotten who you belong to. Do you suppose it's fun to push his buttons that way, MC?

Thirteen

Don't worry, MC. She will absolutely step on you if you want her to. Thirteen is not shy about domming, she will agree immediately. She's willing to do whatever you want - whatever gets you to react. She'll try praise, but if she finds degradation or humiliation work better, she'll switch to that. Either way, though, she likes to keep her hand in your hair, so she can pull it whenever she wants.

She enjoys biting and blood. She will leave her marks on you, whether its with her teeth or her nails. She likes the way it looks on you, but she also likes the sight of your blood on her fingertips.

Thirteen will tie you up, blindfold you, and gag you. She'll make you wear a collar and leash. She will go all out, she's not holding back at all. She expects you to behave and if you don't, she'll deal with you readily.

Punishments can vary, but she likes to watch you squirm. Whatever does that most effectively, gets you crying and begging, that's what she'll go for every time. She'll try spanking, edging, orgasm denial, even stuff like whips and chains. She likes to come up with unique ways to restrain you or punish you, like she does with her traps.

Will not hesitate to use magic on you. Spells, potions, whatever she can find that will have the desired effect. She likes to overstimulate you. She'll use aphrodisiac potions to keep you aroused for hours. She loves to watch you cry and whine and mumble her name because you've forgotten yours.

Thirteen will get jealous and she'll sometimes feel the need to remind you of your place if she thinks you're getting too friendly with someone else. This generally consists of a hand on your arm, a simple look, or a single word. She doesn't need to make a big show of it, but all of those things get you to back off. And you know you'll be hearing about it later.

In the end, she's going to take care of you. She may go all out, but she always ends with praise, soft kisses and caresses. She tells you how good you are, how perfect for her, how much she just wants you to be hers and only hers.

demon bros as doms | demon bros as subs | side characters as subs masterlist | Thank you for reading!

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nsharks · 5 months ago

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bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-three —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: ily

In a split second, the ground seems to open up and you sink down, down, down into a memory brimming with death. Stark white snow surrounds you, soaked with blood beneath your feet. You hear the screams of your sister and Paul. A wall of grey descends over them. There are many, too many. All you can do is—

"Fucking run! Come on, before they smell us!"

Kyle tugs your arm and rips you back to the present. You trap the terror, throw the bow on your back, and sprint. Which way did you even come from? The meadow feels bigger than before. He seems to know so you follow him, fighting through head-high rue.

It doesn't seem like the Greys have taken notice to you yet given the absence of hungered screeches, but you can hear the uneven footsteps continuing behind you. You try to look back at them, but all you can make out through the plants are flashes of grey and green and amber sunlight. You don't slow down. You need to increase the gap so they can't get close enough to scent you.

"She's right over there," Kyle urges.

The tall grasses turn into pine needle covered ground. You make it back to Cherry, who must notice the shift in the air as she whinnies against the rope. Kyle slinks his rifle on his back, unties her with nimble fingers, and without warning, grabs you by the waist and tosses you onto the saddle. You grip her mane to steady yourself. He swings a leg over behind you, then thrashes the reins. She breaks into a gallop, weaving through the trees.

You look back again once she's gained some distance. They have trampled through the meadow, consuming it, and you realize with a sinking pit that without a horse, you wouldn't have been quick enough to get away. From this height, you can now see just how far back the crowd extends, to the point that they swallow the horizon.

If they continue this way, they'll reach the camp.

A barbed fence and trench won't stop them.

You look back ahead of you, the forest passing as a blur in your peripherals.

"We have to get back and tell them. There's too many," you speak into the whipping breeze. "There is no month."

He tightens an arm around your middle and mutters gravely in your ear. "No, there isn't."

It feels like hours before you make it back, though the sun has yet to fully set. Blood orange streaks the sky. They must be preparing dinner. No one is outside. Cherry slides to a halt in front of the trench and Kyle helps you down with a firm hold, as if he is worried you'll be unsteady, but you brush his hand off and race inside.

You enter with such urgency that all eyes snap to you. Ghost is crouched in front of the fireplace. Price and Nereida are curled on the couch, legs entangled, as he strokes her long, black hair. Blue and Ari are looking through a magazine splayed on the table.

"Greys," you announce, looking around. You land on dark eyes that widen as they take you in. "They're here. They're coming."

"We saw them by the hundreds about 20 kilometers south. Too many for us to handle. We have to move, Price," Kyle says.

Ghost rises. You close the distance and stare up at him with unwavering conviction, ignoring the nausea that has been churning in your gut since the moment you witnessed them.

"Ghost, we're not fucking around. I saw them. A horde. Bigger than the one that destroyed my camp. We have to get out of here. We don't have the time to wait around until they—"

"I heard you." His eyes sweep over the length of you. "You're alright?"

"Yes," you dismiss quickly. "They didn't get to us. But if we didn't have Cherry..."

You trail off.

Price stands. "20 kilometers, Simon. They can close that distance in a matter of hours. We move now."

You see a war dance in Ghost's eyes as he releases your shoulder and nods firmly at his old captain. The stiffness in his shoulders and the hard set of his jaw show his realization that the battle he’s been fighting to grapple for more time is unwinnable.

"Dad?" Blue's voice is small from the table.

He looks at her. "Kid, go get your things. Everything I've told you to bring if we ever had to leave."

"Where—where are we going?"

Price answers. "We start with moving a safe distance away. South, past Loughborough, like I showed you, Simon. Get your map. Gather everything we talked about. Only the necessities that we can fit in the truck."

Then, everyone moves.

A pot abandoned over the crackling embers.

The magazine left on the table.

You rummage for your things.

Ghost throws a military-grade backpack at you.

"Use this."

You fight trembling fingers to unzip it. You don't own much. Even after cramming all your vials and pill bottles, gauze, knives, and clothes in it, there's space. He fills the rest with food from the pantry. Canned beans, fish, soup, peanut butter. A few packages with bold letters: MRE. Military ready-to-eats.

Minutes race, and you're back outside. Moonlight floods the sky. Time feels like an enemy. How far away are they now? You swing around back to the truck. Kyle and Price have already loaded guns, food, and the deflated raft around Ghost's kayak. Blue watches them finish packing. She has a backpack of her own and Grim in her hands. Her eyes are red.

Ghost comes out with two heavily stuffed bags of his own.

"You can't take him."

Blue tightens her hold on Grim. "I'll hold him the whole way."

"You can't."

"I can. I'm not—I'm not leaving him. He'll die."

"Say goodbye to him and get in the truck."

The look he gives her is final.

She knows it.

She kneels down and releases the rabbit.

He lingers by her feet.

Tears flow.

"You have to stay here, okay? I'm—I'm sorry."

Kyle and Ari give their farewell to Cherry. He removes the saddle. You are tempted to thank her for saving your life, but before you can, Kyle strikes her rear and sends her running toward the north. You hope she can get out of here.

You, Blue, and Nereida sit in the backseats. Kyle and Ari sit out on the truck bed, while Ghost drives and Price holds the map. Faded headlights cut through the night as the engine coughs to life. The silhouette of the camp outside the window is the last glimpse you steal as Ghost drives through the trees.

There isn't much talking except for Price telling him where to go. When Price unfolds the map, a small paper falls out. Ghost quickly snatches it and stuffs it in his pocket. Blue trembles beside you, but she's silent. You switch between playing with the plastic bracelet on your wrist and reopening the scab on your finger to keep your mind busy. You can't think about the what-if's—not now.

The bumpy ride softens once Ghost makes it to the road. You squint your eyes to read the roadsigns as they pass, but they're faded and it's dark. All you can make out is the letter M: motorway. It must be the M1. You crossed it on the way to the village, but this time Ghost follows it south, opposite of Manchester.

Not even half an hour into the drive, Ghost swears under his breath. He slows down to a near-stop, causing your forehead to almost slam into the headrest. Your heart stutters when you look out the windshield. A group of Greys, not as large as the one you witnessed, but still sizable, lingers in the middle of the road. The headlights draw their shadows against the concrete—dark, spidery fingers.

"Go around them," Price directs. "Keep some distance."

Ghost veers the truck left onto the grassy side of the motorway. The ride turns rough again and you notice Blue pressing her knuckles into your thigh. You let her. You watch the group pass through the window—maybe twenty or thirty of them. They are moving in the direction of the woods. Drawn to the terribly strong scent of the mass already congregated in there.

When the truck fully passes them, your mind drifts. You think of small things. The growing cabbages Blue planted. If they will survive, or be trampled. Ghost's books. The shed you used to sleep. The violets by the pond, in full bloom, soon to be crushed and matted to the ground.

Ghost won't be driving all through the night.

Price claims it would be a waste of fuel, since they haven't decided upon the safest route to continue further south towards the channel yet. One step at a time. Instead, after passing signs for Loughborough and circling around the quaint, broken town-scape, Ghost drives down a gravel road that leads to a quiet, overgrown ranch. There is a broken barn and eroded fence posts, but mostly grass. At least, that is what you make out in the dark. It should be far enough from the horde to be a safe place for sleep.

They have two tents with them. Kyle hops out of the truck bed and sets them up with Ari, Price shining a flashlight for their eyes. Sleeping bags are thrown in.

Nereida touches her husband's cheek.

"Are you going to sleep any?"

"Not tonight. We'll keep watch." He kisses her knuckles.

Nereida and Ari end up in one tent for the night, and you and Blue take the other. The three men will stay awake, watching over the supplies and keeping an eye out for signs of Greys. You have the stubborn itch to stay up with them—be a fourth set of eyes—but you will yourself to leave your bow at the foot of the tent and bend down to slip inside with Blue. You help her into the sleeping bag since she has never used one before. She curls up inside it.

You are barely inside your own when she whispers, "Twix?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't like this."

"I don't, either."

Moonlight breaches the nylon walls. You can make out the shape of her nose, the glisten in her eyes.

"Are we going to go back?"

"I don't—I don't think so."

Luckily, it's left at that. She doesn't know about her dad's plan for Switzerland yet. Or maybe she is starting to put the pieces together. She doesn't ask.

You turn on your side to look at her better. You reach a hand out of the sleeping bag to stroke her hair. "I'm sorry. I'm...I'm so sorry about Grim. He'll be okay, alright? He's a smart guy. Learned from you all these years."

"I hope so," she says, quiet. "I don't even have any pictures to remember him by."

"You have your memories of him. All of the small things. Hold tight to those and you'll never forget him, okay?"

"Okay." She shivers. It's cold now without the sun. For a few silent minutes, she simply cries. You stroke her hair, from scalp to ends, and count in your head. It does some to ground you. To ignore the fresh images seared into your eyelids. By the time you reach 248, she wipes her eyes roughly and says your name again. Her teeth are gritted, to keep her warm, or to stop from crying too loud.

"Yeah?"

"Are you having sex with my dad?"

The question makes your fingers pause in their ministrations.

Something clenches at the pit of your stomach.

"I, um—no. No, of course not."

A shaky breath.

"You would tell me, right? If you were."

"Yes, of course," you whisper. "Get some sleep, alright?" You give a final stroke to her hair and turn away, flat on your back.

Sleep is difficult, but the three shadows outside the tent offer a thread of comfort, so you will your eyes to shutter. You dream of an endless meadow. The tall plants turn to hungry mouths. By the time dawn arrives, you awaken, and feel disoriented. You sit upright, looking around and wondering how you got here. You aren't in Ghost's room, in his bed, with his warm body close by. Your toes are numb. You see Blue's face slackened with fatigue, half covered by the sleeping bag, her body snuggled close to yours, and everything comes back to you in flashes. The Greys in the meadow. The quick evacuation. Pulling over for the night. It sinks in. Your stomach howls, but you ignore it,

There are murmured voices outside.

You carefully unzip the entrance and slip outside so as not to wake Blue. The sky is a muted purple. Price, Kyle, and Ghost are by the truck bed. Price has the map in his hands, and Ghost is showing him two bright red jerry cans.

"That's it?"

"That's it, plus what's already in the tank."

"And it's full?"

"Bit less than full now."

With everyone else still asleep, you hesitate to make your presence known. You feel like you'd be intruding. But the thought recoils quickly. The more stubborn part of your brain bares its teeth. You have a right to be apart of the conversation. You want to know what is happening. What they plan.

As you make your way over, chilled arms crossed tight beneath your breasts, it is Kyle who notices you first. His eyes soften. Then Price—his brown eyes lift from the map as he regards you.

"Twix." He greets and you think it is the first he has said your name. Ghost is the one you fail to look at but you feel his stare. "Sleep alright?"

"Just fine." Your eyes flick to the map, noticing new marks that weren't there the last time you looked it over. "Have you guys..." As the words leave your lips, the confidence in your chest falters. You clear your throat in attempt to recapture your resolve. "Have you decided where we are going next? I mean—Switzerland is still the plan, right?"

Price's eyes sweep over you once, twice, before moving to Ghost, brow ticking as if in question. This irritates you—as if he is asking Ghost whether or not he should tell you, and you have to bite your cheek to fight a scowl.

There is a subtle nod from Ghost that you think you might imagine, but Price looks back at you. "Switzerland is still the plan. We need to get here first—" he taps a finger on the map at the edge of England,"—to the Strait of Dover. The narrowest part of the channel. The biggest question is how. Going through London is the quickest way."

"But London is bound to be teeming with Greys," you frown.

"Precisely."

Kyle threads a hand through his hair, visibly concerned. "But going around it means more fuel."

"Well, how much do we have?" you ask, finally glancing at Ghost. You are scared of the answer.

He lifts the two cans up. "About 43 liters, plus the 30 already in the truck."

You feel relieved. "That's actually decent."

Kyle shakes his head. "Decent, yeah. But we're bound to have to end up taking side streets and stopping here and there for shit that's on the road, which wastes fuel. It's not a perfect drive."

"Well," your eyes move over the truck, then back to Price, "Can't we just go the long way, see how far the truck gets us, then do the rest on foot?"

"Are you willing to carry the kayak, Twix?" Price asks.

You flush. "I mean, it's not impossible is it?"

