#and the thing is i do want to flit in and out of peoples lives it’s not even like i want to change this

[justinefrischmanngf]

i need to stop giving people my instagram i think like it’s not conducive to appearing in people’s lives and then disappearing i think i should start a number/email/letterboxd only policy because i am in such a good place to meet people and then just disappear and that’s all i need from life rn and instagram is hindering me massively in that i’m literally going to start doing this

[amberluvsbugs]

Recovery

I've been having a lot of brain rot over @xitsensunmoon vampire AU. One mainly of how Moon would be if Y/n came home one day very weak from the blood they had to give? Knowing that he does not show his tender feelings behind his teasing gestures.

Short Drabble on this idea is down below.

Moon has always been a bit of a teasing, cocky, gremlin most of the time, always pushing you and just being the chaotic character that he is. Despite him being such a tease, he does care about you. Especially when it comes to your health. Knowing that you push yourself so far for giving blood to those in need, including the two vampires that now reside with you in secrecy, it does worry them at times with how tired you are when you finally return home from work.

One particular day, however, you push yourself a little too far. Giving more blood than you should have. But despite your health, you knew it would save so many people in the long run. “I’m home.” You state out begrudgingly before turning and weakly closing the door behind you. Your arms feel like lead and are a struggle to lift. 

Moon made his way over to you, his eyes boring into you as he grinned his sharp fanged teeth at you before stopping short. His features quickly changing into something a bit more of an underlying sense of concern as he studied you with his bright red eyes, brows slightly furrowed. “What? Is there something wrong?” You raised a brow. “You look terrible.” Moon spoke out.

“Well yeah, I just got back from the doctors, you know how the deal is.” You shrug out. “You look worse than the other days.” Moon gives deeply. You let out an annoyed sigh. “Moon I don't have time for your snarky remarks right now. I have shit to do and I don't need-” As you started to make your way around Moon, your balance started to drift and suddenly felt a sudden weakness in your legs. Dark spots started covering your sight as things started to drift lower, and lower and lower. Where you getting shorter than Moon? Your mind fuzzy and not catching up with what was exactly happening. Something moved on the edge of your vision, you saw a flash of blue and your body jerked slightly. You felt something from under your arms. When the dark spots in your sight started to disappear, you could finally see what happened in your daze. Moon’s slender hands were under you before you could fully hit the ground and risk any more damage. His expression was now one of wide-eyed worry as he looked over you. His eyes flit from your face to your chest, then back. His smile was no longer present as it was now in a concerned frown while his stature easily loomed over you in his squatted position. Moon had rushed over to catch you.

You shifted a bit by a means to sit up, looking anywhere but Moon’s face as he still carefully held you. “Sorry, ‘m fine. It’s just a sleep spell that caught me off guard is all.” You mumbled out. There was a beat of stillness before Moon moved one of his hands to drift down your arm. You tensed as he gently pressed your wrist. He was being mindful of his claws as he pressed his thumb to the pulse point on your wrist to feel the thump of your now weak life force. “You pushed yourself too far. You are weak.” Moon softly scolds you. You let out a huff at this, weakly tugging your hand away from his grasp. He was right but this was normal for you. You just went only a touch overboard it’s nothing serious. Moon sighed and moved to bring his hands back under you to pick you off the ground. Your side pressing to Moon as one hand wrapped under your back and the other under your legs, holding you in a signature bridal style as his long cape dragged with him in his movements. “Wh- what are you doing..?” You tensed at the close contact as he moved to walk over to the living room. “Carrying you.” “You know I can walk Moon-” “Do you want to have another sleep spell and fall again?” He looked at you with a sharp expression in his red eyes. “….No.” You grumbled out and begrudgingly looked away. You hated how he had a good point. “But I need to clean n’ finish up some things.” You tried to wiggle out of his grasp but his arms easily held you firm. Your whole body was just so difficult to move. “Later.” Moon flatly stated before moving over to the couch and carefully lowering you down on it. “You need to recover and rest.” You grumbled and your body simply melted to the couch. You were still trying to move to get up but even your body just wasn't listening while you laid down. “You're so stubborn.” Moon chuckled slightly in a tease. He boops you with a clawed finger on your nose as he bends over you with his face cocked to the side. Softly amused by your antics while he sharply grins at you. “And you're a prick.” You deadpan. He smiles cheekily at you before looking over and walking out of your sight. His footsteps and the bells he adorns fading out as he goes to get something. Your eyes already threatening to close in waves of tiredness. God, you had stuff to do, why was your body like this?

The jingle of bells prompts Moon returning back to where you were. He lays a hand on your shoulder to get your attention, being mindful of his claws as he quietly sits in front of your weak form on the side of the couch. Your eyes opened slightly at the contact and seeing him. His head on level with your own in this position while his fluffy cape draped over the back of him. “Here…Drink.” He urges as brings a glass of water over to you. His other hand helps guide you to sit up. You gingerly take the glass and sip the water down while Moon continues to stare at you with his sharp red eyes. Flitting from your face to your chest, and then back again. Concern laced in his features. Once satisfied and swallowing the last of your water, you handed the now empty glass back to him. “Thank you.” You quietly give. He hums in acknowledgment as he sets the glass on the ground beside the couch before you laid back down. Shifting one of the pillows that was on the couch to be under your head. Moon's head now resting on the couch on level and particularly close with your own face, watching you with an unreadable furrowed expression. His clawed hands rested under his faceplate as if pouting or being hesitant over something. It was starting to worry you now. “What's up wit’ you, I don't think I’ve ever seen you like this before.” You questioned sluggishly. Moon looked away slightly as his brows furrowed more, grumbling a bit as his fingers tensed a bit in the cushion. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

He releases a huff in slight embarrassment. “I’m worried…about you.” Concern filling his answer. “You’re… worried about me?” Your sleepy brain was trying to process his answer. He nods once.

“Why? Imma be fine.” You state as if it was nothing but a simple thing. Moon eyes looks back at you for a few beats before moving slightly closer to you. Sliding one of his slender hands to be under the pillow you lay on for more support and brought his other free hand to grasp one of your own that was lying on the couch between you and Moon. His slow and careful grasp engulfing it entirely as he looks back at you once more. One of his fingers pressing to your pulse point once more.

“You need to take better care of yourself….You push yourself too hard.”

You sigh sleepily. “I know Moonie… But every time I do this, I help so many others. You both included. Don’ want you guys to starve.” You mumble as you blink heavily.

“You are just as important, Starlight.” Moon whispers as his concerned eyes flit around your face once more. He gently released his hand that held your own and brought a careful index claw up to tuck a strand of hair away from your face. “Please promise me you won’t push yourself like this again.” He softly asks you.

“Mmmmnnnn..” You mumble out, your brain starting to quickly go into sleep mode.

Moon’s bell on his hat rings softly when he leans his face closer to you, the fluff of his hat brushing up on you with how close he is. “Please.”

“Mmmm okay, okay…” You managed to get out sluggishly.

Moon lets out a huff in relief before looking over and reaching for a blanket that was folded on the other side of the couch. Draping it over your small form before looking over you again.

Letting out another soft sigh he leaned in and nuzzled his faceplate onto your forehead. His arm wrapped around your torso.

“Don’t do it again or you will regret it.” He scolds lightly.

“I woonnnttt.” You drawl out. Defeated in the exhaustion and Moon’s hold on you.

Moon's presence holds you softly and securely as sleep washes over you in seconds. You had seriously pushed yourself too far today as your pulse was just barely thumping under Moon’s touch. He does not have a desire to lose you. You mean too much to both him and Sun.

Moon’s form stays by your side as you sleep deeply, his eyes closed as his faceplate nuzzles you. Whether it be in content or by means of comfort, he lets out quiet deep purrs to try and aid in your recovery. Still paying close attention to your pulse as he rests with you on the couch as if it could stop at any moment.

[werecreature-addicted]

Do you remember your writings about a minotaur and a farmer girl? Well, how about this, one night there is a party in the small town, you know, and that day both humans and monsters attend, it is a day when everyone can have fun and relax, humans, werewolves, half-snake creatures, orcs, minotaurs, etc, anyway, in the town the minotaur realizes that the girl he lives with is somewhat "popular" among some humans and monsters, since it shows that some have an interest in her, you know, they are in love with her, and well this is something that makes our minotaur jealous 🤭

part one, two, three. and for those who didn't see the Minotaur's name is Sam now.

Sam looks up at the dazzling lights that flit through the night sky. Fireflies glow in the dark like stars. Children run around with glass jars trying to catch the small insects. There's so much noise, it's a little overwhelming, children shrieking in delight, groups of people talking loudly, and a little further down a band was playing.

You reach out and squeeze his hand, reminding him that he isn't alone.

"It's pretty, isn't it? I'm so glad you decided to come to the solstice festival with me," you say smiling. It is a beautiful summer night, and having you with him makes it all the better. he can't help but think that you're pretty tonight too.

"You've been begging me for weeks to come with you, I couldn't say no," he murmurs. it wasn't quite true, you'd just been hinting over and over again that he should come out with you tonight. You laugh and squeeze his hand again before letting go completely, and he fights the urge to pull your hand back in his and cling to you a little longer. Sam craves your touch more than he should, your hands are warm, and small in his, and they make him feel at ease in a place like this, surrounded by noisy strangers. Even though he's out of his element, he is glad he came, he feels better knowing he can keep an eye on you, and keep you safe, should the need arise.

You'd promised him other nonhumans would be there tonight, and you'd spoken the truth. everywhere you looked there were werewolves, nagas, and some paler humans he could only assume were vampires, Still, he felt like he stood out, he was a good foot taller than anyone else here, and he did notice the nervous glances he was getting. He gets it. he's big and scary, covered in scars, and has a broken horn.

The people of the town surprise him. many people came up to him and started a conversation, even though they were clearly nervous. He hated it. And he hated that he hated it. He still wasn't good at talking to anyone who wasn't you, just because you're nice and treat him with respect doesn't mean All humans are like that, he knows all too well just how cruel most of your kind can be.

That being said, most people coming up to him weren't actually there for him but for you. He knew you were lovely, kind, charming, and attractive, but he's a little surprised that so many others thought the same. It seemed like half the town wanted to catch up, buy you a drink, take you for a dance. humans and monsters alike.

He feels the jealousy spike, he wants to hoard your attention, and selfishly keep you all to himself. The two of you were basically alone on the farm, he'd almost forgotten what it was like to have to share your attention. and it's not a welcome change. Luckily for him, you don't seem eager to leave his side. You politely turn down the handsome werewolf who asked you for a dance. You seem perfectly committed to staying by his side this whole night, just like you promised you would. there are no words for how grateful he is that that's true.

"I don't know how to dance," he admits softly as the werewolf walks away.

"What?" you ask, not following his train of thought.

"I mean. if you want to dance tonight, that's not something you can do with me," he explains, his mood darkening as he thinks about the things you couldn't do with him that you could with a more normal man. He thinks about all the people who've talked to you tonight, any one of them would make a better more stable partner than him. He feels guilty for wanting you, especially when he considers how much he doesn't deserve you.

"No one was born knowing how to dance, Sam, it's a skill, you practice and you learn. If you want I can teach you," you offer. Sam felt the blood drain from his face, He'd fought countless bloody fights and none of that was as terrifying as the idea of trying to learn to dance in front of such a large crowd. You laugh lightly seeing the look on his face,

"At home, I'll teach you when we're alone, besides this-" you gesture to the band playing "-isn't really my style, I'll figure something better for us to dance to," you assure him, and he relaxes. Dancing, alone with you, at home. your shared home. it makes him feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Love is not a word that he never uses ever, and he rarely even allows himself to think it, but he's not sure how much longer he can keep the words inside. He's sure that if you really do teach him to dance that will be his breaking point, or maybe he wouldn't say "I love you" but he might just kiss you deeply instead. Then again, maybe he should, if you were officially his it might keep some of the other men in town away from you. He wouldn't mind that at all.

[komaniyaexpress]

— is this .. me?! .. ♪

sagau — they find a piece of artwork made by the creator; of .. them.