Ghost sets the cans down. "It's too much to carry. We can't go on foot for very far with the kayak, and we need it."

Because the raft is for six people. Not just that, you realize, as you take in just how much is filling the truck bed. All of the supplies have to make it across the water, too. It doesn't matter if six people can get in the raft if the supplies add to the weight limit like an extra person.

Somewhere in your thinking a hand brushes over your bicep and you flinch. "Cold?"

It's Kyle. Without your response, he chucks off his jacket and places it over your shoulders. You mutter a quiet thanks and slip your hands through the sleeves.

You don't know why, but your gaze shifts to Ghost, though you are only met with an unreadable expression before his attention refocuses on the map. He moves a gloved finger over it, landing on Colchester.

"Then we take a longer route on the water. If we avoid London and travel on the east side, we save fuel making it to the coast. The trip across will be longer than the Strait of Dover, but I'd rather take that risk than go through London. It's a fucking death trap there."

"That's a possibility," Price nods slowly, mewling it over. He rubs his beard. "Leaving from the Colchester coastline would mean maybe eight or ten hours to get across, which we can manage—with the right weather."

"Colchester, then," Kyle says. He seems more keen to this idea, shoulders loosening. "We can take the A14 towards Kettering. Can't be more than an hour or two from here. And then the A11. It should avoid the worst of it."

Price nods and folds the map up. "We keeping moving, then. The longer we stay in one spot, the more risk." He lays a hand on Ghost's shoulder. "This was the right choice, Simon."

Ghost simply nods.

The plan seems solid enough. Drive to the channel and get across. It is the water that makes you the most uneasy, and traveling through France where no one here is as familiar with the landscape as they are England. You've tried to recall what you heard from the radios way back at the start. You know Paris, a major city, succumbed quickly. But what about the rest of it?

You wonder if Ghost is as scared as you are to be ripped from the small semblance of safety he has had for over five years now. If he is, it doesn't show. He is back to clinical. A lieutenant. Not the man you've grown far too comfortable throwing attitude at.

When Kyle and Price leave to make a small fire with gathered kindling, he tosses the jerry cans back in the truck and grabs your arm before you can walk away.

"How is she?" he asks.

Blue, he means.

You look back at the tent. "She's doing alright, I think. Scared. But she understands." You wet your lips. "She doesn't know, does she? About us heading for Switzerland with them."

"I haven't had the chance to talk to her yet."

You nod, teeth grazing your bottom lip. "Thank you... for letting me be apart of that conversation. I know that I—I don't have as much value here as everyone else, but I am still worth keeping around. I am ready to help. Just tell me what to do, Ghost, and I'll do it. You know I will. I am stronger than I was before, thanks to you."

Ghost's head tilts downward as a breath of silence passes between you.

He doesn't comment on anything you've just said. He takes hold of one your hands. You are confused before he pries it open, grabbing your thumb and inspecting it like a slide under a microscope. The nick from when you cut your hair. The scab you've failed to let take.

"Stop picking at it, unless you want an infection."

"I can't help it sometimes."

He drops your hand. The warmth fizzles. "You still have antiseptic?"

You nod.

"Good. Use it only for yourself. Understood?"

"Yeah," you breathe, and wonder with a furrowed brow why he is bringing this up now. There is no chance to ask when he grabs the lapel of the jacket on your shoulders and begins to force it off.

"Give this back to Kyle. You have your own."

Breakfast consists of jerky, beans, and water that Price and Kyle tapped from a tree. A spile. Of course, they have one. You try not to feel spiteful of how competent they are—prepared. Just like Ghost. If only Paul had such things at his disposal. Maybe he could've devised a stronger Plan B. Maybe they would've been able to get away with you that first time around.

Ghost explains to Blue the plan. That there is no going back, not now or ever. That there will be a new home for them, a safer one where they will never have to flee, far away in another country where other people have made a community, where she could have more friends. It is all wishful thinking, of course, but he has to sell it to her as something certain.

You overhear bits of the conversation as you force yourself to eat. She sounds sad and distant. Detached. Like she hears what he is saying but doesn't really hear it. Still, she isn't crying anymore. When they are done talking, she eats her breakfast in small bites beside Ari.

By high morning, the air heats up, and you don't need a jacket at all. It is time to move onward. Kyle and Ghost take the tents down. Nereida whispers something to her husband and then disappears behind a tree somewhere. When she returns, she taps your shoulder.

"My period just came," she says, shaking her head. "Quite the timing, huh?"

Oh. "I'm sorry, that sucks. You have little towels and stuff for it?"

She nods. "Yes, luckily. Remember the rosemary I found? I use that to help fight the odor so Greys can't smell it as well. Let me know if you ever need any." You take a mental note. "You know, I was hoping getting my tubes tied would stop things like this. All it did was make it more irregular."

Your brows furrow. "Wait—you mean, you did that before the spread?"

She smiles lightly. "I never wanted to be pregnant. Really makes things less stressful now."

That makes sense, then. That her and Price don't have to worry. The question has popped into your brain a few times now, against your will, whenever you caught sight of them kissing and touching. They seem far too intimate, even in those small moments, to not be having sex in private.

Just before taking off, you unpack your supplies and wrap up your thumb with some ointment. More than anything you want to crawl under a blanket and hide, preferably back on Ghost's warm bed. But as you crawl back into the truck, that vision fades further behind you, and you will yourself to focus on the road ahead, to keep moving.

#simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost #cod #simon ghost riley #zombie apocolypse au

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paranoiastudio · 9 months ago

Text

His wife

pairing: Aemond х Tully!wife

warnings: 18+ smut, p in v, lactation kink, cream pie

word count: 1,7k

English is not my first language, sorry about mistakes

The rustling of ancient tome pages breaks the silence of the room, merging with the crackling of logs in the fireplace. Night has long since come into its own, but Aemond is in no hurry to go to sleep, studying chapter after chapter, practicing his High Valyrian. The dinner that the maid brought a few hours ago has already cooled and remained untouched.

A loud clap of thunder tears the prince from his thoughts and he belatedly realizes that it was the roar of Vhagar, hungry for flight. But even this noise did not prevent the Targaryen's sensitive hearing from catching something else. The door?

- I told you not to disturb me. - Without turning his head, Aemond returns to the book, bending even lower than before.

- Yes, I was told your words, but I thought that you would make an exception for me... Husband.

Your voice penetrates the prince's head like a sweet melody and he straightens up in his chair. Quiet footsteps are heard behind you, you came barefoot, probably just got out of bed, again not finding your husband nearby.

A light scent of cinnamon and lily fills the space around Aemond and he enjoys the elusive warmth that your presence gives him. His wife... His sweet wife, always so kind to him, always reasonable in public and burning with passion next to him. And only next to him.

- Will you allow me to stay here? - Aemond nods and you find yourself in the chair opposite, straightening out a large sleeping robe for your figure. The blue fabric was decorated with silver threads that formed silhouettes of large and small fish.

- The colors of your house suit you. - A white nightgown was visible from under the robe, the thin lace clung to your chest so seductively that the prince had to make an effort to look away.

- My home is now the Targaryen house. - You smile at each other. - Are you going to sleep tonight?

- It was in the plans. - Aemond shrugs and picks up another book.

- Sounds promising. - You roll your eyes and put your feet up on the chair, like a child. - We haven't been together for so long, since...

It's been half a year since your son was born, maternal cares have not left you, while Aemond was busy with state affairs and only occasionally saw you and your boy.

The maester recommended waiting with intimacy, you needed rest after a long and rather difficult birth. Every day, looking at yourself in the mirror, you could not help but regret your beauty, which now seemed to have faded.

You couldn't help but worry about your marriage: Aemond was so rarely around, and Aegon, on the contrary, hung around more than usual, throwing his barbed remarks at his brother.

- Do you still love me? - Aemond's violet eye immediately pierces you. - If you don't love me anymore, then just tell me not to expect what is not available to me.

Targaryen rises from his seat and kneels before you, clasping your small and cold palms in his large ones.

- No one will ever make me abandon you and you know it. I swore to love you and I love you, do you remember?

Even before the ceremony in the sept, Aemond swore to you, his bride, his love and fidelity. He himself chose you among all and never regretted his choice, it is unlikely that there was a more suitable woman.

- I remember, but...

- No "but", my love. - Aymond touches your hair, which falls in a thick cascade over your shoulders. - And I do not want to hear doubts.

You wanted to download something else, but the prince kisses you, as if deliberately cutting off the paths of retreat. You grab his beautiful face and kiss him back.

It was as if for the first time: Aymond kissed you with passion, pressing closer and closer, your lips seemed to tingle from the intensity of his closeness. His warm tongue slid into your mouth and any doubts in his words disappeared. He touched you as always, gently and lovingly.

You leaned back, the hard back of the chair did not allow you to fall, when Aymond, standing between your legs, opened the heavy robe. The nightgown, the object of his attention, hugged your tender body so beautifully, not hiding you from her husband's gaze. Aymond's gaze slides from the bottom up and immediately notices two wet spots on your chest, milk was still flowing.

- You are so beautiful... - Throwing your legs over his shoulders, Aemond rolls up your shirt to your waist and pulls you closer. - My beautiful, beloved wife.

A wet kiss to the epicenter of your arousal makes you shudder, you squeeze the wooden arms of the chair and slightly lift your hips. Aemond immediately grabs you under the buttocks and presses closer, burying his tongue in your swollen and needy clitoris.

Slowly, he runs two fingers along the wet folds and slightly stretches you, without stopping the movement of his tongue. You play with his blond hair and almost purr from the sensations, you did not hope for this in the morning.

- I will fill you again, dear wife. - Aemond moves his fingers faster, smirking at the squelching sound that your aching cunt makes. - If I could, I would stay inside you forever.

- Aymond, please... - His words spurred you on, your husband's praise always gave you confidence. - I...

- Cum for me, wife. - Aymond doesn't take his eyes off you, continuing to fuck you with his fingers and lazily swirl his tongue over you. - I'll catch you, my love...

Your eyes close on their own, as if a bucket of water had been poured over you: your breath caught, and your limbs were shackled by a sweet spasm. You involuntarily press yourself against your husband, not at all embarrassed by the fact that you are literally rubbing your wet, hot pussy against his face.

Aymond doesn't show any displeasure, he continues to caress you until you calm down in his arms. He doesn't miss the fact that your breasts continue to flow with milk and have almost completely wet your nightgown.

- You are amazing. - Aymond licks his lips and lifts himself up so that your faces are level, the fabric of his pants rubs against your still sensitive pussy and you gasp, pulling him closer. - My beloved. Mother of my child.

Aymond's hand slides along your thigh, feeling how you tremble, but you do not shy away from his hand, trustingly accepting the caress. Aymond cannot help but walk over his favorite places: your hair and shoulders, your plump and heavy with milk and desire breasts, your thin ankles.

- Please, husband, make me a mother again. - You move your hips, leaving wet spots on your spouse's clothes.

Aymond lowers his pants just enough to expose his already erect member. He is still kneeling in front of you and pulls you so that he can comfortably settle between your plush thighs.

You feel his heat, dripping onto Aemond's cock and taking it easily as he fills you in one smooth motion. It's so tight and hot inside that the prince freezes and closes his eyes, trying not to cum right then and there.

You whine and squirm beneath him, but Aemond doesn't move, watching you with a cheeky smirk. He always loved to see what desire did to his sweet, kind wife.

- Aemond, why are you... - You huff angrily, pushing your unruly hair out of your face. - Please, let me...

- You will have everything you want, my dear. In time... - Aemond runs a finger over your lips and you immediately grab him, sucking the finger into your mouth. - So needy...

- Kostilus... Kostilus, valzȳrys... - The words come out of your mouth surprisingly easily, you have long studied High Valyrian, wanting to communicate with your husband in the language of his ancestors.

You see the effect your words have on him: Aemond's healthy eye darkens even more, he licks his lips and falls to your breast, biting and kissing the tender flesh, still wet with milk.

His tongue collects the droplets and finds a hot, swollen nipple, absorbing the milk and easing the pain in you're full tits.

- Gods. - You pull your husband closer, running your fingers through his blond locks. - Aemond, please...

The prince pulls away from you and settles himself more comfortably, distributing his weight on his elbows. You grip his strong forearms and shift, taking him even deeper.

A rough growl escapes your husband's mouth, he catches a fast rhythm, filling you so perfectly that you were ready to cry with pleasure. A white ring gathered at the base of his cock, demonstrating your desire.

- My sweet wife. - The fact that Aemond could speak so smoothly amazed you. - My beautiful, sweet wife, the most beautiful woman in the world. Fuck!

Aemond penetrates especially deep and you close your eyes, feeling how he hits the right spot again and again, pushing you to the edge.

- Aemond, I... just a little more, kostilus... - Targaryen fucks you, the chair creaks under you and you fall over the edge when Aemond's thumb touches your clit.

- Yes, that's it, my girl, cum on my cock, show me how much you want me. - The grip on your hips tightens and you only accept what your husband gives you. Your pussy pulses along Targaryen's length, as if sucking all the seed out of him.

- I love you... - Your whisper does not go unnoticed, and Aemond cums, crushing your lips in a greedy kiss.

Sweat covers your body and your legs ache slightly from the awkward position, but the unique feeling of fullness and satisfaction overpowered all the inconveniences.

- Wait. - You stop your husband, not allowing him to leave your body. - Stay.

Aemond slowly softens inside you, feeling the fruits of your love flow out of you. Slipping out, he pushes his seed into you with his finger, catching your quiet sighs.

- Don't you dare think again that I don't love you. - Aemond grabs your chin and turns your face to him. - You are all I have and I will never, do you hear me, never betray you.

You wipe a drop of milk from your husband's chin and smile tenderly at him, accepting Aemond into your arms.

- And I love you, my dragon. - The warmth of this closeness calmed your heart, which had been gripped by fear for the past few months.

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #house of the dragon imagine #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen smut #imagine #smut #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #hotd #aemond fanfic #aemond targaryen x you #aemond smut

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ilium-ilia · 3 months ago

Text

Everything You Touch

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | previously known as "soft spot" | masterlist

Chapter Five: failed kintsugi

tw: none

Simon Riley does not exist.

Right now, he’s far away, tucked in bed in that dilapidating apartment back in London, hibernating as the cold chill of winter swallows the city with algid fingers. Everything he loves is hidden away in a neat little box compartmentalized somewhere in the grey matter of his brain where neither light nor susurrus can reach it. He sleeps soundly—dormant, but creaking the way the earth does when magma boils beneath the surface, waiting to spew forth and devour.

For now, there is only Ghost, and he is all sharp canines and malice. There is enough iron on his body—in the form of guns, bullets, and knives—to drown a man, and still he persists. Old viscera haunts the soles of his boots leaving behind stains that he can never quite rinse free, and a skull balaclava clings to his face like a second skin. He is nothing but dark eyes, ichor, and compos mentis among strewn offals for it to leave a sour taste on his tongue. A trained killer. A honed blade.

But there are instances where Simon Riley and Ghost intersect. They intertwine like roots from different trees, or how blood from different bodies mix when they meet on a cold floor. One can’t survive without the other.

At the moment, they’re both infatuated with a handkerchief.

Black fabric patterned with silly, cartoonish dogs stare up at him as he holds it as gently as he can in his gloved hands. Though the soft leather and stiff fabric dulls his tactile senses, his thumb still runs over the cloth with mesmerizing motion. Something whispers low and dangerous in Ghost’s ear—Simon’s desires cut through the hum of the transport aircraft with a saccharine lull.

Ghost smothers it before it can bear fruit.

“Think he’s got a kid?”

Though it’s difficult to hear Kyle over the humming of the engines as they soar thousands of feet in the air, Johnny hums as he leans back in his seat. “Sure hope not. I have a hard time imagining him around a kid.”

Chuckling, Kyle glances back over at his lieutenant for a short moment, eyes still focused on that handkerchief. He’s bent forward, elbows resting on his knees, lost in his own world.

“No, I think he’s got someone else waiting for him back home,” Johnny comments as he toys with the strap on his rifle. The red lighting inside the airbus makes his eyes throb as if they’re about to melt, but his lips quirk into a sly grin. “He’s got himself his own little ghost.”

“Little ghost?” Kyle repeats incredulously.

“Yeah, you know. A little phantom. A spectre. Ghostette?” Johnny eggs.

Kyle shakes his head. “You’re taking the piss.”

“What?” Johnny asks as if actually offended. “We call him Ghost. It’s only fitting that his girl gets a nickname, too.”

“If there is a girl,” Kyle corrects.

Lips pressing together, Johnny looks back at his superior just in time to watch him fold the handkerchief. It’s neatly done; a perfect square with crisp edges. Once finished, he leans to the side and shoves it into his back pocket for safe keeping. When his hands return back in front of him, he stares down at them as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself anymore.

“Oh, there’s a girl alright.”

The next few weeks are brutal. October gloom slowly morphs into an algid January bite, and throughout it all, Simon fights. His trigger finger cramps with how often he pulls it these days, and he manages to snag a new hole in the sleeve of his jacket as barbed wire slices through his flesh like a butcher’s knife through a pig. For him, this is nothing new. He’s well acquainted with the way scar tissue mends over a wound and how gunpowder coalesces with blood into some noisome aroma that lurks in his dreams.

Still, he has a slight reprieve in the form of that handkerchief. Thumb running over the threads, he fusses over it in the darkness of a safe house or in a snowy foxhole. Even when he’s halfway across the world, you still haunt him.

The chill of winter follows him all the way back to London where he’s greeted by an empty apartment and a lugubrious heater that’s slow to turn on. He drags himself into the shower where he washes off weeks worth of toil and incessant eye black that still traces the rim of his eyes. When he’s finished, he can still smell the way death lingers on him, and he doesn’t feel any lighter and absolved from the violence he so expertly executed, but his freshly washed skin and clean clothes will have to do.

He lays in bed on his back, ready to catch up on the infinite hours of sleep he’s lost, but it does not come easy. The rainy afternoon sun bleeds through his blinds and stains his floor with pale silver, but it’s not enough to snuff out that throe in his stomach. He’s being watched. That silly piece of cloth stares at him from the corner of his nightstand.

You promise? That you’ll come see me?

You’re in the living room when a knock interrupts your evening.

Hands twitching, your head snaps towards the front door as your eyes narrow. The time on your phone says it’s just past seven—not exactly obnoxiously late, but concerning enough when you aren’t expecting any visitors. Pushing yourself to your feet, you carefully hop along the hallway as you avoid all the squeaky spots in the floor as you approach the door. You press your face against the wood as you gaze through the peephole, and the very moment your brain registers the hulking figure on the other side, your hand flies to the lock.

Simon Riley stands in front of you with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket. Water droplets from unforgiving rain adorns the fabric of his balaclava, framing his obsidian eyes like rhinestones. Once you’re able to get over your shock, a smile pulls at your lips.

“Simon,” you exclaim softly as your hand falls from the door.

It isn’t until you speak that you realize just how disheveled you are. Donning nothing but loose pajamas and large house slippers to stave off the cold, you feel underdressed. Naked in your own home.

“It’s good to see you,” you continue breathlessly. “Do you want to come in and warm up a bit? That rain is brutal today.”

Simon shifts and the wet heels of his boots squeak against the floor. Though his balaclava and hood obscures his face, his eyes are plenty easy to read. He studies you—observant as ever—as he traces the features of your face with his gaze. His shoulders loosen once he’s soaked you in.

“Don’t waste your evening on me,” he says. His voice is stiff and gruff; worn down from rigorous and relentless use. “Just keepin’ my promise.”

As he speaks, his eyes unmistakably wander to the scar on the wall behind you. The hole Eric had punched into your wall has become nothing but a faint memory with a less than perfect patching job. Still, its presence has burned a hole in Simon’s mind, and he feels acrid annoyance boil in his stomach at the mere idea that it had ever soiled your home in the first place.

“Please,” you insist as you step to the side to let him through. “I was just about to put the kettle on, and it’s freezing out. It’s no trouble at all.”

There’s a short pause as Simon mulls your proposition over. “Alright,” he finally says. “Won’t keep you long.”

The cold radiates off of his body as he takes a step through the entryway, closing the door behind him. He kneels to the floor to undo the shoelaces on his boots, halfing his height. You try not to let your eyes linger on him too long as you step backwards to give him space as you wander into the kitchen.

“When did you get home?” you ask as you retrieve your kettle.

“Couple hours ago,” he answers, voice still coarse.

Running water spews from the sink as you begin to fill the kettle, and Simon’s boots gently thunk against the wall as he lines them up next to yours. You steal a glance at them and you try to ignore the fluttering in your stomach when you see the stark difference in size between his boots and your flimsy work shoes.

“Late night traveling, then?” you ask as you set the kettle on the stove. You turn the heat on with a few clicks and then watch as the electric coils burn a bright red.

“Something like that,” he mumbles. Once his boots are situated, he turns to face you as he stands in the doorway to the kitchen. Your throat grows dry when you note how his shoulders almost brush against either side of the frame.

Nodding, you gesture to the lone couch in your living room. “Feel free to grab a seat. I’d hate to make you stand around. I’m sure you’re tired.”

Simon hums as he follows your prompt and you watch his eyes dilate before he slowly stalks into the next room. “What’s in the box?”

“Oh, that? Don’t mind that,” you wave off as you curiously follow behind him. “I bought myself a new lamp. I tried to glue the glass base of the other one back together, you know with like the gold glue and stuff? It didn’t really work out and I hate using the overhead light so I figured it was about time I bought a new one. Haven’t quite gotten it put together yet, though. Feel free to move it out of the way, it’s kind of an eyesore.”

Teeth sinking into your lower lip, you duck back into the kitchen while Simon continues to wander around the room. As the water begins to boil, you rummage through your cupboards to raid it for tea. You’re met with mostly empty shelves coated with a painfully minute amount of sparse food. Rent has become a little more difficult to keep on top of these last few months. Though Eric wasn’t good for many things, he at least kept the kitchen stocked. Still, you’re saved by a stray box of breakfast tea shoved to the very back of the bottom shelf, and you eagerly snatch it with a huff.

“You alright with breakfast tea?” you call as your fingers sort through the bags.

Simon is quiet for a moment. “Yeah. Plain.”

You manage to catch the kettle as soon as it begins to whistle, and you remove it from the stove as you prepare your cups. Retrieving your favorite Halloween mug for yourself, and a cheeky don’t talk to me until I’ve had my morning tea one for Simon, you let the bags steep before you’re pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of tearing cardboard.

Wandering into the living room, you find Simon sitting on the floor with the box that belongs to your new lamp ripped open. Several parts and pieces lay out in front of him in their own separate bags, seemingly sorted into piles based on screws and main structural pieces. A small piece of paper sits in his hands as he carefully reads through the instructions.

“Simon, you don’t have to do that,” you insist, dumbfounded.

Ignoring you, he continues to read through the instructions before his eyes narrow. “Where the hell did you buy this from?”

“Ikea…”

“Fuckin’ hell,” he grumbles as he tosses the paper to the side. “Useless.”

Without the help of any sort of direction, Simon begins to put your new table lamp together. Really, there doesn’t seem to be too many pieces, but even from a short distance you can make out about twenty different screws with several varying sizes. With his balaclava on and his hood pulled up over his head, Simon looks more like a robber than a handyman, yet here he is, building your lamp as if it’s his favorite hobby.

Chuckling, you return to the kitchen to grab the tea before meandering back into the living room. After setting Simon’s mug on the coffee table, you curl up on the couch as you warm your hands on the ceramic while watching him work—brows furrowed, eyes steady, hands moving.

How did the two of you get to this point? When did you go from strangers to… whatever this is?

How do you name this feeling in your stomach—this fluttering sanguinity?

As you sip on the tea and revel in the warm liquid pooling in your stomach, you notice Simon has rolled the sleeves up on his jacket. It’s up far enough to reveal a myriad of tattoos on his left forearm—the very one you had seen a hint of that night at the pub all those weeks ago. Skulls, smoke, and dog tags wrap around his arm in a monochrome mural, bringing depth to his otherwise pale skin. On his other arm, you notice a still healing cut. It’s deep and angry with red, puffy scar tissue freshly formed over a long gash, and you watch as it pulls taut while the muscles underneath it dances as he works.

“What happened to your arm?” you ask, unable to hide your solicitude.

Simon turns his attention away from your lamp and looks up at you. His head tilts to the side in a way that sends butterflies scrambling in your stomach, and you feel your skin begin to tingle and burn as if you’ve been set ablaze.

“Right,” you say with a breathy laugh. “Stupid question, I suppose.”

Something of a titter leaves Simon as he stands from his spot on the floor. It feels like you have to break your neck just to keep looking at him, but the lamp is finally put together—lightbulb, lampshade, and the works. He picks it up from the floor and places it on the side table next to the couch before plugging it into the wall. You excitedly place your half finished tea on the coffee table before leaning over the arm of the couch and twisting the switch. Warm light pours out of it like a fond memory.

“Well, would you look at that,” you beam. Really, it’s not anything spectacular; after all, it’s just a silly lamp. But it feels like—in some way—you’re getting a part of your life back. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” Simon responds simply.

A small string of tension weaves throughout the room as Simon continues to stand with eyes flickering back and forth between you and the lamp. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you glance back at the coffee table. His tea remains untouched, and now cold. Really, you don’t know why you had expected him to drink it. He never takes his mask off.

Perhaps that's why he asked for it plain; he doesn’t want to waste any milk or sweeteners.

“I missed you,” you suddenly blurt out.

This sudden revelation that spews from your lips surprises not only you, but Simon as well. You see it in the way his eyes land on you; how they flicker over your face—how they linger on your lips. He always lingers on your lips, but you know it’s not in the way the fuzziness in your stomach wants them to. Your tongue swipes over the corner of your lip as it prods against the painful reminder that Eric gave you all those months ago.

“I never used to worry about you,” you continue as you shift in your spot on the couch. You feel smaller than a bug as he stands tall, looking down at you. “I mean, I knew you were in the military, so when you’d vanish without notice I would just assume that you were out saving the world, or something. But I… I worried this time.” You pause as your words and embarrassment begin to choke you. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m glad you’re back.”

“Course I came back,” he says as if stating a fact. “Had to make sure you weren’t getting into any more trouble.”

You laugh, thankful for his teasing tone. It’s comforting to know he’s not put off by all of your awkward ramblings, or at least if he is, he’s good at hiding it. How you’ve managed not to annoy a quiet man like Simon is beyond you.

“Yeah, well, I think you scared off any trouble that would find me,” you admit with a shy smile.

“Brute force will do that.”

Simon is… funny. In his own weird, macabre way. Everything about him seems to lure you in like a moth to a flame, and at this point you don’t think you even care about getting burned—you know the butterflies in your stomach certainly don’t.

“Do you wanna catch a movie this weekend now that you’re back?” Once more, your mouth is opening and spewing out words before you even have the chance to think them through, but instead of retracting your statement, you double down. “It would be more relaxing than the pub, I’d imagine.”

“What? Need protecting?” he asks dryly.

You grin. “You never know when trouble is gonna find me.”

Humming, Simon digs his hands into his coat pocket and retrieves his phone. The screen illuminates his face with dull light for a few seconds before he passes it over to you. It’s his contact list—the keyboard is waiting for a new recipient.

“Text me the day and time, and I’ll be there.”

The butterflies in your stomach begin to bloom. They flutter and tickle the walls of your stomach as you take his phone into your hands, but they begin to thrash the moment you write your name and number. They want more—need more. You fear that if you don’t give them more, they’ll devour you, bones and all.

“Alright,” you say, handing his phone back to him with a coy grin. “It’s a date, then.”