— featuring furina, wanderer, freminet, and neuvillette .. ♪

cw. none wc. 200-400 ea.

furina

it goes without saying .. furina is ecstatic. i mean.. why wouldn’t she be? she wouldn’t make this known, however, because “of course you’re going to wish to capture my enthralling beauty on paper — it’s only fair when faced with such divine radiance!” inside.. she’s a mess. her widened eyes flit over every tiny detail, every little stroke of the pen or paintbrush. “enthralling beauty”, she says, “divine radiance”, she says — but is she truly talking about herself or the way you interpreted her? never in all the centuries she’d been alive would she admit this, but she couldn’t help but feel as if you had made her look much more ethereal than she truly was. she does make it known that she likes it, though. when you turn away from her and murmur something about how you’re not the most proud of this particular piece, she scoffs indignantly. “what? how— ugh, how could you ever say such a thing? do you dare question my judgement?!” she leans back against the couch, hardly able to focus on the taste of the small pastry half-eaten in her hand. she’s incredibly grateful it’s only you two alone, because she has an entirely embarrassing blush upon her face as she chews.

wanderer

“.. seriously?” he kind of just.. glares at it. i’m sorry, but i don’t really know what you were expecting. depending on the kind of mood he’s in, he’ll either simply cast it aside without a second glance or attempt to mockingly chew you out over it. it doesn’t matter whether he actually likes it or not; he is not going to let you live it down. he’s not amused, but i can’t really imagine him actually getting upset about it either. he’ll scoff, maybe roll his eyes if he’s feeling generous enough, then go about his day without another thought to it. even with his nonchalant, near-annoyed demeanor over the whole thing, when you’ve left and he’s alone — he looks for it again and stares at it like he didn’t get to before. as his eyes travel the lines that form a quite accurate depiction of his visage — implying you spent a lot of time looking at him — he can’t help but wonder why, of all people, you chose him as your muse. he does.. appreciate the sentiment, though, even if he’ll never voice it. he catches himself before he spirals. it doesn’t matter, he reminds himself. with a huff, he sets it down again and crosses his arms, trying to ignore the fact it does indeed make him feel.

freminet

if you were expecting anything other than freminet being an absolute mess.. you’d be sorely mistaken. of course, he’s not upset at all. he’s just.. very, very embarrassed. he loves your art, he does. he doesn’t want you to misconstrue this, and makes sure you know it’s not your problem, but his own. make sure to reassure him. the moment he lays his eyes upon it, it’s evident; his eyes widen almost comically, and, suddenly, he has the surely inexplicable urge to run for his life. that wouldn’t be fair to you, though, so he bites it back and forces himself to stay put. the gears whir in his mind like he’s a piece of the machinery he holds so dear. he doesn’t know how to thank you — should he thank you? he doesn’t know what to say at all, more like. he clears his throat, unable to get any words out; his mouth goes dry and his heart practically beats out of his chest, all the while he’s looking just as frozen in time as your rendition of him. he lets out an audible sigh of relief when you reassure him that he doesn’t need to speak. he can’t handle you when you stare at him like this, and asks if you’d be okay with him putting on his diving helmet. once you’ve given him your permission — which you reiterate he doesn’t need — he quickly places it over his head, letting out a soft sigh of relief when you can no longer see his face. his gaze doesn’t leave the art, not for a moment. he stands still and stares at it, unable to tear his eyes away from the lines that, somehow, paints a clear picture of.. him. that you made. he still does not make any move to talk, and he’s very glad that you’re so understanding. eventually, he murmurs an apology, and through the lump in his throat, reassures you that (if there was ever any doubt), he likes it.

neuvillette

it was raining. it had been raining all day. naturally, this worried you, and your first thought was to check up on neuvillette. exhausted yet unchanging, neuvillette sifted through his paperwork without taking a single break to rest. however, all things must, and eventually, his tire overcame him — letting out a sigh, he placed his palm upon his forehead and leaned into it, his eyes fluttering closed. it took him a moment to open them again, but when he finally did.. after such a long day, eyes sore with the strain of reading fine print jammed together so thickly the pages looked more inky than ivory, the last thing he expected was to see was a piece of blank paper on his desk. curious, he picks it up and flips it over, assuming it to be more writing on the other side — only to be met with.. himself, staring right back at him. the neuvillette now is slightly slouched over, eyes drooping with the weight of an unrelenting week. he’s unable to see his true reflection — in a mirror or water, not a near-perfect version of him on paper — so he couldn’t really tell, but even so, he can’t help but feel as if this version of him must appear much more composed. he pushes the thought away, stares at the piece a bit closer, and he eases a bit. not only was it a splendid break to the monotony of monochromatic paperwork, it was made by you. it’s now that you walk into the room. in a split second, you realize what he’s holding. you blink. he smiles, gentle and soft. the rain stops pouring.

[lovebugism]

66. you’re sick and I feel bad because I’m pretty sure i gave it to you, so I bring you some of my great grandmother’s soup and watch movies with you with Eddie Spaghetti please 🥺

ty for requesting!! — eddie makes you soup (like the angel he is) after accidentally getting you sick (friends in love, fluff, 1.5k)

blurbcember ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

It’s a virtually impossible thing, you realize, to operate like a normal human being when you’re sick. 

You’re reduced to a withering thing on your couch, rotting from the inside and out, and drowning in a sea of crumpled-up tissues. In your fever-induced hysteria, you’re pretty sure you’re dying when a knock sounds at your door. 

You shout a hoarse “come in” with all the strength you have left. The last person you expect to walk in is Eddie Munson.

He’s wearing smudged eyeliner and a pink smile when enters your living room. His chestnut hair is more wild than you’re used to, but his eyes are made of a familiar melted chocolate. There’s a plastic bag in his pale, ringed hand, full of stuff you can’t make out.

You think he might be an angel. 

“Eddie?” you sigh in a tiny voice, scratchy and quiet. 

You look at him like no one’s ever looked at him before. Not like you’re excited to see him. No, it’s more than that — it’s like you’re relieved. Like out of a billion people that could’ve stepped through that doorway, you’re happiest that it’s him.

He cowers under the weight of your twinkling, tired gaze. 

“Yeah. Hi. Sorry to, like, come over without calling or anything,” he apologizes, laughing awkwardly as he shifts his weight on his dirty sneakers. “But I felt a little bad about getting you sick at Steve’s the other night. I was gonna stay home, but Dustin wanted me to go. He insisted on it, actually—”

He’s rambling like an idiot, making a total fool of himself. He doesn’t know why you’re smiling so gently at him like you find it all endearing. “It’s not your fault, Eds,” you assure, voice slightly stuffy, as you shake your head at him.

“Well, it kinda is, actually, so…” Another awkward laugh tumbles from his smiling mouth. In his shyness, his gaze flits from yours to the bag in his hand. “I, uh— I wanted to do something nice, you know? Like, make you soup or something. But then I realized I don’t actually know how to cook, so I went to the store and got some of the canned stuff.”

“Oh,” you hum, then sniffle. “Thank you, Eddie. That’s— That’s really nice of you.”

“It’s no problem. Really. I can make it for you if you want. Or microwave it, I guess. So you can, you know, rest of whatever.”

“You don’t have to do that—”

“I want to.”

“I just don’t want you to get sick,” you agonize, face scrunched with a distant worry.

Eddie grins at your concern and shrugs off every ounce of it. “I already had it. So I’m basically immune at this point, right? I mean, I’m pretty sure that’s how the science works, anyway.”

You laugh for the first time in three days. You forget how sick you are until the action makes your chest ache. Your smile is weighed down by exhaustion, but it doesn’t waver once when you look at him. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”

Even though your muscles are achy, you manage to walk yourself to the kitchen. You tell Eddie you can put the soup on yourself, but he isn’t having any of it. He walks you back to the couch and warms it up for you — even puts it in a heart-shaped bowl he found in your cabinet, ‘cause he thought it might make you feel a little better.

He tastes it with a separate spoon to make sure it isn’t too hot, then rushes back to your side in record time.

“Thank you,” you murmur when he passes you the newly warmed-up soup. The words come out more scratchy than you mean for them to. You try to clear your throat, but you don’t think it makes it any better.

“Don’t thank me— I’m the reason you’re in this mess,” he laughs and sits on the couch beside you. He keeps a cushion of space between you, lest he get any closer and make you uncomfortable. “So, I’m not, like, above spoon-feeding it to you or anything.”

You try to laugh at his dumb joke. It comes out in a single, hoarse breath that makes your chest sting. “I think I got it from here. Thanks for the offer, though.”

Eddie runs out of stupid things to say and the apartment goes silent. 

Your TV plays so low it’s basically on mute, and your neighbors talk on their porch outside — the sound of both gets increasingly louder without either of you talking over them.

He doesn’t know what to say — how to tell you that he’d like to spend more time with you without actually having to say the words. Confessing his schoolboy crush out loud, to the pretty girl he got sick, would be the least metal thing he’s ever done.

“Do you wanna, like, put on a movie or something?” he offers suddenly, rubbing his ringed fingers on his dark jeans to make them feel less clammy. “I can run to Family Video and bother Steve until he lets me take something for free? Unless you’re, like, totally sick of me— which would be totally understandable—”

“No,” you interject with a shake of your head, still trying to smile even though it takes so much energy out of you. “I mean, I’d like that, but…”

“But?” Eddie repeats when you trail off, brows raised behind his fluffy bangs.

You tilt your chin to your chest and peer at him through your lashes. Your eyes are red-rimmed and glassy, still pretty enough to drown in. “Don’t you have a show tonight?” you remind him in a gentle whisper.

His heart would swell at the thought of you knowing his show schedule if it wasn’t already dropping to his ass. He’d nearly forgotten all about it, too worried about you to remember the ten people at The Hideout waiting for him.

“Fuck…” he groans and slumps against the couch. His head tilts back and bears his pretty neck for you. You can see his pale jaw clench and his adam’s apple bob when he swallows. He’s too beautiful for his own good.

“You can go. It’s okay,” you assure gently.

His chocolate eyes melt for you when he opens them again. He looks sincerely apologetic, like leaving you hurts him the most. “I’d totally stay, but—”

“I get it. It’s fine,” you repeat, still grinning ‘cause you don’t know how else to look at him. You duck your sheepish gaze to the bowl in your lap and try to joke. “I’ll survive until tomorrow… I think.”

Eddie sits up again and leans closer to you. You get a better whiff of his musky cologne and the nicotine on his breath. “You better. ‘Cause I’m definitely coming over, and we’re definitely watching a movie, alright? All day until you’re sick of me.”

Your smile grows despite your exhaustion. You feel like this is his way of asking you out — like you’re too sick and he’s too nervous, and he’d love to do it some other way, but this is all he’s got for now. It’s more than enough for you.

“Sure,” you say with a firm nod.

“I can bring you more food, too, if you want! Whatever you feel like— say that word, and you got it.”

You falter for an answer to his sudden question.

He shakes his head. “That’s okay. Call me later if you want. I should be home around ten, if that’s not too late?”

“Okay,” you smile, then clear your throat when the word gets caught there.

“I’ll see you tomorrow— Feel better by then, okay? That’s an order,” he jokes and stands back up again. 

He doesn’t know what compels him to kiss you on the cheek — only that it felt right to do it and that he didn’t even realize he was doing it until his lips brushed your warm jaw.

His cinnamon eyes go wide. His rosy mouth falls softly agape. He looks more surprised than you do, but you’re not entirely sure that’s possible. A moment you’ve been thinking about for ages just happened before you could blink. 

You don’t think that’s very fair.

Eddie tries to laugh it off. “Forget I just did that… That was— That was really weird. Sorry.”

Your cheeks burn like fire. Not from the fever this time, but from the boy in front of you. From the yearning to feel him close again. 

“I’ll talk to you tonight,” you promise, even though your throat still burns. You’re not sure you care too much, anymore. You wanna talk to him until you can’t anymore.

“Yeah,” he sighs, breathless for a reason he can’t name. He walks backwards towards the door. “See you around,” he says finally, before spinning on his sneakers and nearly tripping over your carpet.

You blink, and he’s gone. Again. 

Your burning cheek still tingles with the imprint of his mouth. He’d asked you to forget, but you don’t think that’s possible. There’s no forgetting him at all.

[pinchofhoney]

broken promises, part two

« part one | part two | part three »

coriolanus snow x fem!reader

word count: 3.6k

warning: angst, feeling of being betrayed, heartbreak

summary: In Snow's world, only one thing mattered more than his family's reputation—you. But that was before he met Lucy Gray.

a/n: it's for those few people who have read part one, thank you<33 i hope more people will crawl here like doctor gaul snakes after the film's premiere, so i'd like to ask: do you want a third part in which our lovely reader meets snow again after his return to the capitol? 🐍

pages that may interest you: masterlist ♡ taglist ♡ who i write for

taglist: @metalarmsandmanbuns

gif is not mine, credit to the owner

Welcome to the Capitol.

The resonance of those four simple words echoed through your thoughts as you sat in the grand living room of your family's penthouse. The room was bathed in soft, golden light, a stark contrast to the surreal scenes that played out on the broadcast, straight from the Capitol's zoo.

After Coriolanus had greeted Lucy Gray on the platform, exchanging a few words with the young tribute, he turned to you, his eyes filled with determination as the girl was now walking away, heading toward a boy from her district.

“I should go with her,” he said with a sense of urgency in his voice as he glanced back at the girl in the rainbow dress.

“What do you mean?” your brows knitted in confusion, asking a question which redirected his gaze to you.

“I should escort her to her accommodation, I must show her that I am trustworthy,” he explained in haste and without waiting for your response, he stepped to the side and reached out to get the attention of one of the Peacekeepers by lightly touching the man's arm.

“Excuse me,” Coriolanus began. “I’m Coriolanus Snow from the Academy.” He nodded toward Lucy Gray. “This tribute has been assigned to me for the Hunger Games. I wonder if I might accompany her to her quarters.”

The Peacekeeper's gaze flitted over Coriolanus' shoulder, briefly meeting yours before responding, “That’s why you've been hanging around here all morning? To catch a ride to the show?” He granted permission for Coriolanus to join the tributes, adding, “Just you,” as he directed his attention to the transport truck destined for the tributes.

Your gaze followed the Peacekeeper's, and as you glimpsed the vehicle awaiting the tributes, your mouth fell open in surprise. Stepping closer to Coriolanus, you took his hand.

“You're not going to get in there, are you, Coryo?” your concern shifted from the truck to Coriolanus, your brows furrowing as you made a plea through your eyes. The transport before you resembled a wheeled animal cage, starkly underscoring the Capitol's dehumanization of the tributes.

“I can't leave her alone,” Coriolanus stated, briefly glancing your way before gently pulling his hand away and moving toward the vehicle.

“Yes, you can,” you protested, following closely behind him as the first tributes began to enter the cage.

“Everything will be fine, Y/N,” Coriolanus reassured you, pausing near the truck. He looked down at you and spoke calmly, trying to ease the visible anxiety on your face. He brushed tenderly a strand of hair behind your ear and held your gaze. “Go home and don't worry, I'll come visit you later, okay?”

“You don't have to do this, Coryo…”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, turning to face the vehicle. He made eye contact with Lucy Gray and not even a moment had passed when he was already climbing onto the truck.

You wanted to say more, to stop him from taking this step, but you understood it was too late. Coriolanus had already made up his mind, and he wasn't one to back down. You anxiously bit your lip, a silent witness as the truck's door slammed shut. A few moments later, the engine roared to life, taking Coriolanus away from you.