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#ilium writing #sr ilia #everything you touch #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #female reader

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tarabyte3 · 20 days ago

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I think it's fascinating that Perrin referred to marriage as Chandrila's greatest tradition. I think that says almost as much about him as the joy and pleasure parts of his speech. Especially when we consider that (on the outside and with very little knowledge of their past together) Perrin and Mon's marriage doesn't seem like a happy one. Undoubtedly they were both pressured into it by their families as very young teens, IF they were given a choice at all (unlikely). All season 1, they trade barbs intended to hurt, are begrudgingly in each other's company for appearance's sake, and seem like complete opposites in nearly every way, including their morals. She doesn't trust him. She throws him under the bus to save her own skin.

And yet, he ensures she's eaten breakfast. She steals his tea and takes a sip. And yet, they joke and smile at each other—genuine smiles. She makes sure she doesn't miss Perrin's speech and seems affected by the sentiment. And yet, he's clearly jealous of Tay. He was hurt when she seemed to believe he had been gambling again after he promised he wouldn't. And yet, he notices when she's crashing out on the dancefloor and it brings him to a stop.

Genevieve O'Reilly and Tony Gilroy have both hinted that we'll get a closer look at the two of them and their relationship, and I cannot wait. This show has already played with our expectations by presenting Perrin as the awful husband and Tay as the close friend who shares her morals and offers her the support she so desperately needs—the one we're rooting for because of course Mon deserves someone like him, instead, surely—only to pull the rug out from under us. Now Tay is showing his true colors and turning on her when things get difficult, and quickly too! He drops threats and puts her (and the rebellion) at risk, something Perrin, for all his faults and poor company, has never done. So I look forward to seeing what else we've been missing. To hopefully being able to understand Perrin enough to know what HE meant by "our greatest tradition."

(Plus, won't it be horrible and delicious if Perrin ends up being something more? An excellent day for tragedy enjoyers and a MUCH better story than "Mon just plays cutthroat politics and is a vehicle for plot the rest of the season.")

#mon mothma #perrin fertha #tay kolma #andor #andor season 2 #andor spoilers #star wars #i can't stop thinking about them #it's driving me insane #perrin simply being an ass is too easy for a show like andor

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womanofwords · 8 days ago

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Frozen Heart (Part 18)

TW: forced infantilisation and yandere behaviour.

Bruce became even more smothering after Dr Tripp talked to him. "I had no idea what was happening to you, little one," he cooed, carrying you into the house. "But don't you worry, Daddy is taking care of everything."

"What? But no! Only Alfred can do this stuff for me! I want Alfred!" you wailed.

Bruce continued as if you weren't even saying anything. "This is going to be a steep learning curve, but we'll get through it. Dr Tripp said that this age regression stuff helps little ones like you. Well, we can do that. We'll do anything for you."

Bruce renovated your room scarily fast. Your room had a mural of a magical forest wrapped around the walls, and your clothes were a lot more cutesy than before. It was part nursery, part kindergarten classroom. Exactly what you needed to be raised in a loving home.

"You are so adorable, Y/N," Barbara gasped, brushing your hair. "Would you like accessories? Bows? Ribbons? Hair clips? You're getting whatever you want!"

"Don't overwhelm them, Barb!" Stephanie insisted. "Oh, our little Y/N will look so cute with anything!"

So adorable! Cass signed. She pointed at the chart of finger signs. Y/N, can you sign your name? What about our names?

The door slammed open. "Hand over Y/N or I'm gonna scream!" Dick yelled. "Jason, get away from me, you - UGH!"

Jason shoved Dick away from your room, leaving him sprawled on the floor. "Keep away from the door. I'm going to be taking care of them. You're way too much of a crybaby and you'll set them off," Jason grunted.

"I am the blood sibling and all of you will part for me!" Damian demanded, standing on Dick to do so.

"Honestly, you should be getting age regression therapy with them." Tim jerked a thumb over at Damian's direction. "Y/N needs the therapy and you need manners."

Damian's jaw dropped. "You can't make me do that. It's only a requirement for Y/N!"

"It could do you some good," Duke mused. "Hey, Damian, want a stuffed polar bear? It'll go well with Y/N's panda."

The boy assassin rolled his eyes. "I'm an Al Ghul and a Wayne. I do not require such insipid tokens of sentimentality."

You rolled your eyes. "Could I have a lollipop, please?"

Five hands shoved lollipops at you, waiting for you to take one. "What are you doing?" Barbara asked. "This is the sugar-free one that won't hurt their teeth."

"Well, this is the one that'll actually taste good," Tim said, brandishing a lollipop that was huge and hypnotised you with swirls. "Did you raid a dentist's office for those, Babs?"

"Come on, Y/N, get the lollipop! It's your favourite flavour!" Dick sniffled, literally still on the floor. He was tearing up already.

"They're not going to want your offerings when you act like that," Jason said. "Hey, Y/N, how about you and I go somewhere and read a book? Y/N, I'll let you read whatever you want, I promise."

"BABA! JASON'S STEALING Y/N!" Damian screamed. He latched onto you like a shipwreck survivor clings onto driftwood.

"All of you, stop!" Bruce wrestled you out of Jason's arms. "You're frightening Y/N! There, there, Y/N, Daddy's here and we're going to be doing some word association. After your tutor come by for your lessons, of course."

"Tutor?" That word snapped you out of this weird childish haze. "I thought you'd be sending me back to school."

"Absolutely not. My little Y/N is not going back to the place that broke them," Bruce said. "You're staying with us, where it's safe, and where nobody and nothing will hurt you. Nothing can hurt you here."

You pointed at Damian. "I would like some distance from my brother," you said. "He set Titus onto me and I now have a fear of dogs."

That was Dick's cue to be your hero. He dusted himself off, picked Damian up, and threw him out of your room, literally. "Done!" he said, pretending not to notice the thump of his body against a wall that everyone definitely heard afterward.

"Master Dick, why did I see Damian hit the wall with great force?" Alfred asked.

"Y/N's comfort," Dick said. He snuggled as close to you as he could while you were still in Bruce's arms. Bruce put some distance between you and Dick.

"Dick, you are also going to be keeping some distance from Y/N. After your midnight actions concerning Cassandra and Damian in their room, you could do with some distance," Bruce said.

Dick's mouth opened and closed as if he were a fish. "Cassandra started it!" he eventually spluttered.

"I know. She's staying away from Y/N, too. Along with Damian for waking Y/N up in such a traumatising manner."

"Seriously? Ugh, you are so mean! We'll bond soon, Y/N!" Dick sobbed, as you were taken to your tutor.

Once tutoring was over, Bruce had his own lessons to teach you. "Read my lips, sweetheart. Daddy . . . loves . . . his . . . baby." He spoke to you in a baby voice, his own rendition of Miss Rachel. "Daddy. Papa. Baba. Father. Plain old Dad. Just not Bruce."

"I'm not a baby. I'm doing advanced stuff. I'm going to graduate and go to college," you said.

Bruce sighed. "Not letting you out of our sight, kiddo. Those nasty people might get revenge. So we're going to make sure that you're OK by keeping our little jewel under tight supervision."

"No, you can't!" You tried to struggle away from your father. "I want to leave and get away from here! Damian will kill me before anybody or anything else does!"

"I will make sure Damian doesn't hurt you," Bruce promised. "Nothing will ever hurt you again."

Bruce took you downstairs and painstakingly fed you your meal. It was one of your favourites, but you couldn't enjoy it. "You are going to have everything you ever want," Bruce promised, as your siblings cooed at you. "And everything will be perfect for you, at long last."

You felt all the fight leave your body. You would never get to leave the family you'd grown to hate, or the mansion you wanted to escape from. You'd even heard Bruce talk to Alfred about custody papers so you could 'have more time with your new childhood'. Daddy's baby forever.

Bruce took you into your room when 8 PM hit, claiming you would be cranky if you had to stay up for longer. Your siblings clawed at him, following him and you up the stairs to your room. Bruce placed you down into your bed, which smelled faintly of herbs. "Why does my bed smell weird?" you asked.

Bruce smirked. "A little trick Daddy learned from his time with those Tibetan monks. Helps you sleep very fast. Daddy is going to have you out like a light, little one. You're going to be so happy, darling."

"You did . . . that?"

"Of course. Daddy needs to put his baby to sleep himself. And to think I let Alfred have you to himself." He chuckled at his own prior negligence. "Well, I'm parenting my baby from now on. Relax, little one, close your eyes. You are safe, you are loved, and Daddy is here."

That wasn't good. You were going to leave. You needed to go. But your body wasn't loyal to you. It shut down on command from your father, your eyelids shutting while your mind strained to leave. You fell into sleep without a sound, and Bruce kept watch.

"You are never leaving my sight," he whispered. "Never."

First

Taglist: @tinybrie, @bunniotomia, @kittzu, @justwannabecat, @exactlynumberonekryptonite, @vanessa-boo, @jscrawls, @sirenetheblogger, @lovebug-apple, @realifezompire.

#creative writing #my writing #writing inspiration #writers #writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #yandere #platonic yandere #yandere batfam #batfam #batfamily x neglected reader #yandere batfam x reader

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theonottsbxtch · 1 month ago

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REDCOAT PT1 | LN4

an: hello my loves i've missed you all and i've missed writing even more. i had a lot of fun with this fic and i think at the moment it stands to be one of my favourite historical fics ive written? we'll see i can't wait to talk about this with all of you, as per usual this has a fair share of angst lol xx

wc: 7.0k

summary: in the waning light of the american revolution, a spirited colonial shopkeeper crosses paths with lando norris, a sharp-tongued british redcoat whose loyalty to king and country begins to falter the moment their worlds collide. what begins as a clash of wit and will blossoms into a dangerous, forbidden love, hidden in shadows and silence. as the fires of rebellion burn hotter and allegiances are tested, their hearts wage a war of their own. disappearances, betrayal, and near-death draw them to the edge of heartbreak, until a desperate reunion under cover of night reminds them what they stand to lose. torn between duty and desire, loyalty and love, theirs is a romance born in war. delicate, defiant, and destined to change everything.

THE BELL ABOVE THE SHOP DOOR gave a half-hearted jingle as the wind ushered in an uninvited guest. She did not glance up at first—she had learned, in these past months, that a Redcoat’s presence was best ignored. A British soldier in her family’s establishment was as common now as dust upon the shelves.

Lando’s boots clicked against the wooden floor, measured, unhurried. He knew he was unwelcome, he could feel it in the silence, in the stiffness of her shoulders as she arranged goods behind the counter. He did not mind. If anything, it amused him.

“Good day,” he drawled, removing his hat with a slow flourish. “Or do your kind no longer observe courtesy?”

She did not grace him with a full look, only a sidelong glance, cool as the December air that had slipped in with him. “Oh, we do. Just not for the King’s dogs.”

Lando smirked. “How fortunate, then, that I am not a dog.” He leaned an elbow upon the counter, far too comfortable in a place where he ought to be despised. “A wolf, perhaps.”

She let out a breath, not quite a scoff. “A wolf fights his own battles. You lot prefer to take what does not belong to you.”

He chuckled, tilting his head as though considering the remark. “And yet, here you are, selling us your wares. Seems a curious sort of defiance.”

She turned to him properly now, meeting his gaze with a fire that almost made him regret his teasing. Almost. “You mistake necessity for surrender, sir. Not all of us have the luxury of fighting with muskets and sabres.”

A beat of silence passed between them. Lando studied her, not just the words upon her lips but the steel in her eyes, the way her hands gripped the counter’s edge as though restraining themselves from throwing something at him. He liked that. A spirit unbroken.

“I should buy something, then,” he mused, tapping his fingers against the wood. “Wouldn’t want to mistake myself for a thief.”

Her gaze flicked to his crimson coat. “No, you’d need to wear plainer colours for that.”

Lando laughed, properly, this time. He reached into his coat for his coin purse, all the while watching the way she refused to look away, unflinching, proud. This war would end one way or another. He wondered, fleetingly, what would become of her then.

But that was a thought for another day.

For now, he wanted to see how many more barbs she could hurl before she surrendered a smile.

She held out her hand expectantly, palm upturned, waiting for payment. A simple gesture, yet one that carried all the weight of her contempt.

Lando placed a coin in her hand with deliberate slowness, his fingers brushing against hers for but a moment, long enough to test her resolve, too fleeting to be called an offence. He watched for a reaction, some flicker of surprise, of awareness.

Nothing.

She merely turned, retrieving a paper-wrapped parcel from the shelf behind her. “That will suffice, I expect?”

He did not look at it. “What is it?”

“Something for your kind.” She placed it upon the counter. “Dried tea leaves. I hear you’ve quite the fondness for it.”

Lando huffed a laugh, picking up the package and weighing it in his hand. “Ah, but only when properly taxed.”

Her smile was as cold as the winter outside. “I shall be sure to charge double next time.”

He slipped the parcel into his coat, tapping the counter lightly with his knuckles. “A shrewd businesswoman.”

She tilted her head. “A survivor.”

A pause.

For the first time since stepping inside, Lando found himself without a retort. He had expected resistance, certainly cold glares, tight lips, perhaps even silence. He had not expected this: a woman whose tongue was as sharp as any bayonet.

He ought to leave. The wise thing would be to take his tea and be gone, to return to his duties, to think no more of her nor the way her voice curled around each word like a challenge.

And yet, he lingered.

“Do you truly despise us so much?” he asked, tilting his head as though the answer might be found in the angle of her jaw, the fire in her eyes.

She leaned forward, just enough to close the space between them. “Enough to know that if you were not wearing that coat, you would not be standing here.”

Ah. There it was, the truth, unvarnished.

Lando exhaled, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Then let us hope, for both our sakes, that I do not take it off.”

Her lips parted, a sharp inhale betraying the flicker of something, whether irritation or something else entirely, he could not yet say.

The bell above the door jingled once more. Another customer, stepping inside, bringing with them the crisp scent of winter air and the unspoken demand for propriety.

Lando straightened, stepping back with an ease that suggested he had never leaned in at all. “A pleasure, Miss.”

She did not offer him the courtesy of a name, nor a farewell. Only a gaze that lingered for a fraction too long as he turned towards the door.

And he, damn him, smiled as he stepped out into the cold.

She did not expect him to return.

It had been a week since the Redcoat had darkened her shop’s doorstep, since his teasing words had slipped like smoke into the air between them. She ought not to have thought of him beyond that moment, ought to have dismissed him as just another soldier, another thorn in her country’s side.

And yet, when the bell above the door gave its telltale jingle, and she turned to see him, standing there once more with that insufferable smirk, something in her stomach twisted in a way she did not care to name.

“Ah,” he said, stepping inside as though he belonged. “Still in business, I see.”

“Unfortunately.” She dusted her hands against her apron and moved towards the shelves, if only to put space between them. “I had hoped the war might rid me of certain customers.”

Lando let out a soft chuckle, his gloved fingers trailing idly along the wooden counter. “Unfortunately for you, here I stand. You must learn to temper your expectations.”

She shot him a glare over her shoulder. “What do you want?”

“A loaf of bread, if you would be so kind,” he said, entirely too at ease for a man whose presence was unwelcome. “And, if you’ve any left, another parcel of that fine, over-priced tea.”

She huffed, snatching a loaf from a basket. “You mean the tea that your lot taxed to the heavens? That tea?”

“The very same.” He leaned against the counter, watching as she wrapped the bread with swift, efficient movements. “Though I must say, it tastes all the sweeter knowing it costs you dear.”

She slammed the parcel down before him. “Is there a reason you insist upon provoking me, or do you simply enjoy the sound of your own voice?”

Lando exhaled, a low, amused sound. “Ah, but you see, I rather enjoy our conversations.”

She stilled for but a moment, her fingers curled against the counter. She could not look at him, not now, not when she could hear the grin in his voice, when she could feel the heat of his gaze upon her.

Instead, she held out her hand once more. “That will be four shillings.”

Lando said nothing as he placed the coins in her palm, but when his fingers brushed against her skin, just as they had last time, she could not ignore the way her breath hitched.

It was fleeting, nothing more than a whisper of contact, yet it lingered long after he pulled away.

She swallowed, willing the warmth in her cheeks to fade. “Was there anything else, sir?”

Lando tilted his head, as though considering his answer. And then, in a voice softer than before, he said, “No. I have all I need.”

The moment stretched, thin and uncertain, until at last he stepped back.

“Until next time,” he murmured, before turning towards the door.

She should have been relieved to see him leave.

Instead, she watched him go, her fingers still curled around the coins he had placed in her hand.

And damn him, she was already dreading the silence he left behind.

It was late when he returned.

The shop was quiet, the last of the day’s customers long since gone, leaving only the warm scent of flour and spices lingering in the air. She had been tidying the shelves when the bell above the door jangled, startling her from her thoughts.

She turned, expecting the usual, a weary townsman, perhaps, or a British officer on some tiresome errand.

But it was him.

And this time, there was blood.

A deep gash cut across his cheekbone, dark against the pale of his skin, half-dried yet still raw. It stretched from the corner of his eye down towards his jaw, and though he carried himself with the same infuriating ease as always, she did not miss the way his jaw was set, the stiffness in his movements.

For a moment, she simply stared.

He raised a brow. “No sharp remark to greet me?”

She recovered quickly, folding her arms across her chest. “I was merely debating whether it would be rude to ask what poor soul got the better of you.”

Lando exhaled a quiet laugh, wincing slightly as the motion pulled at the wound. “General Washington’s armies are strong.”

Her heart clenched before she could stop it.

She ought to have been pleased. He and his kind were the enemy. Every victory for the Revolution was a step closer to freedom, to the end of their occupation.

So why, then, did the sight of his blood stir something uneasy within her?

She lifted her chin. “Good.”

Lando smiled, though it did not quite reach his eyes. “I thought you might say that.”

He stepped past her towards the counter, reaching for a small cloth parcel, sugar, by the looks of it. As he moved, the candlelight caught upon the sharp lines of his face, the shadowed hollows beneath his eyes as he placed more than enough coins on the counter.

She ought to have left it at that. Ought to have let him pay, let him leave, let this be nothing more than another brief encounter.

But as he turned his back, something in her stirred, a quiet, treacherous thing.

“You know,” he said, as casually as if he were discussing the weather, “it doesn’t bring me much pleasure to be here and fighting a war not worth fighting.”

She had not expected it. Not from him.

Lando did not turn, but she saw the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his fingers paused in the act of fastening his coat.

The words hung in the air between them, fragile, dangerous.

For the first time since meeting him, she did not know what to say.

At last, he moved towards the door, hand upon the latch.

“Comfrey balm,” she said suddenly.

He glanced back, brows drawing together. “Pardon?”

She met his gaze evenly. “Comfrey balm. I hear it does wonders for cuts.”

A beat of silence.

Then, slowly, he smiled. A quiet thing, half-hidden in the dim candlelight.

He said nothing more as he stepped out into the cold.

And for the second time that week, she found herself watching him go.

She had not seen him in weeks.

Not since that night, when he had left with a bleeding cheek and words that lingered long after the door had closed behind him.

She ought not to have thought of him beyond that moment. Ought to have carried on as she always had, sweeping the floors, tending to the shelves, selling goods to British soldiers with her lips pressed into a thin, silent line.

But each day that passed without sight of him left an uneasy weight in her chest.

She told herself it was curiosity. Nothing more.

And then—

The bell above the door jangled.

She turned sharply, pulse kicking against her ribs.

There he was.

Lando stood in the doorway, his coat damp from the rain, his jaw dark with stubble, his expression unreadable. He looked different. Not quite worn, but weathered, as though the weeks had pressed upon him like a heavy hand.

And yet, as his gaze found hers, something in his posture eased, just slightly.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

She exhaled slowly, willing her voice to be steady. “You’ve been gone.”

Lando tilted his head. “You noticed.”

She frowned. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He smirked, stepping further inside, shaking the water from his coat. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The shop was quiet. Too quiet.

She busied herself behind the counter, though there was nothing to do. “Did you come to buy something, or merely to test my patience?”

Lando exhaled, rolling his shoulders as though shaking off something unseen. “I was sent away,” he said at last. “Orders. A skirmish near the Hudson.” He paused, gaze lingering upon her. “I returned as soon as I could.”

She stilled.

The words were nothing, really. Just a simple statement, spoken in that same easy, infuriating tone.

And yet.

She swallowed. “You needn’t have troubled yourself.”

Lando’s gaze darkened, sharp as the edge of a blade. “No?”

She lifted her chin. “No.”

A pause.

Then, in three slow steps, he was before her, hands braced against the counter, close enough that she could see the way his breath rose and fell, the flecks of gold in his otherwise storm-dark eyes.

Too close.

“You lie,” he murmured.

Her pulse stuttered. “You presume.”

His lips curled slightly, gaze flicking over her face, searching. Testing.

The rain drummed softly against the windows, the candlelight flickering between them.

Neither of them moved.

She should step back. She should put space between them, should end this before it became something neither of them could afford.

Instead, she remained exactly where she stood, hands clenched against the wood.

“You infuriate me,” she said quietly.

Lando huffed a low laugh. “The feeling is entirely mutual.”

Silence. A breath.

And then—

He reached out, fingers grazing her wrist, tentative, uncertain.

It was the smallest of touches, but it may as well have been a match to dry kindling.

Her breath caught.

Slowly, deliberately, he ran the pad of his thumb along her pulse point, a touch so light she might have imagined it.

“I should go,” he murmured, though he made no move to leave.

Her lips parted, her voice betraying her. “Yes.”

Neither of them moved.

Lando’s gaze flicked to her lips, only for a fraction of a second, but it was enough.

A sharp inhale. A moment stretched taut as a bowstring.

And then—

He kissed her.

It was not soft. It was not gentle.

It was weeks of sharp words and stolen glances, of battle lines drawn and crossed, of a war fought in more ways than one.

When at last they broke apart, breathless, unsteady, he let his forehead rest against hers.

“This is a mistake,” she whispered.

Lando exhaled a quiet laugh, his hands still firm against her waist. “I know.”

Neither of them let go.

Her breath was still unsteady, her fingers curled into the fabric of his coat before she forced herself to let go.

She stepped back, only slightly, just enough to put space between them, to remind herself of what this was, of what it could not be.

“The people will talk,” she murmured.

Lando huffed a quiet laugh, running a hand through his rain-damp hair. “Let them.”

And then, before she could so much as blink, he turned, walking towards the door with a slow, deliberate ease.

She watched, half in disbelief, half in something else entirely, as he reached up and flipped the wooden sign on the door—Open to Closed.

Then, without a word, he moved to the window, drawing the heavy blinds down, one by one, shutting out the grey light of the storm outside.

Her pulse skittered.

“You would like that,” she said, folding her arms, though she could not quite quell the heat rising in her chest. “The Americans losing profit.”

Lando turned back to her then, a slow, knowing smile tugging at his lips.

“No,” he murmured, stepping towards her once more. “I simply like having you to myself.”

Her breath hitched.

He was in front of her again, behind the counter this time, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him, close enough that she could see the shadow of stubble on his jaw, the storm-dark glint in his eyes.

She should push him away. Should tell him to leave, to undo whatever had just begun between them.

Instead, she whispered, “You are insufferable.”

Lando smirked. “So you’ve told me.”

His lips were on hers again, and this time, there was no hesitation, no restraint.

She gasped softly against his mouth, but he swallowed the sound, one hand rising to cradle the side of her face, the other finding purchase at her waist, pulling her flush against him.

The counter dug into her back, but she hardly noticed.

All she knew was the way his hands gripped her, firm and unyielding, as though he had been holding himself back for far too long.

She curled her fingers into his coat, pulling him impossibly closer, tilting her head as his lips moved against hers with a fervour that sent heat pooling low in her stomach.

His thumb traced the curve of her cheek, slow, reverent, a stark contrast to the desperate, almost bruising kiss he pressed to her lips.

This was reckless.

This was foolish.

This was—

A moan slipped past her lips before she could stop it, and Lando exhaled sharply, breaking away only to press his mouth to the side of her throat, his breath hot against her skin.

She should stop this.

Shouldn’t she?

His teeth grazed the delicate line of her jaw, and her resolve shattered.

Her hands slipped beneath his coat, fingers splaying against the warm linen of his shirt, feeling the solid muscle beneath, the quick, steady beat of his heart.

He groaned softly, his grip tightening at her waist.

“God help me,” he murmured against her skin. “Tell me to leave, and I will.”

She could not.

Instead, she tangled her fingers into his hair, tilting his head back just enough to meet his gaze.

“Stay,” she whispered.

And so he did.

The Revolution was growing bolder.

Skirmishes turned to battles, whispers of rebellion swelled into cries of war, and the streets were no longer safe after dark.

With each passing week, Lando’s visits grew scarce.

She told herself she did not mind. That it was better this way.

And yet, whenever the bell above the shop door jangled, she could not stop the way her breath caught, the way her heart leapt foolishly in her chest.

When at last he returned, one late, quiet evening, when the rain pattered soft against the window panes, she did not greet him with words.

She simply stared, taking him in.

He looked tired. Not just weary, but bone tired, as though the weight of the war had begun to settle upon his shoulders.

But when he met her gaze, he smiled, soft and unguarded.

She exhaled, stepping forward. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.”

Lando hummed, reaching for her hand, his fingers brushing hers. “Impossible.”

She shook her head, though she did not pull away. “You should not be here.”

“Unfortunately for you,” he murmured, tilting his head, “here I stand.”

A quiet laugh escaped her lips, and he watched her, as he always did, as though committing her to memory, piece by piece.

From the folds of his coat, he withdrew a small, silver locket.

She raised a brow. “Sentimental, are we?”

He smirked but said nothing, instead pressing the locket into her hands.

Curious, she pried it open, only to find, tucked within, a tiny, delicate sketch of herself.

Her breath caught.

It was not an artist’s masterpiece, just a simple drawing, likely done in stolen moments, but the likeness was unmistakable.

She swallowed thickly. “Lando—”

“I keep it with me,” he said quietly, his voice lacking its usual teasing lilt. “Always.”

Something lodged in her throat, something she could not quite name.

She glanced up, and there he was, watching her with something too raw, too real, for her to pretend this was anything less than dangerous.

With slow, deliberate movements, he took the locket from her hands and tucked it safely inside his coat.

That damn red coat.

She huffed a soft laugh. “You keep me close to your heart, and yet you tuck me into the enemy’s colours.”

Lando grinned, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards. “A cruel irony, isn’t it?”

She sighed, shaking her head as she reached up to adjust the folds of his coat, her fingers lingering over the brass buttons. “One day, someone will see that locket, and you will have to explain why a British soldier carries the face of an American woman.”

Lando exhaled, his hands finding her waist, his touch warm even through the fabric of her dress. “Then let them ask.”

She rolled her eyes, though her pulse stuttered at the tenderness in his voice.

He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her knuckles.

And though she would never admit it, never dare say it, she prayed, in that moment, that war would be kinder to him than it had been to so many others.

Because she was not sure her heart could bear it if one day, the man in the red coat never returned.

He lingered in the doorway, his fingers grazing hers one last time before he stepped back into the night.

She watched him go, the red of his coat disappearing into the shadows, the echo of his footsteps swallowed by the hush of rain-soaked streets.

Only when he was truly gone did she let out a slow, unsteady breath, pressing her palm against her chest as if she might steady the frantic beat of her heart.

And then—

“I knew it.”

She froze.

The voice came from the stairway, low but laced with something sharp, something between disbelief and exasperation.

Slowly, she turned.

There, half-shrouded in the dim candlelight, stood her sister.

Arms folded, brow raised, mouth set in that maddening way that meant she had seen everything.

A slow dread coiled in her stomach.

Her sister stepped forward, voice quieter now, but no less insistent. “That could get you killed, you know.”

She swallowed, forcing her voice to remain level. “I don’t know what you—”

Her sister scoffed. “Don’t insult me.”

She clenched her jaw, lifting her chin. “Then perhaps you should stop lurking in doorways.”

Her sister gave her a look, the one that had always made her feel as though she were made of glass, easily seen through, no matter how carefully she tried to hide.