Anxiety weighed heavily on your heart as you stood there like a helpless spectator. As the vehicle departed, it stirred up dust, leaving you in loneliness on the platform. You played distracted with the strands of hair Coriolanus had so gently tucked behind your ear. The fading truck held your gaze captive, making it nearly impossible to look away.

Though it felt like an eternity, only a few seconds had passed since Coriolanus had left your side. You took a deep breath, finally releasing your hair from your anxious fingers. With fresh determination, you made your way toward the train station's exit, whispering reassuring words to yourself. You held on to the belief that everything would be all right and that Coriolanus would soon return, just as he had promised, to stand at your doorstep.

Now you were fixated on the television screen, preoccupied in the spectacle playing out in the Capitol's monkey house. Your eyes were following Lucy Gray closely while keeping an eye out for Coriolanus in the background. Your family, including your parents and sister, sat alongside you, intrigued by the broadcast as much as you were.

“What's he doing there?” your father asked, a furrow of confusion creasing his brow. Both your parents held a deep affection for young Snow, but your father had a particular respect for him. He remembered Coriolanus's father, a general during the First Rebellion, and believed him to be a positive influence on you.

“Seems like he's doing his best,” you replied, though your words carried a hint of uncertainty. You were well aware of Coriolanus's determination to shine in his role, to demonstrate to the entire Capitol that the Snow name always remained at the top. And you supported him wholeheartedly, but there was a distinct difference between assuring him of his abilities in the quiet moments and witnessing it all unfold.

After a moment, the metal door of the monkey house slid open, and Coriolanus's voice reached your ears. “Thank you for being with us today. Remember, this is Lucy Gray Baird from the Twelfth District. Drop by the zoo in your free time to say hello. I promise it's worth to meet her.”

Your lip was nervously bitten as you observed Coriolanus planting a tender kiss on Lucy Gray's hand, which she extended for a good bye. When his lips touched her skin, you experienced an unfamiliar sensation. You couldn't quite name the emotion or pinpoint its origin, but it left you feeling uneasy. You couldn't make sense of the emotion's complexity, but you knew you didn't like what you saw, which felt irrational.

As Coriolanus disappeared behind the closing metal door, you reached for the TV remote and switched off the device with a single click. You sank back into the sofa cushions, a heavy sigh escaping your lips, your thoughts in chaos.

Days after Coriolanus's first meeting with Lucy Gray, you couldn't escape the creeping sense of distance that was growing between you and the man who had once been your closest companion. It was as if a heavy cloud of isolation hung over you, casting a shadow on the bond you had cherished for so many years.

His devotion to the Games and his newly formed relationship with Lucy Gray was undeniable, and it began to overshadow the connection you had nurtured for what felt like a lifetime. It was disheartening to witness each passing day pull him further into the role of mentor, to see him dedicating hours upon hours to planning strategies, discussing tactics, and offering unwavering emotional support to Lucy Gray.

You yearned to remain supportive, to be the pillar that he had leaned on for so long, but an unsettling feeling gnawed at you, a feeling of slowly but surely being relegated to the outskirts of his life, as if your importance was diminishing.

Your thoughts on Coriolanus and his rapidly growing relationship with Lucy Gray were a storm of conflicting emotions. On one hand, you couldn't help but respect his unwavering dedication to his role as a mentor, his sincere desire to succeed, and his wholehearted commitment to the Games. Yet, on the other hand, a bitter mixture of jealousy and hate welled up within you. Your place in his life was steadily being eclipsed by someone new, someone unique and gifted. While you had never personally known Coriolanus's mother, you had heard numerous stories that depicted her as a paragon of gentleness and a lover of music—traits you found mirrored in Lucy Gray. It was no wonder that Coriolanus held her in such high regard.

This acknowledgment was a bitter pill to swallow, leaving a lingering taste of sorrow. It simply made you wondering where you now stood in Coriolanus's heart.

But the turning point came just few days after the tributes' arrival in the Capitol when the mentors and their pupils were granted access to the Arena. It was a rare opportunity for the tributes to gain insight into the brutal challenge that awaited them, and Coriolanus was determined to provide Lucy Gray the guidance she so desperately needed.

However, as the mentors and tributes wander into the Arena, a sudden wave of chaos shattered the peace. Two deafening explosions rocked the surroundings, plunging everyone into a maelstrom of fear and pandemonium. Coriolanus was one of the few injured, and he was hurriedly transported to the hospital, where his medical condition was taken care of by Capitol’s nurses.

The following day, he gradually woke up from unconsciousness. You had spend a sleepless night, filled with relentless worry, and now, as you sat by his bedside, a mix of emotions swirled within you. Relief flowed over you like a gentle balm, yet it couldn't wholly assuage the profound concern that continued to clutch at your heart.

When you heard what happened in the Arena, you had immediately asked your father to drive you to the hospital. You were consumed by nervousness for Coriolanus, and the misery he endured within the Arena's walls filled you with a sickening dread. The mere thought of it sent unpleasant shivers down your spine.

As his eyes slowly blinked open, meeting yours, a soft and heartfelt smile graced your lips. “You're awake,” you murmured softly, your voice a blend of relief and worry. “How are you feeling? What happened?” The concern in your eyes was undeniable, reflecting the depth of your worry for his well-being.

“Y/N?” Coriolanus croaked in a hoarse voice. He cleared his throat quickly and sought out the hand that belonged to you, gently squeezing it. “Hi,” he said with a forced smile.

The touch of his hand in yours was a silent promise of connection and comfort. You could see the remnants of fatigue and distress in his eyes, but the smile he summoned, even if forced, warmed your heart.

You couldn't help but lean in closer, your voice gentle and filled with compassion. “I was so worried about you,” you confessed, your concern unmistakable in your tone. “What happened in the Arena? Are you in pain?”

Coriolanus's grip on your hand tightened slightly, and he began to recount the harrowing events. He painted a vivid picture of the chaos, the disarray, and the sheer panic that had gripped them when the bombs exploded. His narrative was disturbing, and as he spoke, the weight of the trauma he had endured seemed to settle upon both of you.

After sharing his part of the story, Coriolanus momentarily fell silent, allowing the unspoken question to linger in the air. It was as if he awaited your inquiry about Lucy Gray, the unspoken thread that connected him to the tribute under his wing. But before you could voice your concern, he gently cleared his throat and, in a voice still laced with the remnants of his hoarseness, asked, “How is Lucy Gray? Is she okay?”

“I-I don’t know,” you answered honestly, your brow gently furrowing with concern. The truth was, Lucy Gray hadn't occupied your thoughts even once. In fact, you hadn't even considered your friends that were taking the place of the mentors, let alone the tributes arriving from the districts. Instead, it was all Coriolanus who had consumed your mind, leaving little room for anyone or anything else.

In response to your uncertainty, Coriolanus offered assurance, though it felt like he was speaking more to himself than to you. “She's strong,” he affirmed, the words laden with the weight of his concern for Lucy Gray. “She saved my life,” he added, and the profound gratitude in his voice was palpable, underscoring the remarkable bond that had formed between the two of them.

In the following days, you made every effort to stay close to Coriolanus whenever you could. The recent events in the Arena had deeply affected both of you, and the mere thought of something similar occurring in the Capitol filled you with dread. You genuinely believed, albeit mistakenly, that your presence could act as a protective shield, guarantee his safety.

Your intentions were sincere and born out of concern, but with each passing day, it became increasingly evident that Coriolanus was becoming increasingly annoyed by your constant presence. While at first he may have appreciated your support, the demands of his mentorship duties and the complexities of preparing Lucy Gray for her role in the 10th Hunger Games began to make your company more of a obstacle than a help.

Tensions, which had once been nonexistent, began to mount, and the nature of your relationship with Coriolanus was going through a sudden changes. You found yourself facing the reality that your kindhearted attempts to shield him were, in fact, pushing him further away when your intention had been quite the opposite, to draw closer.

On your special day, your birthday, you had looked forward to finally spending some quality time with Coriolanus. It was a day where you had hoped to enjoy each other's company, seeking a break from his intense mentorship and the relentless demands of the Capitol.

However, as the hours progressed, it became clear that something had shifted between you and Coriolanus. The atmosphere grew heavy with tension, and the warmth that had once defined your relationship seemed to have suddenly faded away.

In a moment of frustration, Coriolanus addressed you with an unusual severity, his words slicing through the silence like shards of ice. “Y/N,” he began, “I can't focus on my tasks with you always around. Your presence is causing disruption and complicating my already challenging responsibilities.”

His words hit you like a heavy blow, causing a deep confusion. It was the first time he had spoken to you with such detachment and coldness, and the realisation that you had become a burden rather than a source of comfort weighed heavily on you.

Puzzled by this sudden change in his behavior, you furrowed your brow and sought clarity. “Hm?” you responded, your voice reflecting your growing uncertainty.

Coriolanus's gaze remained unyielding, his demeanor stern and distant. This was a stark contrast to the Coriolanus you had known, the one who had always been warm and caring.

In an attempt to understand the extent of this transformation, you pressed further. "I don't understand," you began, your voice trembling slightly, “It's my birthday, and I had hoped we could spend some time together.”

The weight of his disapproval and your own sense of isolation bore down on you, as if you stood on the edge of a vast divide that separated you from the Coriolanus you had once known.

After a prolonged silence, Coriolanus finally spoke, his words carrying a chilly detachment that cut deep. “I have responsibilities to fulfill. You must understand that my focus needs to be on my duties as a mentor. Your presence is truly annoying, and I can't afford being distracted.”

Another pause followed before he continued, his gaze unwavering. “You need to grasp that the world doesn't revolve around you, Y/N. You are not the most important person here. You celebrate your birthday every year, but I only have one chance to win a scholarship, and I must seize it.”

The weight of his words pressed upon you, and you couldn't help but asked next question. “Coryo,” you said, your voice wavering with confusion and a deep hurt, “Is being a mentor more important to you than me?”

He met your gaze with an unflinching intensity and replied without hesitation, “Yes.”

The blunt simplicity of his answer cut deeply, leaving you stunned and grappling with a hurricane of emotions. It was as if the ground beneath your feet had shifted, and you were standing on unfamiliar terrain. You had believed that your connection was unbreakable, that your presence in each other's lives was irreplaceable. Now, the stark reality was that his ambitions and duties had eclipsed your place in his heart.

The words echoed in your mind, and you struggled to make sense of what had just come to light. The pain welled up within you, but you didn't cry just yet. Instead, you were left feeling disoriented and wounded, your heart heavy with a sense of loss.

“You need to understand that my future, my education, and my family's reputation all ride on this scholarship. It's an opportunity I can't afford to miss. It doesn't mean I don't care about you, but right now, my focus has to be on the Games and my duties as a mentor,” Coriolanus explained, his tone softer now as he realized the harshness of his previous words, words that you certainly didn't deserve.

You bit your lip, looking down at your shoes and fidgeting with your hands. “I miss you, Coryo,” you admitted, your eyes still avoiding his. “I miss the old you. I can't remember the last time you asked how I was doing, or held my hand. I'm the one worrying about you all the time, and it feels like you're treating me like... like someone you can just hire,” you finally lifted your gaze to meet his, searching for any sign of remorse for the pain he had caused.

But he remained silent, his lips tightly pressed into a thin line.

“I just feel like Lucy Gray has become more important to you than I am,” you continued, your disbelief clear in your voice.

“It's not like that…” he sighed finally.

“And what is it like?”

“Lucy Gray is... she's special, of course she is. She's the only path leading me to victory.”

You shook your head in disbelief. “If she's just a pawn in your game, then why do you look at her like you're falling in love with her more and more every day?”

The question hung in the air, the weight of it pressing down on both of you. Coriolanus's gaze wavered for a moment, as if caught off guard by the directness of your words. It was a question he hadn't fully considered, and the emotional complexity of his feelings was now inescapable.

“I can't explain it, Y/N,” he finally admitted, his voice tinged with a hint of frustration. “Lucy Gray is... she's unlike anyone I've ever met. She's captivating in a way I can't fully grasp.”

Your heart felt like it had been ripped from your chest, and you staggered back, away from him, unable to bear the weight of his words.

“So what are you saying now?” you asked, your voice quivering, as though hoping he could provide some clarity.

Coriolanus hesitated, his frustration giving way to a deep conflict within him. He ran a trembling hand through his almost white hair, a sign of the inner chaos that now consumed him.

“I'm saying that things have changed,” he said, his voice trailing off. “I can't deny that Lucy Gray has become a significant part of my life, and it's... complicated.”

The distance between you and Coriolanus had grown into an overwhelming chasm. You took another step back, increasing the physical space between you, though you knew it couldn't stitch the emotional void that now divided you.

“What does that mean for us, Coryo?” you asked, your voice quivering and your heart heavy with sadness and uncertainty. “Are we... Are we over?”

Coriolanus didn't respond immediately, his gaze distant as he searched for an answer in the distance. When his eyes finally met yours again, they held the pain of a man caught between two worlds.

“I don't want to say that, Y/N,” he replied, his voice full of anguish. “But right now, I need to focus on the Games. We can't pretend that things are the same as they were.”

As Coriolanus's words fell heavily between you, the room seemed to close in, and the storm of emotions within you reached a turbulent peak. Your voice wavered, a lump forming in your throat, while tears welled up, blurring your vision. Your heart ached with an amalgamation of anger, betrayal, and a searing sense of loss.

“Is that all, Coryo?” you cried out, your voice breaking, a mixture of anguish and fury lacing your words. “After everything we've been through, everything we meant to each other, it comes down to this? You're just going to cast me aside because of some girl from the Districts? I thought we had something special, something that overstep all this madness.”

Coriolanus's face mirrored your emotions. He extended his hand towards you in an attempt to bridge the growing chasm, but as your trembling form took one more step back, his outstretched fingers hung in the air.