Silence stretched between them.

And then, softly, too softly, her sister said, “I didn’t see anything.”

A beat of stillness.

Then she exhaled, her shoulders slumping ever so slightly.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Her sister hummed, watching her closely. “He knew from the beginning, didn’t he?”

Her breath hitched. “What?”

“The moment he set foot in this shop.” Her sister tilted her head, gaze unreadable. “He knew.”

She did not answer.

Could not.

Because the truth was there, settled deep in her chest like an ache she could not shake.

Yes. He had known.

From the very first moment, when their sharp words had curled between them like smoke. When he had met her defiance not with scorn, but amusement.

When he had stepped too close and she had let him.

Her sister sighed, rubbing a hand across her face. “God help us both.”

She swallowed. “You won’t tell anyone?”

Her sister hesitated, only for a second. Then she shook her head.

“No.”

She felt something in her chest ease, if only slightly.

But then her sister met her gaze again, her expression unreadable.

“But you must be careful,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Because one day, someone else will see. And they may not be so kind.”

She nodded, though the truth of those words settled heavily upon her.

Because she knew.

She knew that this could not last forever.

And yet, no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise—

She was not sure she could bear to stop.

Following that night, she swore she would be careful.

She would guard her words, her glances, the restless ache in her chest.

She would not linger too long at the window, nor let her breath hitch at the sound of boots upon the cobblestones.

And yet.

Lando had not come back.

Not since that night, when he had pressed a kiss to her knuckles and tucked her likeness into the folds of his red coat.

Not since her sister’s warning had settled into her bones like a chill that would not leave.

She had counted the days.

Ten.

Then fifteen.

Then twenty.

The war had not stopped for them, nor for anyone. Battles raged beyond the city walls, each new whisper of violence twisting her stomach with something she refused to name.

It was foolish to worry.

Foolish to let her mind wander to every possible fate that might have befallen him.

A skirmish. An ambush. A captured redcoat. A man bleeding into the dirt, far from home.

She swallowed hard, pressing her palms to the worn counter, willing herself to be steady.

You are not his wife. You are not even his beloved.

She was nothing to him.

And yet, she still counted the days.

Still turned at the sound of the bell, still felt the foolish, desperate spark of hope before realising—

It was never him.

Never the man in the red coat who had stolen a piece of her heart, whether she had willed it or not.

And so she continued to count.

Until, at last, she lost track altogether.

The fire had burned low in the hearth, its embers casting long shadows against the wooden walls.

She was kneeling behind the counter, restocking the shelves with careful, measured movements, anything to keep her mind from wandering where it should not.

Outside, winter had settled in earnest, the streets dusted with a thin layer of frost, the air sharp enough to sting the lungs.

The shop was quiet.

Too quiet.

She had almost convinced herself that she was alone, until the door slammed open with a force that rattled the windows.

She started, knocking over a tin of dried herbs as a figure stumbled inside, breathless and wild-eyed.

Her sister.

Cheeks flushed from the cold, strands of hair escaping her bonnet, her hands gripping the doorframe as she fought to catch her breath.

She took one look at her and knew, something was wrong.

Her sister sucked in a sharp breath and choked out, “The redcoat.”

The world seemed to tilt.

She rose to her feet, heart hammering. “What?”

A strangled sound left her lips before she braced a hand against the doorframe once more, wheezing out—

“Your redcoat. The square.”

Her blood ran cold.

She did not think. Did not hesitate.

She ran.

Her sister called after her, but she did not stop, only heard the hurried footfalls as she followed.

The streets were near-empty, the air thick with the promise of snow, but she hardly felt the cold.

The square was not far.

And yet, every step felt like wading through sand, like the city itself was conspiring to keep her from what lay ahead.

Then, at last, they turned the corner—

And she saw him.

Saw them.

A group of men, American soldiers, ragged and battle-worn, their uniforms mismatched but their resolve unshaken.

And in their grasp, forced to his knees in the frozen dirt, was Lando.

Her breath left her in a silent gasp.

His coat was torn, his hands bound behind his back. Blood ran from a fresh cut above his brow, tracing a path down his cheek, staining the collar of his coat.

One of the men stood behind him, rifle in hand.

Another gripped him by the hair, jerking his head up so he had no choice but to meet their eyes.

And oh, God.

She had never seen him like this.

Lando was many things, cocky, insufferable, sharp-tongued even in the face of peril.

But now?

Now he was silent.

Not broken.

Not yet.

But close.

A sick sort of panic twisted in her gut, and she felt her sister’s hand clamp around her wrist, holding her back.

“You cannot,” she whispered fiercely.

But she barely heard her.

Her pulse roared in her ears, her breath coming too fast, too uneven, as she stared at him, willing him to lift his gaze, to see her.

As if she might find the right words, the right plea, to undo whatever horror was about to unfold

And then, as if summoned by her silent desperation—

Lando did look up.

Bloodied, battered—

And smirking.

Her stomach twisted violently.

He was taunting them.

Even now, on his knees in the dirt, a prisoner of war, he was taunting them.

God help her.

She had to stop this.

Somehow.

Before it was too late.

Lando spat blood onto the frozen earth, tilting his head back with a slow, insufferable grin.

“Is that the best you can do?” he rasped, voice raw but laced with amusement. “I’ve met barmaids with a harder swing.”

The soldier gripping his hair scowled. “You’ve a sharp tongue for a man about to lose his.”

Lando chuckled lowly, even as pain laced through his jaw. “A shame. I’ve grown rather fond of it.”

The man standing before him, broad-shouldered, face shadowed by the brim of his hat, exhaled sharply through his nose, before drawing a knife from his belt.

The steel caught the dim light as he crouched, fingers curling around the rope binding Lando’s hands.

“You want to fight?” he murmured.

And then—slash.

The rope between his wrists snapped apart, the strands fraying, falling uselessly to the ground.

Lando flexed his fingers, rolling his shoulders despite the stiff ache. He lifted his gaze, meeting the soldier’s eyes with something close to amusement.

“Oh, you really shouldn’t have done that.”

The soldier smirked. “Thought I’d give you a fair chance, Redcoat.”

Another man scoffed, spitting into the dirt. “What’s the point? He’s not worth the time.”

The first man arched a brow. “Then what do you suggest?”

A beat of silence.

Then a third soldier, leaner, his coat patchy from wear, jerked his chin towards the bridge at the edge of the square.

“Throw him in the river.”

Lando stilled.

The first soldier turned. “You serious?”

“Deadly.”

Lando let out a sharp breath, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “I take it all back. You’re all very hard men. No need to prove it further.”

But they had already made up their minds.

Rough hands seized him, one at his arm, another at the collar of his coat. His boots scraped against the ground as they hauled him up, dragging him towards the bridge.

And for the first time, something in Lando’s chest tightened.

Not at the prospect of the river itself, but at what lay beneath—frozen waters, jagged ice.

A man could drown in silence like that, and not be found until the thaw.

His pulse kicked up, but still, his mouth curled at the corners. “If you wanted to get me alone, you need only have asked.”

No one laughed.

The square blurred around him as they pulled him forward, his boots catching against the cobbles.

Then—

A scream.

High, sharp, cutting through the bitter air like a blade.

The men faltered, just for a second, but it was enough.

Because he heard it.

Knew it.

Felt it in his chest before he even turned his head.

And then he saw her.

She stood at the edge of the square, hands clenched at her sides, her chest heaving as though she had run all the way from hell itself.

Her eyes—God, her eyes—

Wide. Wild.

Filled with something he did not know how to name.

Something dangerous.

One of the soldiers followed his gaze, brow furrowing. “Who the hell is—?”

“She’s no one,” Lando cut in sharply, though his voice lacked its usual easy arrogance.

Because he knew.

Knew she was not no one.

Not to him.

And now they had seen her.

Now they knew.

And if she did not run—

God help them both.

The bridge loomed before them, dark against the winter sky, the river below a slithering mass of black and silver.

Lando dug his heels into the ground, but the hands gripping him only tightened, shoving him forward with renewed force.

He let out a sharp breath, lifting his chin. “This seems excessive.”

No response.

The edge of the bridge met his boots.

The drop was not a great one—but the waters below were half-frozen, shifting sluggishly between sheets of ice.

A man could survive it.

If luck allowed.

But luck had never much favoured him.

The hands at his collar shoved him forward—

And then he was falling.

Cold wind roared in his ears, his stomach lurching as he plunged down, down—

And then—

Impact.

The river swallowed him whole.

Freezing.

Brutal.

The shock tore the breath from his lungs, ice biting into his skin like teeth, the weight of his coat dragging him down.

The world blurred.

Darkness. Cold. Silence.

Somewhere above—

A voice.

High. Frantic.

A scream that cut through the wind.

But then the water pulled him further, and he knew nothing more.

Above, a voice shouted “Hey!”

The shout rang across the bridge, sharp and commanding.

The American soldiers turned, startled.

Another group of men had appeared at the far end of the street, British soldiers, red coats stark against the grey of the sky.

Panic flared in the Americans’ eyes.

One of them cursed under his breath. “To hell with it—go!”

And then they ran.

Boots pounding against stone, their figures vanishing into the fog before the British soldiers could reach them.

But she did not care.

Did not see them go.

Because she was already running.

Heart hammering against her ribs, breath tearing through her lungs.

She reached the bridge, hands gripping the cold stone as she peered over the edge.

And froze.

Below, the river churned.

Dark and violent.

And floating amidst the swirling current, barely visible between the sheets of ice—

Was him.

Back to her, red coat glaring up at her, like some sick joke.

Her breath caught.

“No—”

She turned wildly, eyes locking onto the British soldiers. “Save him!” she pleaded, voice cracking. “Someone do something!”

But none of them moved.

They only looked at her, their expressions unreadable.

Tension rippled through them.

He was one of them, yes, but he had been captured. He had been marked.

And for all they knew, he was already dead.

She shook.

Chest rising and falling too fast, hands curling into fists.

“Please—”

But still, they did not move.

And the realisation crushed her.

No one was going to help.

No one was going to save him.

A sharp sob tore from her throat, and suddenly.

Arms wrapped around her.

Warm. Familiar.

Her sister.

Pulling her close. Holding her tight.

And at last, she broke.

Collapsed into her, shoulders shaking, gasping for breath as tears burned.

The river below carried Lando further, the dark waters swallowing him whole.

And she could do nothing but weep.

A week and a half had passed.

The river had long since stilled, the ice thickening over its surface, sealing its secrets beneath.

The town had moved on.

And so, she supposed, must she.

She had spent the first few days locked away, claiming illness when her parents questioned her absence. Her sister had run the shop in her stead, sparing her from the knowing looks, the pitying glances.

But now she was back behind the counter, hands busying themselves with small, mindless tasks, though her heart was elsewhere.

Somewhere beneath the frozen waters.

She did not turn when the bell above the door chimed, announcing the entrance of another customer.

Another red coat.

They came often, these days. Their presence no longer made her breath catch, no longer sent ice through her veins.

She did not look at them.

She did not dare.

She simply pressed her lips together, smoothing the creases in her apron. “May I help you?”

Silence.

Then—

“May I speak to you?”

Something in the tone made her still.

Not sharp, nor commanding, as most of them were.

This was softer. Measured.

Cautious.

Only then did she look up.

He was young.

No older than Lando.

Dark hair, serious eyes. A red coat, pristine and well-fitted, but worn with a weight that did not suit him.

Her brow furrowed. “I—”

But then.

He reached into his coat.

And pulled out a locket.

Her breath vanished.

She knew it.

Even before he stepped closer, even before he placed it on the counter, she knew it.

The same locket she had watched him tuck into the folds of his coat that night.

The same locket that should have been—

Her hands trembled as she reached for it, fingers ghosting over the cold metal.

And beside it—

A scrap of fabric.

Dark red.

Torn.

Stained with something too dark to be ink.

The floor beneath her swayed.

She swallowed, willing her voice to remain steady. “Where did you—?”

“I found it.”

She looked up sharply.

The soldier—no, the man—watched her carefully, expression unreadable.

He exhaled, then lowered his voice.

“My name is Oscar. I was—” He hesitated. “I am Lando’s closest friend.”

Her stomach twisted.

“I followed the riverbank,” Oscar continued. “Days after. His coat washed up on the shore. Torn, bloodied. But no sign of him.”

Her fingers curled into the fabric, something breaking inside her chest.

No sign of him.

No body.

Just this.

Oscar’s voice softened. “I thought you should have it.”

The world blurred.

Her throat burned, her breath coming too fast, too shallow.

She could not.

A choked sound left her lips, and before she could stop herself.

She collapsed into him.

Oscar caught her without hesitation, his arms warm and steady as he held her upright.

And in the middle of the shop, in the arms of a man she did not know, she wept.

Silent, shuddering sobs that shook through her whole body.

Because he was the only one, besides her sister, who knew.

And for the first time since she had watched him disappear beneath the ice—

She was not alone.

Oscar remained close as she pulled herself together, his arms steady around her as she wiped her eyes, embarrassed by the flood of tears that had come without warning.

He didn’t speak at first, just waited, his presence a quiet comfort.

When she finally found her breath again, she drew away from him, her hands trembling as she reached for the locket once more. She traced her finger across the metal, feeling the weight of it, feeling Lando’s absence.

Oscar cleared his throat. “If you ever need anything—”

She looked up sharply, meeting his eyes.

“I’m in the barracks, just by the bridge. You can find me there, any time. If—if you need to speak, or...” His voice faltered slightly, but he steadied himself quickly. “Or if you need help. I’m no good with words, but I’ll do what I can.”

She nodded, though the words seemed distant.

Her gaze drifted back to the locket, and a small, hollow laugh bubbled up in her chest.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” she said, almost to herself.

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Funny?”

“Just…” Her words trailed off as she shook her head, looking out the window at the frost-covered streets. “The revolution was supposed to give us freedom—freedom to live as we please. To make our own choices.”

She let out a bitter chuckle. “And yet, here I am. Befriending a redcoat.”

Oscar’s expression softened, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “I’m not quite like the others.”