“This isn't what I wanted,” Coriolanus said, the weight of the situation heavy in his voice. “But I can't change it, Y/N. I can't let anything threaten my chances in the Games.”

Your voice, now tinged with bitterness and a mixture of anger and despair. “You know what, Snow? I hope your beloved Lucy Gray meets an end sooner than you now expect,” you spat out, your words dripping with frustration and a sense of betrayal.

With those final, cutting words, you turned away, your shoulders heaving with the weight of your own tears. As you walked away, leaving him alone under the monkey house building, the pain of the crack that had torn through your relationship gnawed at your soul, a wound that may never fully heal.

Your intentions were far from those words; you genuinely wanted the best for him. Yet, in that moment, you realised that the fear of losing might have been the one thing that truly wounded Coriolanus.

part three »

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 2

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: Let me know if you want more. Didn't get too much on Part 1 but I have ideas so...

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Your third week begins in the same place. Before the iron gate, the code unlocking the green maze within. You’re still just as impressed as your first day there. To you, it’s like a fantasy. Entirely unattainable but it’s right there. You can look, but you can’t touch… not beyond cleaning.

You linger outside, not thinking. You admire the tall tulips and the hedge trimmed to resemble some landmark you can’t quite place. You could see a place like this in an Austenian film or perhaps something Victorian. You don’t have an eye for the difference.

You key in the code for the backdoor and continue on. You put covers on your shoes and grab a fresh set of gloves. You’re getting into a pattern, though each client differs slightly. You put your things away and bring your water bottle with you. You bought a cool strap that keeps it against your hip, a small splurge with your first paycheck. The rest went to bills.

As you start on your usual journey through the many rooms of the airy house, you wonder how its sole resident isn’t lonely. Or perhaps he is. He doesn’t seem the type to admit to it. You turn your thoughts back to your work. You try not to think of him, truly, you don’t know much of him.

You take a candlestick and polish it. You move on the small globe; an ivory orb on a silver axes, the outlines of the continent carved into the surface. As you put it back, you notice something. An item you can’t recall being there before. You reach for it but stop as you realise it’s a camera.

You retract your hand and move on to dust the shelf itself. Does he not trust you or was it there before? Of course, somewhere like this would need security. There was a story just the other day about a break-in, but that was closer to your father’s where those culprits dwell.

The second floor is always easier. It seems even less lived-in than below. All but the study and the main bedroom. You flit in and out, checking points off the list until you’re content. You can only hope he will be too.

As you descend, the epiphany tickles your brain. It’s the first shift he hasn’t appeared. It’s easy to assume he’s busy. You don’t expect him to hang around. As if he would supervise you. Besides, that’s probably what the cameras are for.

You pack up and get your single refill of water. You leave the way you came, as you have twice before. The keypad flashes red to signal the lock is in place. You haul your kit higher on your shoulder and tread slowly along the little path along the side of the house.

You look at the gazebo trimmed in hanging ivy. It’s beautiful. You’d like to venture up and sit on that bench. Just sit and watch and smell and feel. You force the thought away and turn back along the stonework.

You’re going home. Not to pollen but tobacco smoke. Not to lush gardens but wilting strands in soggy mud. Not to immaculate floors and pristine decor but to stained walls and broken springs in your mattress. 

Home, to another man that makes you nervous.

🧹

Your father is as he always is, smoking on the couch. You say hi as you come in with a bag of groceries, the prize for what was left of your check. He grumbles and flicks through the channels. You go to the kitchen to put away the food.

You’re almost at the end of your first month, a third of the way through your probationary period. Hopefully after that, you can pick up more clients. You shut the cupboard and go back to the living room. Your father coughs into a crumpled tissue. He sounds horrible. You can’t say so, he doesn’t seem to care.

“I got some fresh produce,” you announce proudly, “I’ll steam some veggies with the chops.”

“You get fries?” He growls.

“Uh, no,” you admit, “I thought we could eat something healthier–”

“I don’t like steamed veggies,” he drops the remote and grabs his pack of smokes.

“Oh, sorry, I was only thinking–”

“Don’t lie and say you were,” he snorts as he pulls out a cigarette and taps the end of the pack. “Go on, I’m tryna watch this.”

He nods at the television and you follow his gaze to the rerun of All in the Family. He’s seen them all before. You take the dismissal and retreat up to your room. Like you always do.

It’s always been like this. You don’t hate your father but sometimes it feels like he hates you. You put your kit and your water bottle on your dress and change into clean clothes. You lay in bed and close your eyes, trying to let go of the tension in your muscles.

You don’t remember your mom but he does. You assume that’s why he’s like this. It’s not you, it’s what happened. Tragic. A loss he won’t talk about.

You rub your forehead and let your arms fall to bend on either side of your head. You only ever saw one picture of your mother. You don’t think you look like her. She was pretty. And young. You were always too afraid to ask about her but you could tell she was younger than him. No one could’ve expected her to go so soon.

You close your eyes. It’s a strange sort of grief to miss someone who is only a shadow in your mind. Not even a voice, just this ghost you know by name. Mommy…

You blow out a deep breath in an effort to bid away the sadness. That was so long ago. This is now and you have a lot to worry about.

🧹

The Laufeyson house greets you once more with its elaborate brickwork. It’s starting to feel familiar, like a habit to put in the new code and walk along the winding path around to the back door. Six more numbers and you’re inside; shoe covers, gloves, bottle, and the list.

You always check the new email sent by the agency. There’s always something small and new squeezed into the bullet points. This week, you notice the first task is laundry. 

‘Retrieve hamper from hallway. When hamper is left outside door, it means clothes must be washed.’

Easy enough. You go upstairs first and take the tall hamper from beside the door frame. It’s heavy and there’s no wheels to aid in your struggle. The laundry room is downstairs. Your descent is treacherous, one step at a time as you haul the basket down step by step. If Mr. Laufeyson is there, he can’t happy with the noise.

You finally get to the machine and follow the instructions about cycle type and separating colours from whites. However, there is only the bedding to be cleaned. You load the linens in and take a moment to figure out the touchscreen. Your father’s machine has a dial that only works on one setting and gives off a dingy stench.

You leave the basket in front of the washer and retreat to start your usual progression through the urban manse. Mop, sweep, dust, vacuum, polish; hallway, kitchen, dining room, sitting room… Nothing unusual or unexpected.

As you cross the narrow foyer to the den, the sunshine glows a warm orange through the slender windows on either side of the front door. The patterning of the glass reflects prettily on the floor. Despite your best efforts, you can’t help but imagine residing somewhere so brilliant.

You sigh and carry on. You’re sure to open the long drapes to let in the late spring sunshine. It’s not so bad working in the light and you can see where the rare spec of dust is hiding. You go to the tall shelf beside the record player and pull out the albums to wipe beneath them. Music would be jarring in a place always so silent.

You slip the albums back into place, pulling out one to admire the cover; Ane Brun. You’ve never heard of them. You read the track list curiously. You know you shouldn’t be wasting time.

“I don’t believe I’d have anything to your taste on my shelf,” the mocking slither has you pushing the album in line with the rest.

You almost apologise but you remember. You don’t speak. You just clean. So clean.

You glance over at Mr. Laufeyson as he struts in, a book held in one hand as his other is tucked in his pocket. He wears his usual pressed attire; a dark button-up and even darker slacks. You note that he has no tie that day. A single curl dangles by his temple as the rest of his black hair is precisely combed back.

You return to your tasks, gently wiping the cover of the record player and along the stand. You  hear the book drop onto the low table before the sofa before his footsteps continue on; closer. He approaches as you get to the next shelf, a collection of EPs in unmarked sleeves.

You wince as he stops near you, flipping up the cover of the sleek record player before stepping back to peruse his selection. You do your best to keep on as he looms. The air is thick and suffocating. Should you go to the next room and come back?

He slips a record free of its sleeve and places it carefully on the players. He moves the needle over and flips the switch, a crackle before the sound drones from the tall standing speakers. Acoustic guitar with a gritty feel to it. The sudden addition of a woman’s voice jolts you; her tone is peculiar but not unpleasant.

When I woke I took the backdoor to my mind And then I spoke I counted all of the good things you are

He backs away without a word. Not an explanation. You finish cleaning the second shelf and dare to glance over. He reads his book on the couch, unbothered by your existence. That isn’t too unfamiliar.

You finish the space but leave the vacuuming for later. You wouldn’t want to ruin the music. You go into what you can only call a sunroom. The french doors peek out onto the garden and a patio set with a large dining set in white iron and glass.

The music drifts in and keeps you company. It almost makes the work easier. You make quick work and go to check the washer to switch over the load. Once you have the dryer figured out, you begin on the second floor.

It’s only as you come out of one of the guestrooms that you notice the silence is returned. You turn down the hallway and near the next door. You enter the study with your usual reverence. Something about the space is intimidating. 

The large leather chair with its dimpled back and the even bigger desk; slabs of marble set into polished ebony. Shelves of a similar material, decked out with numerous volumes and the occasional ornament. Some appear even to be genuine artifacts. The rug at the centre is patterned in Persian style.

Behind the desk are a set of doors that open onto a balcony. The drapes are drawn shut. You find that is often the case. It’s a sombre and dark space hidden from the bright gardens without. Your tasks here are minimal. You use the hand vacuum and dust the shelves. You aren’t to touch the desk at all.

A shadow startles you as you drag the cloth along the edge of the bookshelf. Your eyes round and you look over as Mr. Laufeyson enters. You blanch but he doesn’t acknowledge you. He sighs and goes to the desk, sitting in the chair and wheeling it closer. You narrow your sights on the shelves; focus.

You feel a tremble but quickly shake it away. This is his home, he must be able to exist within it, but this feels strange, almost deliberate. Is he trying to make some point? To scare you? You remember the mention of those who came before you. Did they quit or did he dismiss them? Regardless, you can’t afford either.

It isn’t that difficult to follow the rules. Don’t speak? You haven’t much to say. You get closer as you advance along the shelves to the back of the office. He lets out another long exhale. His chair creaks, once, twice, and again.

“Hm,” he rolls back and swivels, an action you observe from the corner of your eye. He tuts and wheels back to the desk, resuming tapping on the keys of his slender laptop. The glow limns his silhouette sinisterly.

You rustle the drapes as you pass them and cross to the opposite shelves. As you brush over the spines of the books, you nearly drop the cloth. His low hum frightens you as he mimics the same melody that played from the speakers below. His tone is deep and sonorous, even delightful.

You squeeze the cloth and pause before regaining your composure. This cannot be a coincidence. The camera and now he’s following you. Or so it seems. Does he distrust you? What reason have you given him?

You are mindful to wipe down the bronze statue of what you assume is a viking warrior. You place it back staunchly, making sure your work is entirely visible to him. You are honest and you like to think you do your work well. Or at least, you try to. Perhaps if he sees that effort, he won’t be so suspicious.

As you head for the door, he quits his humming. His chair squeaks again.

“You are rather more thorough than the last,” he muses.

You stop and turn your head. You nod. He’s baiting you to break his number one rule.

“And you take orders well,” he adds blithely, “that is rare these days.” He taps a key again, “as you were.”

You take the dismissal in stride and flit off to your next task. It isn’t much, maybe only a statement of fact, but it’s something. He isn’t unhappy with your work. So far, neither are you.

[funnylittlelad]

birdsong - steddie ficlet (-1.5k)

That time Steve got hearing aids.

Steve has been pissing people off for weeks and he knows it. He just doesn’t know what to do about it. It gets to the point where Dustin snaps at him for never paying attention to them. Steve starts to consider just leaving the country and starting new somewhere else. Somewhere it doesn't matter if he can hear who’s talking to him because he can't understand them anyways. He always thought Italy could be nice. Instead of running, he just shows up less. Both literally and metaphorically.

He starts bailing on more hangouts, figuring he won't be able to hear everyone so what's the point. When he is there he participates less in the conversation. He only engages when he’s really sure he can hear, which isn't a lot. It's mostly one-on-one or one-on-two. He doesn't think anyone notices, but they do. Eddie most of all feels Steve’s absence even when he’s sitting right next to him. He’s noticed the anxious tension in him when they're in groups. He just isn't sure what to do. So, he sits with a Steve-sized ache in his chest. There’s a day when the ache becomes too much, though, and Eddie breaks.

Steve sits in his living room with everyone strewn about. Eddie is next to him like he usually is unless Robin was already at Steve’s first. The kids lay and sit on the rug around the coffee table. Robin is on the other side of Eddie. Nancy sits with her legs tucked under her in a big armchair. The sound of conversation and life flows around him like a pebble in a stream. His edges have been smoothed so the water can move effortlessly, never catching on his surface. He can feel that there are words in the air around him, but there are too many other things around those words. Too much background noise and laughter. He can’t dig through it all in time to figure out what anyone is saying. So, he just stays silent like he has been. 

“He’s not listening again,” Dustin says frustratedly. 

Eddie frowns and looks at Steve. The movement catches Steve’s attention. He turns to look at Eddie with a small smile. Then he notices that it's more than just Eddie’s eyes on him. His blood runs cold and his throat dries.

“What?” He asks cautiously, eyes flitting to everyone else before landing on Eddie.

“Be honest, can you hear us?” Eddie answers Steve’s question with his own.

“I-”

“Be honest,” Eddie warns.

“No,” Steve sighs, “most of the time I can't really. I mean, I can hear you, but I can't tell what you're saying. It all garbles together like I’m underwater or something.”

“I think it's time to go to the doctor, Stevie,” Eddie says softly.

Steve frowns, but nods. There's a nervous twist in his stomach at the thought. He agrees to make an appointment the following day. Eddie hangs behind after everyone else leaves for a little bit. He does this sometimes and Steve’s never complained. Steve’s never thought about complaining. There's no surprise when Eddie gently grabs his hand either. He does that sometimes too. 

“Do you want me to go with you?” Eddie asks. 

The question nearly makes Steve cry. He wants to cry so bad. He wants to cry because he misses being able to hear his friends. He wants to cry because he’s scared of what's going to happen to what's left of his hearing. He wants to cry because Eddie is standing here offering to go to his doctor’s appointment with him like he’s a child. Mostly, he wants to cry because he’s so fucking happy Eddie offered and he doesn't have to ask. Steve nods.

“Yeah, if you don't mind,” he answers with a slight waver in his voice. 

Eddie smiles all sticky and sweet at him. Steve silently wonders what he did to be worthy of a smile like that. 

“‘Course I don't mind. Just tell me when and where and I’m there,” Eddie promises.

And he was. Eddie drives Steve to the ENT on the morning of his appointment the next week. He sat in the waiting room until Steve was done, but the knowledge he was there was enough. It was the same thing when Steve was sent to the Audiologist two weeks later. Eddie sat in the waiting room patiently while Steve sat in a booth answering all sorts of questions and prompts. It doesn't really sink in until he sees Eddie stand from his chair. The knit of his brow tells Steve his face says it all.

“What’s the verdict?” Eddie asks. 

“They’ll let me know when to come in and be fitted for my hearing aids,” he sighs with a frown.

“That’s good!” Eddie smiles as they walk out of the office. 

“Good? Eds, I’m going to have hearing aids,” Steve scoffs.

“Yeah, which means you’ll, y’know, be able to hear,” Eddie points out. 

“Well, yeah, but-”

“Nope, no buts except yours in my van,” Eddie interrupts him and points to the passenger side as they approach the van.

Steve rolls his eyes with a small smile as he climbs in. 

“I just don’t feel like it's that bad,” he admits quietly as the van choked to a start.

“How bad did they say it was?” 

Steve remains silent for a beat as Eddie pulls out. He sighs and glances out the window at the building as they leave.

“I'm working with sixty percent of my hearing in one ear and seventy in the other,” he tells Eddie.

“Stevie,” Eddie breathes with a shake of his head, “If the doctors say these things will help you then they’re worth a shot. M’tired of you bailing out on things- yeah, I noticed.”

Steve’s face flushes at being caught like that. He exhales slowly and nods. 

“Okay,” he agrees, “I’ll give them a shot.”

A couple weeks later he’s called into the office for his hearing aids. Eddie is so quick to drop what he’s doing to go with him it nearly gives Steve whiplash. The sight of Eddie’s van pulling up gives a strange swooping sensation that he's grown used to around Eddie. The appointment itself takes around an hour. Then Steve is walking out fashioned with two white hearing aids hooked over his ears. His eyes are wide as they bounce to the television and then the clacking behind the desk. Eddie beams at him and stands. Steve looks beautiful so stunned. Hell, Eddie can admit that Steve just looks beautiful. 

“C’mon, Stevie, let’s go give’em a spin,” he says with a wolfish grin.

Steve laughs and nods. They don't get far, though. Once they step foot outside Steve comes to a halt. He makes a noise that's a cross between choking and a sob. Eddie’s hands fly to examine him for injury, but there is none. Steve’s lip wobbles, his face is blotchy and red, and his warm toffee eyes are trained on the tree a few feet away. Eddie’s mouth opens to ask, but then Steve’s eyes are on him like that. His eyes overflow with more emotion than Eddie knew a human could hold. 

“The birds,” Steve croaks. 

“What about’em?” Eddie’s brows furrow.

He glances accusingly at the little chirping finches in the tree. Steve chuckles wetly at the sight.

“I- I can hear them. It’s been so long- I didn't even realize,” Steve shakes his head, “I don’t know the last time I’ve actually heard the birds.”

Steve’s wonder-filled gaze turns back to the birds in question. He laughs again, heartier this time at the notion. He can hear birds. 

“Shit,” Eddie whispers to himself, “I’m so in love with you.”

At least he thought it was to himself. An hour ago it would have been to himself. Steve’s face whips around with huge eyes. His lips part slightly as he watches Eddie stunned. Eddie freezes, absolutely terrified. He’s so sure he just fucked it all up. 

“I can hear you too,” Steve whispers.

Eddie swallows the lump in his throat.

“Nah, pretty sure that was a bird too,” he attempts to joke it off. 

“I really hope not,” Steve frowns.

Eddie blinks hopefully.

“Really? Why?”

“Because I’m in love with you too.”

Safe to say, Steve is very happy he got hearing aids. 

Masterlist - beta read by @steveslilshorts

[netherfeildren]

The Cassandra Complex : Chapter I : Apollo

Series Masterlist

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Summary: Enter: A man who is not so much a man, but an effigy, a wound of steel and armor and Creed – secrecy and masked faces, above all else. 

Enter: A girl who is not a girl, but a creature helmed in darkness and spit out unto the galaxy broken and unmoored. 

Enter: The creation of myth.

Content Warnings: Dominant Din Djarin; Unprotected sex; Creampie;Size difference; Size kink; Rough sex; Overstimulation; Spanking; Brat taming; Touched-Starved Din Djarin

Rating: Explicit 18+

A/N: Hello, friends, and welcome to the new story! 

A few notes: We are starting prior to season one’s canon, and I am doing what I want and making it so that Din already knows about the Force and the Jedi. I make free use of canon and the timeline in whatever way I see fit to suit my own horny purposes, sorry. If things aren’t canon or don’t make sense pls don’t tell me. I am naught but a fragile flower who wilts under harsh criticism. 

Please note as well, that I do describe the FMC as having two different colored eyes although I do not specify what color they are. 

Also, I will be updating the tags as we go along so as to avoid spoiling too much too early on. 

Thank you and enjoy!

Word count: 8.1K

Read on AO3

PART I

CHAPTER I : APOLLO

Is it a god inside you, girl?

Anne Carson, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides

The first time you meet, he’s sitting in the corner of the shithole cantina on the shithole backwater planet you currently find yourself on: Nevarro. Sometimes you were wont to flight – in search of a nowhere place in the middle of a nowhere part of the galaxy to lose yourself. And the barren landscape of the volcanic planet, a broken star of red, the only interruption in the black field of ash, no wind, no life, no sound; it provides the perfect environment for getting lost when necessary.

And then one day, unexpectedly: him. He is a shining, metallic, mountain of a man. 

Mandalorian. 

Whenever you’d felt too suffocated, strangulated, in need of a moment, a breather, a reprieve from the reality of what you were… what you are becoming – this place is enough of nothing to be just the perfect something. When you’re not busy flitting from planet to planet, sector to sector, looking for something to fill the gnawing void within you. Before landing here, you’d been on Sorgan for a time. It’d been… nice… peaceful, or whatever approximation of peace you could partially recognize after an existence such as that which you were currently trying to run from. A temperate climate, kind people, but after a while, you’d happened upon a community one day, and they’d been so… so together, so familiar. Happy, they’d be so openly, unabashedly, uncomplicatedly happy. It was simple, and it had made a terrible lance of poisonous jealousy roil through you. Jealousy and anger and bitterness and a loneliness so painful that you’d had to flee, as far and as fast as you could from the reflection of all your envy and shame. And so you’d come here instead, to Nevarro. A more barren, emptier sort of place – better suited to your ilk. 

“I’ve never met a Mandalorian before,” you croon up at him, smoothly sliding into the booth he’s currently occupying in the furthest dark corner of the cantina, only the gleaming silver crescent of the curve of his helmet visible from the other side of the room. 

This is the first of many lies you will tell him. 

No response. Only the dark, yawning pit of his visor faced slightly away from you. 

The stark curve of his helmet gleams brightly. Beautiful. He looks strong, thickly built. His shoulders, so broad. The armor adorning his torso is beaten and worn, and yet, there’s something so… what’s the word? Lived, perhaps, about the facade of him. This is a creature who has lived – who has seen things, who has battled and survived and most assuredly killed. 

Maybe a little like you, but good. For this you know with certainty about Mandalorians – a flash of a pained scream, beskar crumbling beneath the force of you, for not even what could be considered the most endurable alloy in the galaxy could withstand something of your nature, blood, so much blood, and the sound of such defeat as you do the unforgivable– they are good and honorable and worthy – great warriors. But perhaps, on the surface, with a face of shared, painful history, of survival, maybe there are some things between the two of you which could be called similar. 

“I’ve always been curious, though… Always wanted to meet one.” You sidle closer to him. There’s something about him, the weapons, the breadth of his shoulders, the silence, which starts a chilled little shiver of fear that flashes and coalesces into something hotter and wetter deep in your belly, the closer you get to him. And the feeling of it – of apprehension, of standing in the presence of something other, something that could perhaps best, even you, it is exciting and arousing and different to everything else you’ve ever encountered.

Still no response. 

“You’re hard to come by now. Not many of you left, right?” A curdle of shame and regret hidden beneath your wry tone, “A girl’s got to get extra lucky to find something as interesting as you nowadays… something as pretty too.”

He does react to this, finally, and a little shock of victory fizzes in your belly at the fact that he’s at last deigned to give you even a semblance of his attention, for you are desperately in want of it, as he turns his helmet the fraction of an inch in your direction at the sound of you calling him pretty. So, it seems even a Mandalorian is victim to vanity. 

“Oh, so you can hear under there,” you quip, “I was beginning to worry…”

And then his voice, deep, and of potentially the lowest and smoothest baritone you’ve ever heard, comes through the modulator, “I can hear.” Clipped, and even maybe, a little cold. 

“And he speaks too!” He flexes open the fingers of the gloved hand that lays on the table. You’re annoying him. “How exciting.” You cross one knee over the other, elbow propped up on the edge of the table and chin cupped in your palm, looking up at him. He’s tall, even sitting. Your joint presses into the hard muscle of his thigh, and you feel him scoot just the tiniest bit away from you. You have the uncontrollable urge to snap your teeth at him. You must surely be at least half his size, especially with all that beskar covering him. Don’t act so scared, big, bad Mandalorian. I’m just a little girl. You don’t know what I actually am.

Helmet now turned entirely in your direction to keep an eye on you, he says, “What are you?” Or… whoops, maybe he does know. 

You ignore his question. “You know, I met a whore once – who claimed she’d fucked a Mandalorian. Is it true you just pull out the important bits and get on with it? Seems a bit cold, no? Even for a paid fuck?” He jolts a little at your vulgarity, and you flash him a wide grin, wriggle one delicate eyebrow provocatively. “No game?”

He turns his body to face you more fully now too, his thigh pressing into yours once again as he takes you on directly. Perhaps a warrior's instinct that can sense he is not in the presence of something to be trifled with. The helmet cocks slowly to the side. Silent, silent. Not one for many words this Mandalorian, although, it seems you’ve provoked him now. 

“What are you?” he says again, voice measured. 

“How do you mean?” You let your voice end on an upward lilt, and he shifts minutely, as if agitated at your uncooperativeness. 

“You’re not– I don’t–” The helmet tilts the other way as if inspecting you, and you cut him off before he can finish. 

“Oh, so many things.” You roll your hand on your wrist in a fluttering wave, tapping your fingers quickly against your thumb one by one, flexing a muscle you’ve not allowed yourself to use in a while and repressing it, all at once. You’re watching him so closely you see the small pivot of his neck to glance at your hand, and then back to your face. “Who can keep track anymore? So many strange creatures roaming the galaxy after the fall of everything. The Empire. We’re all just madly careening around as whatever the moment requires of us, aren’t we?” He’s quiet, still inspecting you, and you feel his gaze like a brand on the skin of your face. Like fire, like something that you remember from a nightmare, and that you think should be painful, but now only feels exciting. “So, what are you, Mandalorian? What does the present moment require of you?”

He goes silent again, and you watch the subtle downward tilt of his helmet as he inspects the length of you. You wish you could see if he was ogling the tight swell of your breasts beneath your dark clothes. You tilt your head side to side, smile big at him again, and you’re pretty sure you hear an agitated little huff of annoyance slip through the modulator.

And then: “I’m not interested.” He turns back to face away from you, both fists now firmly planted on the table’s surface, clenched into tight balls of clear annoyance. “Go away.”

Oh, he’s funny too. You throw your head back in a quick laugh, “Did I offer something?”

Silence.

“Dirty mind, Mandalorian.” You drag the vowels out to irk him just that extra bit more. “What? Just because I made one little mention of a whore means that, I too, must be peddling my wares?” And you knock your knee into his beskar clad thigh again. He scoots a smidge away from you, and you follow him, laughing again. Oh, you really should stop provoking him, but it’s just turning out to be too much fun. And you’d been watching him for weeks now, every time he came in here for a new bounty puck. You’d so wanted to talk to him, had snooped around to find out he’s in the Guild, and now you finally are. It was just too much for a girl who had too much time on her hands, and too many ugly thoughts she’d rather forget, roaming around in her mind, to look away from a moment of distraction such as this. 

“Stop,” and it sounds like he’s gritting his teeth. 

You snicker. “Stop what?” in a sing-songed lilt that you know must be grinding his gears. Poor, shiny Mandalorian. 

“Whatever it is you’re doing – speaking to me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want something from me.”