“No,” she agreed quietly. “But still... Funny how it works out, isn’t it? The freedom I wanted so badly, and yet…” Her voice faltered for a moment, her mind flickering back to the other redcoat—the one who had captured her heart in the most unexpected of ways. “I ended up falling in love with redcoat and befriend his friend.”

Oscar didn’t speak for a long moment, but when he did, his voice was gentle, understanding.

“I think sometimes, the world doesn’t give us what we expect,” he said softly. “It gives us what we need.”

She glanced at him, his words ringing in her ears. But still, she could not shake the weight of her heart, heavy with loss, heavy with the uncertainty of what had happened to Lando, and the strange, impossible twist of fate that had led her to where she was now.

Oscar cleared his throat again, stepping back slightly. “I’ll leave you to your work. I just thought… well, I thought you ought to know. And if ever you need me…” He paused, giving her a small nod. “I’ll be there.”

She managed a smile, though it was faint. “Thank you, Oscar. Truly.”

He turned to leave, but she called after him, her voice quieter now. “I’m sorry for what happened to Lando. I know it was no easier for you.”

Oscar gave her a final look, his face unreadable. “It wasn’t. But he’d have wanted you to know he didn’t go quietly.”

And with that, he was gone.

She stood there for a long time after, holding the locket, running her fingers over the edges.

She hadn’t expected any of this, none of it.

The war. The revolution. The quiet, fragile peace she had sought.

The friends she had made, enemies turned companions. And love.

A love she had never thought possible with someone who wore the very coat she had come to despise.

A love that seemed, now, so impossible.

Yet here she was.

And now… now she was without him.

part two...

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @driverlando @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey

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dearstvckyx · 18 days ago

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You've got a heart of gold and mine is always broken - Oscar Piastri

Oscar Piastri has quietly loved his guarded best friend for months, trying and failing to break down her walls. After finally asking why she won’t give him a chance, she admits her fear of getting hurt again. Patient and steady, Oscar shows her that love with him isn’t something she needs to fear. - The Neighbourhood , The Shining

Oscar Piastri x Reader

Warnings: emotional vulnerability , mentions of bad past relationships

The Neighbourhood Lyrics Masterlist - ⌂

⸻

Oscar wasn’t oblivious.

He saw it all — the way you tensed when someone got too close. How you laughed at jokes but never let anyone past the surface. How you treated attention like a game you refused to lose.

You were sunshine wrapped in barbed wire. Beautiful and untouchable.

Oscar should’ve known better than to chase someone who didn’t want to be caught.

But he did.

Every day.

Because he saw something no one else bothered to look for — the girl who was scared, not selfish. Guarded, not cruel.

He couldn’t stop trying, even when you pretended you didn’t notice.

⸻

Flashback.

It started small.

After a long meeting, Oscar had waited by the door, pretending to scroll on his phone.

“Need a ride back?” he offered casually, looking up at you with that soft smile.

You hesitated—just for a second—before shaking your head.

“Thanks, catboy,” you said, teasing him with a smirk. “But I like walking. Less awkward conversation.”

He had laughed it off, even though he watched you leave, your shadow growing smaller with every step.

⸻

Then another time—at a team dinner—he slid into the seat beside you before anyone else could.

“I saved you the best spot,” he said with a wink.

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched like you were fighting a smile.

He talked to you the whole night, voice easy and warm, nudging you with jokes and stories.

When dessert came, he built up the courage to ask:

“Hey… do you wanna go out sometime? Just us?”

You had blinked, wide-eyed, like he asked you to solve a physics equation on the spot.

Then you laughed—a little too loudly.

“You’re sweet, Oscar,” you said. “But you don’t want me. I’m more work than I’m worth.”

He never forgot the way you said it—like you believed it.

⸻

Now, sitting side by side on the pit wall after a long day, the track lights buzzing, he found himself asking again.

“I don’t get you,” he said, trying to sound light even though his heart felt heavy.

You gave a dry laugh. “Yeah? Welcome to the club.”

He nudged a pebble with his shoe, glancing sideways.

“You know I like you, right?” he asked, voice soft.

“You’ve mentioned,” you said, sarcasm hiding the panic clawing at your chest.

Oscar waited a beat. Then another.

“Why won’t you let me?” he asked, no bitterness — just hurt.

You swallowed.

The words stuck to your tongue, thick and heavy.

“Oscar…” you whispered. “I like you. Really, I do.”

His heart skipped.

“But I can’t risk getting hurt again,” you said, voice cracking. “I’ve loved before. And it broke me into pieces I’m still trying to glue back together.”

The silence stretched.

Heavy. Fragile.

Oscar didn’t rush to fill it. He just shifted closer, his shoulder brushing yours.

“I’m not them,” he said quietly. “I’m not here to break you. I’m here to stay. If you’ll let me.”

Your eyes burned, blinking away tears you refused to let fall.

“You have a heart of gold, Oscar,” you whispered, voice trembling. “And mine is always broken.”

He reached out slowly, curling his pinky around yours.

“Maybe we can fix it together,” he said. “Or maybe… it doesn’t need fixing. Maybe it just needs someone to stay.”

You finally turned, looking him in the eyes — really looking.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” you warned.

He smiled—small, sure, and entirely Oscar. “I do.”

You exhaled, shaky and unsure, but let your head fall lightly against his shoulder.

Maybe you were still broken.

Maybe love still scared you.

But sitting there with Oscar, for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel so terrifying.

It felt like coming home.

⸻

#oscar piastri #op81 #oscar piastri x reader #op81 x reader #mclaren #f1 #formula one #the neighbourhood lyrics masterlist #the nbhd #Spotify

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valeisaslut · 18 days ago

Note

i'm making a collide pinterest board based on collide cause i'm obsessed, and i'm doing sections for every album. do you have a name/aesthetic for readers debut album, or is that all up to us :3

AHHH THIS IS SO CUTE OMG first of all, i’m genuinely honored you’re making a collide board, i could sob. second — YES, i can totally give you the vibe i imagined for reader’s debut!!

COLLIDE POPSTAR!READER'S DEBUT ALBUM:

in the collide au, reader’s debut album is canonically called "diary of a disaster."

it’s the album that exploded after she won the voice — the one that took her from "talented winner of a singing competition" to "america’s sweetheart" and "pop princess."

she’s young, barely 19. she’s reckless. she’s in love, she’s pissed off, she’s messy, she’s magnetic. this debut feels like a diary someone ripped open and read under a disco ball — the confessions are too loud, too raw, but also too good to look away from.

its super 2000s inspired (and yep. people compared you to early britney spears all the time.) synths that sparkle and crackle like electricity, basslines that feel like heart palpitations, vocals (her baby voice aww) dripping with desperation and sugar all at once. it's pop music that knows it's pop music — but it's self-aware, slightly unhinged, a little dangerous.

lyrics like i love you. i hate you. i want you. i don’t need you. come back. don’t you dare come back. full of contradictions — and that’s the point. it’s the soundtrack of someone figuring out who they are while breaking their own heart a little along the way.

the lead singles (click to listen):

୨ৎ “make me like you”

୨ৎ“my attitude”

୨ৎ "deja vu"

୨ৎ "teenage dream"

this is before the reader we know now — before all the scandals, the grammy kisses, the tabloid chaos. this is when she was still trying to be "good," still wrapping barbed wire in pink bows. but even here, there’s something a little too wild in her smile. something that says i want everything, and i’ll burn for it if i have to.

people say now it’s one of the most chaotic and genuine debut albums of its generation. it’s still the blueprint for her career. diary of a disaster wasn't just an album—it was a warning. one nobody listened to.

(ellie has the original vinyl in her LA apartment. signed. stolen. not returned. she says your baby teenager voice is the cutest thing she has ever heard.)

is it TOO obvious i had this all planned and i was just waiting for someone to bring it up orrrr

ALSO PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE SEND THE PINTEREST BOARD WHEN YOU FINISH IT PLS PLS PLS I NEED ITTTTTTTTTTT

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schemmentisimpasours · 2 months ago

Text

Simping for Schemmenti

THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL

Summary: Melissa has been pining after you all school year and after a much needed push to finally tell you.

Next Chapter

Masterlist

It was the last day of school, a half day, that Janine had turned into one last employee outing. At first, everyone was resistant until you offered up your sister’s pool while she was away on vacation. Once you had promised Ava it was in a nice neighborhood and yes she was a real doctor that she had agreed as long as she could bring her ring light. Janine and Gregory had readily agreed when they looked up how hot it would be. Barb only hesitated until she was promised cocktails. Jacob promised to bring a volleyball for water sports. It was only Melissa that needed convincing.

“Mel, come on you don’t want to spend one last day together before we all separate for the summer?” You asked leaning to pluck a piece of chocolate croissant off her plate.

Everyone else would have gotten their hand slapped (even Barb) but you had a special claim over Melissa’s food. You always had a special place with Melissa since you started working at Abbott at the beginning of the year, when you had proved yourself as a more than adequate 3rd grade teacher in her opinion and pulled a knife from underneath your skirt to defend a child from a hostile dad breaking a restraining order. However, that was a story to be explained more fully for a different day.

You seemed to have fit in easily with everyone at Abbott. Being Ava’s friend since childhood she gave you shit constantly but you had a nerdy side that appealed to both Jacob and Janine. Gregory and you had become close over his love of gardening and how you were more than willing to follow his directions on how to care for it while he was gone. Even Mr. Johnson appreciated your extra help in fixing things that seemed to go wrong around the school. Barb had loved you when you came in mumbling the hints for the crossword under your breath one morning, and she finally had someone to do them with.

Now you stared at Melissa and the woman tried to put up another protest before Barb gave her a sharp kick to the shin. She kicked back before replying, “Of course as long as I get to cook the snacks. I don’t trust any of y’all with food.”

A huge smile spread across your face, “Great, I will go finish the details and text y’all the address.”

When the bell rang and the teachers made their way to classrooms, Melissa pulled Barb to the side, “I’m going to have a bruise because of you. What the hell was that for?

“Because you were about to say no to one final day with Y/N. You still haven’t told her about your feelings and you really want to go the whole summer without seeing her,” Barb retorted.

“Maybe they will go away this summer.”

Barbra’s friend let out a hearty laugh, “I have watched you try to get over this crush ever since you eye banged her over the knife fight. I am not going to watch you sulk all summer because she isn’t around to pester you with nonsense questions. Now tell me why you didn’t want to go.”

Melissa groaned, pushing her glasses up, “Because the thought of Y/N in a swimsuit of any kind makes me have all sorts of not school appropriate thoughts.”

“Good thing we won’t be in school,” Barb laughed before heading into her classroom.

Melissa shook her head before making her way to her own class. On the way, she peeked into your room. You were sitting on the top of your desk, legs spread in your blue jeans with your burgundy converse swinging back and forth, showing how short you actually were. It made her smile the way you were so comfortable in your classroom.

Melissa could have stood there staring at you all day but a child grabbed her hand, “Mrs. Schemmenti we are waiting for you.”

—----

The final day of school came and soon everyone was sprawled out by the pool. You had your face in a book toes dipped into the water. A loose red Abbot Elementary shirt was rolled up and tucked into your swim suit top showing off your black biker shorts. You had intentions of getting into the water at some point but little did you know that plan that your coworkers had put together. Sick of you and Melissa flirting with each other but never making a move it was Barb you had called together the group. And Ava who had enforced fear upon Janine to actually keep the secret.

“Y/N what book you reading?” Janine asked leaning over.

You went to show her the cover but she snatched it from you and Ava rushed in behind you and pushed you in. You fell into the pool popping back up quickly but not before you were entirely soaked. You whipped your head towards Ava and Janine who were laughing.

“Ava, I expected this from you. But Janine. I thought you were above this,” You said before whipping your wet t-shirt at both of them.

“We wanted you to get into the pool and actually enjoy the event that you planned,” Ava smirked.

“You getting in then?”

“Girl you know I just got my nails down,” She said holding them up to reflect the blue and green sparkles, “I couldn’t get..”

She stopped mid sentence as your shorts hit her square in the face, “You nasty Y/N, I never asked for you to be dropping drawers for me. We all know you got a crush on someone else in the school.”

“Ava!” You screamed and then sank under the water trying to compose yourself. You jumped up quickly off the edge and pulled Ava back into the water with you.

You both landed with a splash, but came up both laughing. Janine jumped in after you and soon the three of you were hounding the boys to let you play volleyball with them.

While all of this transpired, Barb was watching Melissa intently. Melissa’s eyes had been on you the whole party, to the point she could have told you how far you had gotten in your book Legendborn. When you had thrown your shirt at Ava, exposing your purple bikini top she had taken an audible gulp. Then when you had tackled Ava to the pool and the couple of moments your barely covered ass had been showing Barbra could have sworn that Melissa’s face had started to sweat.

“You are going to bore a hole in that poor girl’s head,” Barb said, shaking Melissa.

“There relationship is so odd,” Melissa said, avoiding Barbara’s comment, “Ava is a completely different person around her. Happier.. Less cliques.”

“Y/N brings out the best in people. Including you,” Barb smiles, “However if you don’t tell her your feelings soon I may have to scream it like Ada just did.”

“So you did hear that?” Melissa said finally flipping her eyes off you, “Who do you think she was talking about.”

“You! You bumbling idiot,” Barb muttered.

Before Melissa could respond, you were calling her name. She looked over and you and swore under her breath. You were perched up boobs on the pools edge your hair falling in wet droplets around you.

“So what do you say Mel, you coming to join us so we can beat the boys,” You said, breaking her out of her silence.

“Boys and Janine!”

“Yes and Janine,” You rolled your eyes, “Come on we bet tickets to the next Eagles came that my sister got at work.”

“For the Eagles I will do anything,” Melissa smiled quickly shedding of her pool cover and jumping in the pool.

Barb smiled from the sidelines, winking to Ava their plan was working.

With Barb roped into being the referee the heated game of volleyball lasted about an hour with your team coming out victorious. You turned around and gave Ada a huge high five before turning to Melissa. You raised your arms but instead, Melissa pulled you in close, placing a kiss to your lips.