“What could I possibly want from you?” You bat your eyelashes at him. “Who’s the one peddling their wares now, Mandalorian, hmm?” He says nothing now, and you know you’re pushing him, you can see the vibration of his restrained agitation in the lines of his thick arms, but there is something needling and annoying and obnoxious inside of you that wants his attention, that wants to incite him. And so you make a mistake that perhaps, is not a mistake at all, but a call for something more, for a reaction from him because as you slowly start to lift a single finger up towards the curve of his helmet, you say, “Tell me, what do you have to offer?” At the same time, he pivots and snaps up to grasp the thin of your wrist in a bone crushing grip as you’re about to make contact with the smooth surface of the gleaming beskar helmet. And you know you were asking for it, that you should never have even insinuated that you were going to touch a Mandalorian’s helmet, and that this is only your own doing, but as his harsh strength makes contact with you, so unexpectedly, he’s so fast, that you’re caught almost entirely unaware, you react on pure instinct. A reflex so embedded into the deepest and most poisoned recesses of your mind, that despite the fact that you know this is the last sort of reaction you should exhibit, that above all else you needed to keep this part of yourself hidden and secreted away from the rest of the galaxy, you can’t help yourself when, at the moment that his crushing strength slams your hand back down onto the table, twisting painfully so that you’re crying out in shock and hurt, you weren’t going to do anything to him, you just wanted to touch a little, you can’t help it when you let go of the reins on your power, and you feel the Force snap out of you like a band of rubber, to crack out and wrap around his arm and rip his painful grip away from you. Another inviolable tendril shoves against his chest plate to push him back. His movements, too abrupt, too unexpectedly aggressive to give you a moment to temper your reaction, to give you a chance to remind yourself that this is not one of your painful, dark memories, that you’re free, you’re free, you’re free, and suppress your reaction to not reveal yourself.

The two of you pause for one long moment, him by force, and you in shock and fear and slight nausea as you pant breathlessly. It’s been a long time since you’ve lashed out like this, since you’ve used the Force in front of another person, and the sensation of being perceived, of being seen for what you truly are is disequilibrating and terrifying and sickeningly liberating all at the same time. 

One thick arm of his is held up and pinned against the back of the booth the two of you are ensconced in, hidden from prying eyes, at least. His legs start to shift restlessly, seeking purchase or trying to kick out, and you pin him there too, lest he try and hurt you again. 

“I do not like to be handled so,” you admonish him, clicking your tongue. You can feel the seething fury rolling off him. “I wasn’t going to do anything to you. I am not going to do anything to you.” He’s got a blaster strapped into a holster at his thigh, and you’re sure his vambrace is hiding several other nasty tricks up his sleeve. You eye them both. “If I let you go, are you going to try and hurt me again?”

“No,” he growls out.

“No,” you mock back, but release him anyway, letting an impenetrable wall settle between the two of you. He immediately goes for his blaster, and you block his reach which has him furiously growling and lurching towards you, only to be met by the invisible Force impeding his attack. He spits a frustrated volley of curses in a language you can’t understand, but that you’re fairly certain is Mando’a. 

“Ah, ah, no blaster,” you tut, and he settles, going suddenly, shockingly still, watching you watch him. “You really are quite poorly mannered and surly.” There’s a part of you that is still slightly unbalanced, heart beating painfully against the cage of your ribs, but you’re trying to hide it behind a wry smile and light tone. Echoes of pain and hurt and cruel and unyielding hands molding you into a thing that was just as cruel and unyielding. You cannot tolerate being handled like that anymore, and you feel contrite that you’d provoked him into doing so. Sometimes it is still difficult for you to remember how it is you’re supposed to behave around other people. 

And then something you weren’t expecting, for he says, “You’re a Force weilder. You’re a Jedi.”

You let out a barking laugh. “What do you know of the Force?”

“Are you?” He presses.

“Yes, but no, definitely not that, no.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing. Or… whatever the opposite of a Jedi is, I suppose.”

“The opposite?” He shakes his head, “I don’t–”

“Hmm…” you cut him off, turning to make sure the two of you still haven’t been noticed. “Not anymore. I don’t use it anymore.”

“Oh, no?”

“Well… you’ve gone and ruined that now, haven’t you?”

“You started–”

“All I was trying to do,” you interrupt, “Was make nice. I’d always wanted to meet a Mandalorian,” Lie, “Haven’t you ever heard of a little flirting? And I fear, now, you’ve painted them all in a very poor light,” Lie, “Look at how rude you’ve gone and been, when all I wanted was to be friends,” Another lie, “A shame…” you heave a big sigh, “You really are very beautiful.” Truth. That fist clenches again, and you cock your head to the side, getting one last good look at him. You feel suddenly sad, you don't want to go. You’ve enjoyed this brief moment you’ve gotten to talk to him. Even if you’d gone and pissed him off and ruined it all now. 

“It was nice meeting you, shiny. Even if you were an abominable beast about it.” You give him a nod of your head, and a quick two fingered salute before you’re sliding out of the enshroudment of the booth and slipping out the back of the cantina, into the dark alleyway, leaving him behind. 

The last glimpse you catch of him out of the corner of your eye before the door shuts behind you, is the sight of him scrambling out of the booth and starting towards the door to follow after you. 

A glutton for punishment, then, so it seems. 

You flit through the dark, dirty alleys, scampering from shadow to shadow. The city streets around you, gone quiet now as the sun over Nevarro sets quickly, and you can feel him hunting after you. He’s strong, and you can almost feel the heavy weight of his life force even at a distance, almost as if the goodness and honesty of his character is a presence of its own, sentient in a way. And he’s angry, and you can feel that too, charging after you, provoked, even if he does it on entirely silent and measured feet. You can sense that ravenous curiosity and frustration at being bested and evaded pressing up against you, chasing after you. As if there were some dark red thread connecting the two of you from spine to rib bone, leading him to you, pulling him along your trail. You tiptoe the lines of the shadows silently, making your way through the winding city streets, feeling him getting closer and closer, trying to confuse him, even as he gains on you anyway. 

And then he’s there. 

You feel a massive hand, strong and sure, clamp around the back of your neck, but his touch is measured this time – he’d heeded your warning. His other hand wraps around the bend of your elbow, twisting your arm back behind you, and then he’s kicking open the nearest door, what seems to be some sort of storage alcove, the space dark and humid and mildewed, and pushing you inside. He shoves you away from him once you pass together into the darkness, and you catch yourself on the edge of what feels like some sort of table or workbench.

You laugh breathlessly. Overwhelmed by the thrill of the chase, of the feel of his hands on you, the surrounding darkness, the sound of his own panting breath through the modulator of his helmet. You hope he’s just as overwhelmed, disequilibrated, as you are now. 

“Oh, you again?” you laugh, turning to face him, bracing yourself back against the table. All you can see of him is the silver crescent of the curve of his helmet, the outline of his wide shoulders in the dim light of the moon seeping in through the cracks of space around the door. He is a steel giant.“Did you forget something? Need me to hand your ass to you again, Mandalorian?”

“You’re a fucking brat. Anyone ever tell you that before?”

You gasp mockingly, “Me? Never.”

“Why is it that everything you say sounds vaguely like a taunt? Like you’re trying to provoke me.”

And, oh, he sounds just so unbearably serious and put out by you, that you pout, forced to match his serious tone with one of your own. You force the smile to leave your voice, “Maybe because I am,” and your voice goes quieter, softer, because again, truth. There is something about him that incites provocation, you want him rattled, come undone. “Maybe I want to see what happens when a man made of metal loses control.”

“I can’t – I don’t–” His voice, even through the modulator, is its own flavor of foreplay. “I don’t know…” he says again, whispers it, his tone seeping through the helmet, entirely uncertain, or at war with himself. 

He takes one menacing step forward, made even all the more intimidating by the vast difference in your heights, the sheer breadth of him, the darkness wrapping around him so that all he’s made into are slivers of gleaming silver flame here and there. You feel the whisper of one leather covered finger skim lightly over the outside of your right forearm, another soft touch to the left side of your waist, and you shiver all over. 

“Not a virgin? Your Creed lets you fuck?”

“No.”

“No, what? Use your words.”

Silence. Stubborn, silent, tin can.

“Girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Whores?”

A grunt. 

“Aha! Gotcha.” You start to toe your foot forward, bending your knee to make contact with him when you find his leg, tilting slightly away from the table so that you can slide your thigh between his legs. “Is that what you want me to be for you?”

“No.” Fucking monosyllabic–

“Then what do you want from me? Why did you follow me?”

“I don’t know…”

“Don’t lie.”

“I want to fuck you.” Your cunt goes soaked and tight at his words, because yes, yes yes, this is what you were leading him to. Finally, he’s caught on, and then he’s planting a strong, broad hand to the center of your chest and pushing you back into the table, and pressing the hard, unyielding length of himself against you. He’s hard and swollen beneath his pants, you can feel the thick heft of him against your belly as he presses into you, and you bring your palms up to slide against the unprotected sides of his strong waist, sending him into a full body shudder as you touch him, helmet falling forward on his neck as he hunches over you, hands planted on the table behind. You can hear his labored, panting breath huffing through the modulator as you run your hands along the planes of him. He’s huge, pure muscle beneath unrelenting beskar, and if you weren’t the creature that you are, you’d feel slightly frightened at the unbelievable strength he’s made up of. He is a thrumming effigy of restrained power beneath your hands, different to that which makes you up, and you feel the strength of him once again, humming through the Force. His light burns so bright, almost blindingly. He’s strong. 

You slide one of your hands up his chest plate, tucking your fingers into the top-most edge to bring yourself up and closer to him as he curves over you, bending you back into an arch over the table’s edge. Your other hand reaches for his wrist braced against the table, wrapping around it, so thick your fingers don’t meet, to tuck your fingertips into the space where his sleeve meets his glove, and at the feel of your bare skin on his, just there, just there, he growls, deep and savage in his chest at the same time that you let out a breathy, warbled moan. His other hand shoots up to grasp at the small of your back and press you into him, his fingers digging painfully into your skin. He’s burning hot, sweltering, and he slides his palm lower, tilting your pelvis into his as you hitch one of your knees up the outside of his thigh to his hip, and then your cunt is rocking against the thick length of his cock, and another breathless, pained groan from the both of you as you make contact there, pushing and pulling against each other. You want to taste his skin, his tongue, you want to kiss him, to feel him licking into your mouth. You pull yourself in closer by the hand tucked into his chestplate to press your face into the warm space between his helmet’s edge and the folds of his cowl. He smells so good, like leather and sweat and metal. Something earthy and musky, something that proves to you that despite the beskar, there is only a man of flesh and blood and want beneath. 

His palm slides to grip the lush of your ass, rolling you onto his length harder, pressing deeper as if he could fuck you through your clothes. 

“Are you going to let me fuck you, little brat?” he pants, ending on a stuttered groan as you hook your calf around his waist and press your foot into the small of his back to grind particularly sharply onto him, pressing your clit into the edge of his utility belt, “Please, just– just–” you gasp, head falling back on your neck. And then he’s spinning you abruptly and pressing between your shoulder blades so that you're bent entirely over the table, cheek smushed against the hard surface. That wide palm slides down the slope of your spine, squeezes your asscheek harshly so that you’re moaning out in lust or pain, you can’t tell.

“Was that a yes? Who can’t use their words now?”

“I liked it better when you weren’t talking,” you grouch, but then his fingers have somehow snuck their way up beneath your tunic and under the edge of your trousers, and he’s ripping everything down to leave you bare and unprotected from the sudden onslaught of that huge expanse of leather clad palm cracking down painfully on the soft skin of your ass so that you’re scrambling to find the opposite end of the table to pull yourself away from him. A pathetic little screech claws its way out of you, and he wraps the length of your hair around his fist to pull your head back and up, turning you into his own little bow string, head resting back on the hard pauldron over his shoulder. 

“Where do you think you’re going? I caught you, you’re mine now.”

“Fuck off–” You try, but he clamps his fingers around your jaw, squeezing the fine bones of your face to cut you off, his other hand in your hair gives a sharp tug that makes the tips of your breasts go hot and tight and your cunt clench around nothing. You can feel yourself dripping down the insides of your naked thighs. 

“Open your mouth,” he orders, shoving the thick of his fingers inside to press down on your tongue. You try and moan around him, protest or something, but you can’t help but run your tongue around the digits, tasting the smokiness of blaster residue, the tang of whatever he must use to oil his gloves. “Finally, some silence. I like you better like this,” he taunts you with an imitation of your previous words. He bends his head forward, “Get them wet,” he murmurs, voice soft and sultry through the modulator, and the moan you give him now is all desperation as you let saliva pool heavy on your tongue to coat the leather. 

When he pulls them from your mouth, tugging your head back further so that you can look up into the dark tee of his visor as he slides his spit slick gloves between your thighs to press against your throbbing clit, your whimpered little mewl has a chastising tut filtering through the helmet, “Slippery, little thing.” He starts to press slow circles to the aching bundle of nerves, sliding down on every other swirl to press gentle, teasing pressure to your clenching opening. “Did my chasing do all this? Do you like being hunted, brat?”

“Not–” you moan as he presses down hard on your clit, then back to the mouth of your cunt, giving you just the tip of his finger, “Not a brat,” you struggle to get out.

“No?” He starts to press two fingers inside at once, both of you groaning in tandem. “Maker – fucking tight–” He scissors his fingers inside of you, twisting his wrist to fuck you open, making room for himself inside of you. “Don’t know if I’ll even fit in here.”

“No,” you groan, low and drawn out, and then, yes, whispered breathlessly, one of your arms reaching back to hold onto the wrist of his hand still twisted in your hair, trying to find purchase on anything to anchor yourself with. Because the stretch of just his two fingers inside of you – you can hear the slick squelch of your wetness as he starts to fuck them in and out of you slowly – is so unexpectedly obscene. You had not expected to find yourself in this position with any man, especially not one like this – had not thought you were yet ready to be touched by another person. Not so soon after– “Please – m– more. I want–”

“You think you’re ready for my cock, little one? Have I stretched this tiny cunt out enough?”

“Yes– yes. Just do it.”