It took your breath away to feel her pressed up against you, hands wrapped into your hair. The kiss was timid at first until you reciprocated the kiss and then all bets were off. You wrapped your arms tight around her until the cheering started.

The kiss was broken leaving you breathless and you looked at your coworkers all letting out loud whoops. Your face turned a bright red but Melissa still kept her arms around you in a hug.

“What ya looking at you pervs?” Melissa barked, making everyone laugh and lightening your embarrassment.

“Two people who finally got over themselves and decided to reveal their feelings for each other,” Ava laughed, “Now get a room or something. We don’t need Barb to have to go to confessional over y’all fucking in the pool.”

You and Melissa flipped her off simultaneously, making you laugh again. This woman, with her red hair plastered around the curves of the face you had spent hours memorizing. Blue eyes sparkled down at you and you knew that you could get lost into them forever.

“What do you say Y/N, me and you on a real date tomorrow night. I’ll cook you dinner and the whole nine yards.”

You grinned giving her another small kiss, “Sounds wonderful.”

The rest of the day Melissa kept close by placing small kisses on whatever exposed skin she could find. She held your hand while talking to Barbra and made you a plate of food before making sure that you sat down at the table next to her.

“Yo Red!” Ava yelled, sliding into the seat next to you, “You understand she was my girl first, right. I still get first dibs on where we sit at lunch.”

“Yeah whatever Ava,” Melissa said before kissing your cheek, “We all know you don’t like sharing.”

“Neither do you,” Ava retorted, “Yet Y/N is the only one you let steal your food every day.”

You paused with a piece of Melissa’s cannoli in your grasp, “Not even Barb.”

“No hun, I left that pleasure for you only.”

“Fuck,” You whispered, “Really should have seen the signs.”

Melissa laughed squeezing your hand, “And I should have had the balls to tell you sooner.”

#melissa schemmenti #melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa scehemmenti x y/n #melissa schemmenti fluff #barbara howard #abott elementary #not edited

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gotta-winwin · 4 months ago

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(☎️) ... merry christmas, please don't call

⭐ starring: seungcheol

☎️ preview: The toughest part about loving Seungcheol was the fact that he didn’t know himself at all. And how does one truly love a ghost?

based on the song Merry Christmas, Please Don't Call by Bleachers

“But you should know that I died slow Running through the halls of your haunted home And the toughest part is that we both know What to happened to you Why you're out on your own Merry Christmas, please don't call”

tw/cw: heavy angst + smut, not a happy ending, tortured lovers, coups is an asshole but he doesn't mean to, idol!seungcheol x nonidol!reader, talk of leader responsibilities, abstract telling of sexual intercourse, heavy topics such as anxiety and depression

🪽fic rating/wc: 18+ / 2.4k

☁️ masterlist & a/n: this heavy angst christmas fic is to combat the insane amount of fluff in the vernon christmas special (ᵕ—ᴗ—) it's also very self indulgent angst + smut with coups. thank you for spending 2024 with me and i cannot wait to spend 2025 with you too!

“Oh, golden boy, don't act like you were kind”

He was inevitable in the end. Like some invisible string connected the two of you together. Not the pretty, dainty kind of invisible string. Whatever held your lives together was made of barbed wire. Whatever line wrapped around your ribs, restricting your breathing, tying you to him was nothing pretty. It was what army men used in wars.

You can’t hate your best friend, even if they end up hurting you. You just can’t.

“Come back to bed.” You whisper in the dark as you watch his dark silhouette get up. The clock on his nightstand was barely legible.

You could hear him throwing a shirt on. “I’ve got to go.”

You open your mouth to ask him again, but the words die in your mouth. A couple days ago you would’ve begged, but the bubbling hatred in you pushed the words down your esophagus, momentarily choking you. Seungcheol noticed your silence.

“I’ll be back before sunrise.” He leans over the bed and kisses your cheek, brushing a stray hair from it. “Don’t be mad.”

You shake your head in the dark. “I’m not mad.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

That was just how the world spun. You, lying in his bed, staring up at the ceiling you used to trace constellations on together. Sheets that smelled like him - aftershave and candles. Pleading words sewn shut in your mouth, hidden in your lungs, suffocating you. As you sank back into sleep, drowning under everything you’ve ever wanted to tell him. You knew it wasn’t his fault. After all - he barely knew who he was, hidden under all his responsibilities and his job title, he was barely a semblance of a man - tugged and stitched together.

It barely registered in your mind that tomorrow would be Christmas Eve. Part of you knew he wouldn’t be there to celebrate anyways.

“You know this moment don’t ya And time is strangely calm now”

You could say what drew Seungcheol to you initially was your confidence. It illuminated you like a beacon, a moth to the flame, as his eyes followed your movements from across the crowded room.

It was Christmas Eve in Korea, and everyone in the right circles knew Johnny Suh’s Holiday Bash was the place to be.

At least, that was what your friends had told you, claiming they had a way in and convincing you to join them.

You were pleasantly surprised to find that for untouchable K-pop idols, everyone at the party was oddly normal. Kim Sunwoo’s voice could be heard over all the chaos, forehead pressed up against Lee Haechan’s, caught in the middle of some intense drinking game. Jeon Jungkook took a love shot with a heavily drunk Kim Mingyu, the sounds of their glass cups clinking against one another catching your attention.

Drifting away from the noise, you moved upstairs, your hand tracing the natural engravings against the wooden banister. The dim lights made it difficult to see, as you searched for a respite away from the noise downstairs. You’d certainly never question a K-opo idol’s ability to party again.

It was Seungcheol’s quiet stare that made you approach him, noticing how he sat with his back against the smooth white wall, his hair falling into his eyes. It was odd to see him alone, unaccompanied by his usual entourage of rowdy members. When alone, he seemed oddly sad, as if he was trying to convince himself he wasn’t. Perhaps it was the vulnerability in his eyes that urged you to sit next to him.

“I’d like to be alone, please.” He mumbled, turning his big eyes towards you. The light from downstairs caught in his irises, refracting into a million tiny lights.

“Me too.”

Your reply amused him as he watched you, intrigued by the way you stared off into the distance. He hadn’t known how you had noticed his glassy, tearfilled eyes from the get go, or else he would’ve walked away.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Your offhanded tone made the loaded question fall easier against his chest. He could feel himself breathing routinely once more, the tears in his eyes receding as he processed your question and figured out an answer.

“I wouldn’t even know where to begin.” He admitted, finally turning the whole of his body to face you, moving his knees up against his chest as he leaned back against the wall once more.

There was something about him that made you want to help him. Maybe it was the fact that he was famous for being the reliable leader, responsible for too many things at such a young age. Maybe it was because, based on the things you’ve heard about him, you knew you could relate. Maybe you had already known - even then - that the two of you were different sides of the same coin. That he was inevitable in the end.

“I’ve got time.” You send him an open smile. “Lay it on me.”

Even to this day, Seungcheol had no idea why he confided in you, a total stranger, on the floor of a Johnny Suh Christmas party. He usually held his cards close to his chest - so close in fact, that the people around him often joked that he couldn’t read the cards himself.

So maybe he knew you were inevitable in the end too.

But neither of you could’ve ever predicted what would become of the two of you by the time the next Christmas rolled around.

“Oh, golden boy, you shined a light on our home, And at your best you were magic; we were sold”

By the time the next Christmas rolled around, everyone around Seungcehol would credit you as the one who had “fixed” him. It was a term they all danced around lightly - fixed. None of them knew how to describe it, but Seungcheol was happier, louder, and had magically learnt the art of self-confidence.

“That is not my hyung.” Chan yelled into your ear from the side of the bar, eyeing Seungcheol, who was on the dance floor surrounded by an ecstatic Soonyoung and Mingyu. “My Seungcheol hyung does not dance.”

You laughed, because you knew the amount of work that had taken him to get where he was now. No one, except the two of you, would know about the late nights Seungcheol had spent near tears as you knelt by him, soothing phrases leaving your lips only to crash against his back.

“Look at him.” Chan was pointing an accusatory finger at Seungcheol, who had a wide grin on his face as he watched Soonyoung attempt to win over a girl on the dance floor. “He used to avoid the dance floor like it’d kill him. Hell, he avoided the bar in general.”

You followed his finger, a small smile drifting over your features as you witnessed Seungcheol laugh, the sound travelling straight to your core as you watched him. As if he had felt your stare, Seungcheol turned, his bright smile shining upon you as he reached out a hand, gesturing you towards him.

“Hi.” His forehead pressed against yours as he spoke.

“Hi.” You whispered back as he pulled you closer, relishing the safety you felt within his strong arms.

“I love you.” He said, but there were other words hidden deep beneath them. Don’t leave.

“I love you too.” Don’t hurt me.

“And the toughest part is that we both know What happened to you”

You dreaded each time he was called in for work. You knew he loved his job, and more often than not, he would have a good time - singing, dancing, creating with his friends for his fans. But you also saw the heavy weight that followed him home whenever it wasn’t a good time. Each company meeting where he was yelled at, each unsettling encounter with a crazy fan, each hate post you knew your boyfriend had read multiple times over.

You both knew the baggage that followed him home far outweighed the good he felt. But you couldn’t ask him to leave - because that would ruin him too.

February 19 2022. The date forever seared in the front of your mind. It was the day Seungcheol had returned home after dropping out of his world tour.

He had landed on your shared porch like a dead bird.

“Cheol.” You grabbed at his shoulders, trying to get a good look at his face.

He pushed past you into your shared home, kicking off his shoes and throwing his bags onto the floor. You watched him leave up the stairs. You heard the door of your shared bedroom swing close, the lock click into place.

You didn’t mind sleeping on the couch that night. You knew he needed his space.

“I’m sorry.” He had told you the next morning, his eyes betraying his lack of sleep.

Handing him his breakfast, you shook your head. “Don’t apologize. Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head. “Not really.”

First crack in the glass. You really should’ve known. After all, Seungcheol told you everything.

“But you should know that I died slow Running through the halls of your haunted home”

Seungcheol kissed you each time like he was afraid to lose you. His kisses were full of passion, firm and messy. He kissed you like he was constantly running out of time.

His calloused hands ran gently against your bare skin, handling you like pieces of precious glass.

“I love you.” He’d murmur against your stomach as he inched his way down, looking up at you with shining eyes - akin to the way he once looked at you during your first meeting. That was something special about him: his eyes sparkled the same way whether he was crying or in love. You had yet to learn the difference.

Seungcheol liked holding you as he pushed in, craving the feeling of closeness and how he was connected inside of you, with you. You were his escape and his solace, his mind numbing into a void of white as pleasure coursed through him. The usual jumble in his brain ceased to attack him and he was left with the sole thought of showing you how much he truly did love you.

Seungcheol loved making love with you. It was the aftermath where he didn’t.

“I love you.” You’d whisper as you threaded your fingers through his hair, your other hand drawing circles against his bare skin - and your voice would feel planets away.

The loudness of his own mind was back, the mess of barely coherent thoughts intruding once again. Seungcheol knew it made no sense.

“You were mine, but you were awful every time”

Choi Seungcheol was not good for your soul. You knew that. He was a man full of paradox, forever contradicting himself and everything you’ve ever felt for him. Even the way his coarse hands gently traced the bones of your back felt contradictory, when he had only just told you the two of you could never be together.

“We won’t work.” His lower lip jutted out as he spoke, his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor.

“I know.” You were tired of begging, the constant back and forth. Seungcheol would run, and then he would still find his way back to you in the following few months. That was just how this relationship worked, and you were used to it by now.

“I’m sorry.” He would whisper, cupping his hands around your face as his thumbs traced your cheekbones, a gesture filled with silent love.

Then don’t leave, you wanted to yell at him. If he really was sorry, if he really did love you, why would he still leave each time? But you knew that wasn’t how he operated.

You knew Choi Seungcheol wanted you. But he barely knew what he wanted himself.

“'Cause everybody's gone it's Just you and your anger”

You knew he’d be back like clockwork. You knew Seungcheol could never stray from you for too long, some hindrance keeping him from ever truly leaving you.

He’d leave each time he felt like he wasn’t enough, each time you failed to convince him he was. Then he’d come back the moment that insecurity vanished, leaving him with his anger. At himself, at the world, at you.

Seungcheol’s anger burned in white and blue. His anger was silent, suffocating, almost petty and petulant by nature. He would never yell or raise a hand at you but he’d push you away. Further and further until it felt like you never really knew him at all.

“I love you.” You’d say, and he’d just hum in response.

“Cheol.” You’d beg, because even when you said you were done begging, you knew you’d do it again. “Look at me, please.”

He turned, although his eyes locked on some spot right above your head.

“Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.” You’d ask him. “Let me help.”

You knew your attempts at understanding were futile. Choi Seungcheol’s fatal flaw was his independence. He relied on no one but himself.

“Merry Christmas, please don't call

Merry Christmas, I'm not yours at all”

You supposed Christmas Eve was as good a time as it could get. There would be no best time, you knew that now. You had been looking for the perfect time to leave and look where you were now. Six years deep, in love with a man who barely knew love himself.

Merry Christmas. You wrote, leaving the letter tucked neatly beside his Christmas gift on the living room table. You knew you couldn’t say goodbye in person. One look at his shining eyes and you’d be begging for his love once more.

I know none of this is anyone’s fault. You had begun the letter with. I know there are just some things nobody can fix.

Your hand on the doorknob, your other hand clutched around the handle of your bags, you turned to take in the place one last time. Memories of you and Seungcheol circulated through the air as you lingered by the door, unable to step forward.

Because that was the couch where he had said I love you for the first time, his face inches from yours. That was the kitchen lights that had flickered when broken, the same lights in which you had danced under, wrapped warmly in his arms.

I really do wish you the best, Cheolie. And because at Christmas, you tell the truth - I hope you find everything you need to be happy in this life. Merry Christmas. Please don’t call.

a/n: ending off the 2024 season with a bang! if you made it this far, thank you so much for following along through the beginning of this blog - and i'm excited to spend the next year with you!

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