“Fuck–” You listen to the wet little pop as he pulls his fingers from you, and the clink and shuffle of his belt and armor as he pulls himself out of his clothes, and then he’s shifting behind you as you brace against the edge of the table. The burning hot blunt tip of his cock skimming against the round of your ass, and you feel him spread his feet wide, bend his knees, and then his cock is there at the slick mouth of your cunt, and he’s thrusting up and into you on the downward roll of your hips, and Maker, he’s deep like this. Suddenly, twin strangled groans of pain or relief ripping from your throats in tandem as he grinds deep, deeper, for a moment. You feel the heavy kick and throb of his cock inside of you, and he is too big, too thick – he forces you to take it anyway. Stretching you in a way you’ve never been before, your eyes smart, forcing your body to make room for his inside of you, it leaves your breath to stutter out in a weak little puff of shock. 

And you moan, using the palms of your hands against the edge of the table to grind yourself back onto him while his hands clamp tightly around your hips, his fingers so long they almost meet at the center of your belly beneath your navel. 

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. That’s so good.

You can’t tell which one of you is speaking. You can't even tell if you’re still breathing. And then he starts to move. 

You knew he’d fuck hard, from the first moment you’d seen him, you knew.

He pulls his hips back, the slick wet, the grasping walls of your cunt trying to suck him back in, and then the scorching slide of him pressing back in, in, in, grinding again, those long fingers pressing down on your belly so that you feel him from the outside too. 

“Harder,” you beg, because of course you want more. You are a creature made of greed and hunger. You always have been. 

“Quit. You’ll take whatever the fuck you’re given,” but his hips slam back in, a savage growl punctuating the movement. 

He gives it to you almost brutally, without pause or thought, fucking punched out breaths and whines from you. 

“Shut up,” he spits on the end of one particularly deep, harsh thrust that’s followed by a high pitched mewl from you. “You want every piece of shit on Nevarro to find you split open on my cock like this?” Your head lolls back limply on his shoulder, the wet slap of his heavy balls against your clit overwhelming the sound of your thoughts. You can’t speak, your brain is currently being jostled within the confines of your skull by the force of his cock splitting you open. “No? Then be a good girl, and be quiet,” his voice, rough, even through the modulator is almost drowned out by the wet, obscene sound of him pounding into you. 

He brings one of his hands back up to your jaw, turning your head slightly so that your nose is almost smushed up against the chrome of his visor. He wants to look at you. The hard beskar of his chest plate rubs harshly against your back on every push upwards of his hips, and you’re sure that’ll hurt later, but right now you just can’t seem to care. You can feel the humid, warm air of your panting breath, foggy against the gleam of his helmet, and you bring one of your hands up to the wrist holding your face, holding on for dear life, sanity, you’re not sure what. Your other hand twists back into the hanging fabric of his cloak so that you can pull yourself more tightly back into him as he slows his thrusts, making them longer and more drawn out. “Yeah– like that. Settle… good girl.” Your eyes flutter shut. Too much, too much. It should hurt. You wanted it to hurt. Not gentle, you don’t want it gentle.

“Harder,” you whine, plead.

“No. How I say.” He rolls his cock into you over and over, your slick sliding down your thighs, the backs abraded by the plates of beskar over his own legs. He’s so deep, so big it hurts so good. Even if you want it harder, it still hurts so good. The hand at your face slides down to rip open the fastening of your high necked tunic, reaching inside and under your breast band to pull out the heavy aching weight of your tit and pinch your nipple, rolling it between his strong leather clad fingers – more high, desperate mewls that have him groaning deep in his chest. You’re sure if your face wasn't so close to his you’d never be able to hear them through the helmet, low and rumbly and so delicious. 

“Fucking beautiful,” he murmurs low, cupping your breast to plump it up, massaging it in his palm.

“What? You can see?” 

“Yeah– fuck yes, I can see.”

“Not fair,” you whine. It’s so dark in the little room he’d pushed you into, you’re not even going to get to take a good look at his cock before this is all over. 

“You don’t need to see. You just need to be good and take it.”

“Do you ever kiss?” you ask him suddenly. Irritated by the fact that you’ve not gotten to ogle him – or kiss him. If he even does that.

Another deep roll of his hips, a tight squeeze to the swinging globe of your breast, “No.”

“That’s a shame.”

And he responds immediately, voice subdued and even, underneath the helmet, despite the fact that you feel like he’s cleaving you in two. “Maybe next time,” he says. His palm slides down to your belly then, the other pressing down between your shoulder blades to fold you over the table, hands moving to wrap around your hips and lift you up and back onto his impaling cock so that the tips of your toes are left skimming the ground beneath, your fingers scramble and claw for purchase against the wood of the table. You can feel the wide tip of his cock punching against your womb on every thrust in and stars flash behind your eyes, mouth hanging open pathetically. 

There is nothing gentle about the way he fucks you. Like he wants to split you in two, like he wants to make sure the shape of him is branded into the center of your body so that you’d never forget this. The sticky sweet coil of your orgasm starts up low in your belly, and you feel molded in his image for one second, pushed out of yourself to stand on the sidelines and look upon the sight of your much smaller form draped over the table and being fucked into so savagely by this silver blade of a man.

And then: they’re fucking bare, they’re fucking raw, and it has been so, so long since he has felt the touch of another person, someone else’s skin on his that was not bestowed upon him in violence or with the barrier of a sheath between. It is an almost overwhelming feeling, that of your hot, soaking wet cunt pulsing around him, you’re about to come for him, he can feel it. The fluttering of your inner muscles, delicate thing that you are, your thighs shaking as you struggle to push yourself back on to him to get it harder, deeper. He is, almost, made faint with the feeling. And those eyes… you’ve got the strangest multicolored eyes. One enshrouded entirely in darkness compared to its bright counterpart – as if one had forgotten to take that last step into the light. You’re fucking beautiful and–

You snap back into yourself. No, no, no, stay out of his head. Stay out of his head. Focus. You push yourself up again so that your back is against his chest, and he bands one tremendously strong arm around you, gripping your breast tightly. You feel him bend his knees framing your thighs to change and deepen the angle, and then he’s pounding right into that tender, devastating place inside of you, and your cunt twists and floods with your orgasm, electric shocks of pleasure numbing your fingers and toes. You can do nothing more than let him do with you what he will. Your toes aren’t even touching the floor. 

He presses as deep as he can, grinds for a moment, and then he folds you over the table once again and presses down harshly on the small of your back with one heavy palm as he pulls his cock from you and finishes himself off. You listen to the wet thwack, thwack, thwack of him pulling on his cock, and then the searing hot spurt of his come is hitting your ass and the exposed seam of your fluttering cunt, a savage growl ripping through the modulator as he squeezes all of the air out of you with that unyielding hand. You’re like a pressed flower between the pages of a book – wilted and frayed, but still held in the image of that which you once were. At the last spurt from his cock he brings his hand to your ass, spreads you apart to rub his spend into the tight furl of your ass, and then further down into your throbbing, overly sensitive clit. All you can do is cry and whimper weakly, still trembling from your own orgasm. “T– too much, nooo,” you whine pathetically.

“Easy – easy, settle.”

You feel him fall to a crouch behind you, pulling you apart with both hands by the meat of your ass to look upon the sight of your blushed, fluttering hole. Messy, little cunt, you hear him whisper. He rubs his come into your trembling thighs, over your swollen clit again, inspecting every vulnerable inch and crevice of your sex, and then he’s pushing two of those thick fingers back inside of you, the passage made slick and fucked open by your mingled come. “Just one more, little one. Want to see it up close,” he murmurs. You try and wiggle away, tears of oversensitivity brimming beneath your lashes, I can’t, I can’t, you think you whisper, but he’s inescapable. He clamps one hand painfully over your asscheek, keeping you spread apart for his inspection, the other one buried deep inside of you so that his fingers are hooked against your g-spot where he presses over and over, quick and relentless, his fingers almost vibrating inside of you until your vision is going white hot and a buzzing sound rings in your ears, and you’re crying for what you think might sound like mercy or something equally despeerate. “Yes, fuck, yes. Just like that.” Your answering sob does not prompt him to abate, for he keeps his fingers pressed against that spot inside of you until you’re leaking an embarrassing amount of wetness down your thighs, until the rippling throbs of your orgasm have finally settled. You feel his head fall forward, the beskar of his helmet pressing against the space where your asscheek meets your thigh, and he holds there for a second against your burning hot skin, the scorching soothed by the cool metal.

You can’t stop shaking, you feel, suddenly, like you might cry. You were not prepared for something of this intensity, to be touched like this, and now that it’s happened you’re left reeling. You don’t even know his name. And now you’re sure he’ll go away to wherever it is that Mandalorian bounty hunters run off to, and you’ll never see him again, and you’ll have to live with the memory of this forever. And something like this… amidst all the other horror that lives within you, you’re sure that the intimacy, the fervor of this, will make it hurt all the more, even compared to all the rest. 

He uncoils behind you, rising up to his towering height. You listen to the rustling of his clothes, and then he’s smoothing a large palm over the slope of your trembling back and reaching down to pull up your trousers, tucking your breast back beneath your tunic, righting your clothes for you without commentary. When you think you’ve finally caught your breath, or can at least pretend you’ve done so, enough to push yourself up from your position over the table. Your eyes feel pinched and hot, your heart beating so hard, almost painfully, within the confines of your ribcage that it feels as though your bones are rattling beneath your skin, knocking together in the imitation of a death rattle so that he’ll surely know that you feel two paces away from falling apart entirely. 

“You’re… Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you?” Voice stilted.

“No more than I wanted you to.”

He’s silent for a moment, uncomfortable. You can feel the sensation of him pulling away, getting ready to make a run for it. “That’s not–” he cuts himself off. “Do you– do you spend much time on planet?” He’s awkward, uncomfortable now with this unnecessary notion of seemingly required small talk.

“No.” Lie. You like Nevarro, you spend more time here than anywhere else. 

“What’s your name?” It shocks you that he asks, for you know he’d not give you his if you asked it of him in return, but for one infinitely painful, insanely uncharacteristic moment, you want to tell him. You want to give him your real name desperately, tell him who you are. But if you were to do that, then you might tell him what you are. And then he’d hate you, and the memory would be ruined, and you have so few good ones, that this one must be protected at all costs. 

So instead you say that which you have no real desire to say, do what you have no real desire to do, and make sure that he thinks you’re not interested, that you have no desire to ever see him again. Maybe next time. Your heart gives a surprisingly painful pinch, your eyes growing hotter by the second. “This was just a fuck, don’t get all sentimental on me now.” Your voice is so cold, so uncaring. You hate the way you can make yourself sound sometimes. You sense him snap with tense shock, and he nods once, succinctly. “Very well. Thank you… for this. I suppose.”

You lean back against the table, trying your hardest to appear as unaffected as you can. You turn your face to the side, roll your cheek over the hill of your shoulder. “It was my pleasure.”

He turns to go, his cape snapping with the sharp abruptness of his movements, and he pulls open the door of the little storage room letting a flood of moonlight sweep in to shed light on the construction of this memory you’re assembling brick by brick to preserve in your mind for as long as you possibly can. Your eyes sweep over the length of him ravenously, trying to catalog every single detail of him, the incredible breadth of his shoulders, the silver gleam of his beskar helmet, the sweep of his cape, the arsenal of weapons strapped to his body, lethal. He turns back to look at you for one moment, the yawning darkness of his chrome visor, “Don’t get killed, Mandalorian. There are so few of you left now.” And truth, truth, truth, for it would be a shame beyond imagining for a creature such as this, something so strong and beautiful and other, to perish when so few like him remain. He pauses to take you in, as well. You wish you had the courage to ask him what he sees when he looks at a thing like you. The tears are right there, and you hate them and feel weak and disgusted, but also relieved, and you could fall to your knees, in this moment, to thank the Maker that you still possess the ability, the heart, to cry, to succumb to something as trife as tears. You hope he cannot see them. The helmet cocks to the side for one second, perhaps he too is cataloging you to his memory. He nods once, and then he’s turning and gone away into the night. The door snicks shut behind him, and you’re alone once again. 

You pause for a moment, hoping that relief will come. He’s gone, you got what you wanted from him. You should be glad. But there is only the screaming thought of wait, there was still more, there was still more that I wanted from you. 

You let yourself sink slowly to the ground, hand braced against the edge of the table he just fucked you over, lest your shaking legs give out and have you planting face first into the dirt. You fold your legs beneath you, tuck your wild hair gently behind your ears, your movements measured, trying to breathe deep and slow, in through your nose and out through your mouth. Don’t cry, there’s no reason to cry. But shouldn’t we be glad we can still cry? Isn’t it a sign that not all is lost? That there is still a part of us that feels enough to shed tears? This should be a good thing. And so you let the tears fall. You fold yourself over as small as you can, one hand pressed over your hot, leaking eyes, another over your mouth to keep your sounds contained, and you sob as quietly as you possibly can. It was so good and you’re crying and you’re alive and you’re free. You are free, and you should be glad of this. Cry, cry, but cry for your own victory, for your own freedom, for the chance to cry. This is what victory feels like. This is what it is to be alive. 

And so, here is your truth: It is a difficult thing, to shed the facets of the dark side after you’ve lived with it for so long. To be a Sith is to forsake all connection, all peace. There is only passion to strength to power to victory to the Force, but it is always alone. Always against someone or something else. So, yes, it is difficult to shed the facets of the dark side that have made you the thing you’ve been for more than half your life, since the time you were stolen from your cradle, your parents slaughtered, and spirited away into the shadow of a cruel and unforgiving master. What is it to know exactly how your life will play out, to see everything, to be so aware of what you will be – and to still be lost? Part agony, part madness. The pieces of you that are secretive, that like to hide, to run, these are especially difficult to let go of, and you are so, so interminably sad, you live in it. It’s all you feel you are now, after the dark, after the fall of the Empire and the Sith, after escape, after freedom, after you’d so forcibly ripped its claws, that were so deeply sunk within you, out by sheer force of will, by sheer force of desperation, you worry that it’s taken a piece of you with it, your soul. That it had eaten a piece of you. That you don’t have one anymore. 

You don’t even know his name. And even if you’re certain he would not have given it to you, for one moment, you feel an incredible lance of regret that you did not give him yours. 

But then: a person without a soul could not cry. 

And so this must only be proof of the fact that you must still possess yours, as shriveled or weak as it’s been made, you must still have one. You must. You must. 

And you think: I am not unfamiliar with this half life – there is a wound inside of me – dark and putrid and festering. But perhaps my tears will heal me. Seal the wound closed. 

You feel lonely – worse, you feel strange. Once, you were terrible – now you are only yourself. So you cry for the passion of the moment, for the way he made you feel, for the loss of a name, for the truth of freedom.

Chapter II

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Hello! Can I request John with "Do you actually love me?"

Hi there @kpoploverxx-12 ! Thanks so much for sending this in! I’m sorry it took so long for me to write it! I hope you like what I did with it! This is my favorite John fic that I’ve written in a long time….it might even be my favorite fic of this celebration. Enjoy! :)

I’D LOVE TO KNOW WHAT YOU THINK! - YOUR COMMENTS & REBLOGS HELP ME WRITE!

Part of my 3.5k Celebration — find more stories here!

Exactly Like That

John Shelby x Reader

Warnings: none

Word Count: 683

Summary: Two friends become a something a little more than that when John lets those three words slip.

John and (Y/N) were sitting on the bank of the Cut, like they usually do. They’d gone there nearly every Friday for the last ten years, spare the years when John was away at war. Whenever he’d come home though, they’d somehow find themselves sitting there.

In a way, it became like their therapy. The calming sound of the water flowing became the backdrop that the two would share their goings on to.

It was there that these two became closer to each other than anyone else in their lives.

John just finished telling (Y/N) what was happening in his family. She was the one person who would listen to everything and not tell a soul. She did so because she knew John would do the same for her. They were both thankful for each other in that regard.

“You’ll get through it, John. You always do,” she said to him, a smile forming as she turned to face him. “And hey, if you don’t, I know that I’ve got a handsome amount of money coming my way,” she joked then, cracking up at her own statement.

John couldn’t help but laugh. Her laughter was like music to his ears. It always instantly put him in a better mood. “I love you,” he admitted once his laughter died down and he’d been watching at her as she came down from her fit of giggles from a few moments ago.

“Yeah,” she agreed, not really hearing what he said at first. Silence fell over them as (Y/N) looked down to the water again. Then it clicked. “Do you actually love me?” she asked, a seriousness present in her voice that hadn’t been there seconds ago. This conversation had essentially changed tones on a dime.

“Yeah, course I do,” John responded without a second thought.

(Y/N) froze for a moment, her heart rate quickening. “Yeah, well not like that, right?” she scrambled to ask while mentally telling herself to calm down and not get ahead of herself.

John’s eyes danced over her face for a moment, taking her features in before the slightest smile graced his lips. “No, exactly like that,” he spoke with sincerity, like it was the most important thing he’d ever said.

(Y/N) let out a breath, her eyes going wide as she quickly looked straight again. She was freaking out now, and she didn’t want him to see it. In all their years of friendship, she never thought that things would get to this point…where she’d make her feelings for him known.

Nothing was said as John reached over and gently took hold of (Y/N)’s chin so that he could guide her eyes back to his. They held eye contact for a few moments, the air around them holding this weird tension that neither of them had experienced before.

John just had to break it. “I love you, (Y/N). Have since you and I was kids,” he told her, speaking softly due to their proximity, but she heard every word clear as day. She also didn’t miss his eyes as they flitted down to her lips. There was no hesitation in her moving the slightest bit closer to him, showing him that she wanted exactly what he wanted. He licked his lips before continuing, “…been wantin’ to do this for a long time too,” he breathed, giving her no time to respond - if she even wanted to - before he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers.

The kiss felt exactly like those kisses that are described in the romance novels…the ones that sweep people off of their feet. (Y/N) was thankful that they were sitting, because otherwise she wasn’t sure if she could trust her legs to hold her up.

“I love you too, John,” she breathed against his lips once they broke the kiss. Her eyes were closed, but she was able to feel his smile, and that alone made her smile. Nothing else was said as their lips met again…nothing more was needed to be said.

**tags in reblogs so that hopefully they get sent

MASTERLIST

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Pitiful, You're Pitiful

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ch. i

group : ateez

pairing : aged up!wooyoung × aged up!reader

genre : angst, mature, smut

word count : 2.9 k

warning : adultery, cheating, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of loss, negative depiction of wooyoung

a/n : happy new year !!

From your own experience, life is hard. Especially marriages.

Growing up, your mother and grandmother told you to beware of men, of their lips especially be it their kisses or their words. You never quite understood why until you found out what kind of a man your grandfather actually was. Sure, he died surrounded by the people who loves him but as it turns out, those were the people who had decided to forgive him for cheating on his wife.

After learning that, you began finding faults in your family, anything that could make sense as to why your grandpa cheated in the first place. Was it his kids? Was it really his wife? Was it just the fact that he had no self-control? Maybe it was a little bit of everything accumulating until it became too much. So you decide that when you find the man you want to marry and finally settle down, you'll do whatever you can to keep your husband happy and safe. Of course, when you met your husband Wooyoung, you told him about your fear of marriage, and what it can do to people and their relationship. Coming from a good family, Wooyoung couldn't quite understand your worries but nevertheless, he assured you that you didn't have to do anything to make him happy, you just had to be yourself.

You both married young, as soon as you graduated university. You were 21 and in love and didn't want to waste anymore time apart. He was starting his career as a professional dancer and you wanted a chance to travel with him as you worked remotely at a PR firm. But of course, when you got pregnant you stopped travelling with him as stability is better for babies and it sucked for you because Wooyoung's career had just taken off with him getting booked for gigs all over the country and even landing himself a year contract to tour with an idol. Your last semblance of personal life died the moment you gave birth to your first child as you weren't able to juggle the stress of being a PR and a young mother with your husband absent for most of the time. Even with your and his mom's help, things were still hard and maybe it was because he wasn't there and your anxiety got the best of you. But each time he came home, so excited and so in love with you and your child, your anxiety dissipates and it was then that you realized that your marriage wasn't like the failed ones you had heard. Wooyoung was away most of the time but he was still head over heels for you. So that reassured you, that was how you know you had found the perfect, committed husband.

Now, however, 16 years later, things seemed to change.

"Mom?"

You jolted slightly and turned from looking out the window to see your 14-year-old daughter standing in the middle of the staircase. "Dayoung," you called out, clearing your throat as you put the glass of wine on the coffee table next to you, "What are you doing up, sweetie?" You asked as you offered her a smile. Even through the darkness of the living room, you could see her eyes flit from your face to the wine glass and back up to your face again, "What are YOU doing up?" She asked, crossing her arms. You weren't surprised at her curt words, she had always been rather... snippy with you ever since she became a teenager.

It was no surprise that when you gave birth to her, Wooyoung doted on her a lot. After all, she was your first born and she just looked so much like Wooyoung which was his proudest accomplishment. Until your second child was born, that is, which was double his proudest accomplishment. Different from her little brother who is just 5 years old, Dayoung grew up without Wooyoung around much. But whenever he was in town, the two were inseparable, they're each other's partners in crime and Dayoung loved the fact that she always had fun with her dad. You, however, were the disciplinarian, a role you were forced to take because a child can't have two fun parents and what were you supposed to do when Dayoung refused to take a bath after deciding to play in the mud outside? What were you supposed to do when she refused to eat her vegetables? To her, you were the bad guy, the villain, the party pooper, the wet blanket. And you made peace with that, you made peace with your own child vilifying you so bad that she told her 5-year-old brother to be careful with you because you're not going to let him have fun. You let her believe whatever she wants because she grew up to be a very smart girl who is independent, assertive, opinionated, and brave. Sure, she used her qualities against you, but you liked to think that it just meant that she was comfortable enough with you to be like that.

"I'm..." your words trailed slightly when you saw a car nearing your house only for it to drive past, making you let out a sigh of disappointment, "Waiting for your dad," you turned back to her and shrugged, "Now you." Dayoung rolled her eyes and walked to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water. It pained you that she was being rather disrespectful, but you weren't about to make an issue of that at 2 am. She even made a show of making eye contact with you as she swallowed the cold water before obnoxiously tossing her used glass to the sink. "Woohyun wanted to pee but you weren't there for him which is not a surprise," she smiled sarcastically before stomping her way back up to her room.

You absolutely love the kid but sometimes you do wonder why she seems to love to torture you with her attitude. To distract yourself, you downed the last bit of wine in your glass before approaching the sink to wash the glasses you and Dayoung used. It had become a habit, cleaning, a way to take control over things you can't really control no matter how much you want things to be in order. You hate being so helpless, wanting to have a good life but not knowing how to achieve it without being perceived as naive, juvenile, or even selfish.

The task had taken over your mind so much that you didn't notice the sound of the front door opening and closing. When you looked up, your heart skipped a beat from what you saw. There he stood, your husband with a bright smile on his face, looking so lovable with his hoodie and sweatpants, making his boyish charm shine even more even through the darkness of the room.

"Hey there, wifey, what are you doing so late? Did you miss me?" he chuckled, making a show of posing at the entrance of the kitchen, making you giggle and shake your head. "Yeah, sure, I miss your stinky self so bad that I stay up hours after putting Dayoung down to sleep," you teased, drying your hands on the towel tied on one of the drawers' handles. Wooyoung faked a gasp and lunged at you, making you squeal and take off to the other side in hopes that you could avoid his grasp. Despite it being so late in the night, you both still ran around the kitchen happily trying to shush one another half-heartedly. Even when Wooyoung managed to grab you and pulled you down on the couch, you couldn't stop giggling out of sheer happiness. You just loved him so much and being in his arms was the best thing you've ever felt.

"..ey? Hey, (y/n)!"

You jolted slightly and blinked twice, trying to make sense of what you were seeing. In front of you, your husband stood by the kitchen doorway like you saw moments before. But he wasn't wearing his hoodie and sweatpants nor did his youthful smile there. He was aged up and wearing attire fit for a young businessman. You remembered that you had put the outfit out for him earlier in the morning; a black knitted sweater with a navy blazer and matching pants. He had asked for you to pick the outfit for him because he was supposed to meet up with investors who want to open another branch of his dance academy in another city.

"Why are you spacing out like that?" Wooyoung asked, raising an eyebrow at you. Though he was asking about you, his voice lacked genuine concern or sympathy. It was almost as if he was only asking as a formality. You push those thoughts to the side however and smiled up at him, "It's nothing, honey, I-" Before you could even finish your sentence, Wooyoung's gaze averted back to his phone as he let out a sound that was supposed to simply acknowledge your answer so that he could simply walk away. He had done it multiple times before and lately more frequently, but the sight of his back on you never got easier to see. It hurts because it felt like he was trying to push you away, not letting you get too close to either share yourself with him or even ask him to share himself with you. You wondered what happened to the both of you. It had been a while since he was like this and you have no idea how to fix it.

But still, you weren't the type to just give up. There is no way in hell would you just throw your hands up carelessly and leave things in the hands of fate. Screw that.

Knowing Wooyoung, he would spend his first moments back sitting on the edge of the bed, still in his dirty outfit, answering people he couldn't answer before because he was driving. You took this as a chance for you to get close to your husband, and spend all the time you can spend together because, during the day, he would be busy with work, running an academy with his partners and shouldering the responsibilities of being the sole breadwinner and father which he absolutely loves. On the other hand, you were busy being a stay-at-home mom. Taking the kids to school, making sure they have their lunches, running errands, paying bills, being active in the PTA as how the private school expect mothers to do, making sure Dayoung go to her hakwon by using public transportation while you take Woohyun to his after school activities on the other side, and sometimes you even help Wooyoung's mom around. You barely had time for yourself or your husband and you truly felt bad for it.

You closed the door to your shared bedroom, not surprised that your husband barely reacted but you let it go, you didn't want to focus on that. "So..." You started, going to your side of the bed to turn the lamp off before sitting down, "I saw my friend Eunyoung today, it was the first time since she had her second child. We went to the salon because her mother finally convinced her to leave the child with her and it actually took Eunyoung an hour to finally leave her house." Wooyoung let out a hum of acknowledgement while his eyes were still glued onto his screen, and a smirk played on his face. For some reason, that smirk made you feel uneasy but you swallowed the feeling down, you were on a mission and you were not about to back down just because your gut decided that something was wrong. "I-it got me thinking," whilst unsuspecting, you crawled on the bed towards your husband before you rest your head on his back as your arms wrapped around his waist, making him freeze in surprise, "I... Want to try for a third again," you confessed. Whatever you expect his reaction to be, a scoff and a shove to your arms were not on the list. "Are you crazy?" He stood up before turning to look at you, "You've had your hands full with Dayoung and Woohyun, why would you want more? I thought we agreed after the last time that two were enough?" He was talking to you as if you were careless or crazy and it made your gut twist. The form of your shoulders visibly dropped in disappointment as you look up at him, "That was almost a year ago, honey, I'm fine now," you ensured.

It had been almost a year since you lost your third child. You never even got to know the gender of the baby. You never even got to know how you lost the baby because not even the doctors know. The both of you went into the doctor's office one day, happy and hopeful and when you came out, you were followed by the echoing voice that there was no heartbeat and that it could happen for no reason. You were such a wreck after that, you shut yourself from everyone and Wooyoung had to jump in and take care of you and your kids whilst also dealing with his grief. After all, it was his idea that you reluctantly agreed to. But when you finally overcame your depression over the loss, you had hoped to see that your husband would be glad for you but instead, he drifted further until you got to this point.

Wooyoung was still simply staring at you in disbelief and you think he realized that something was wrong with you, you had something going on in your mind. No matter the situation, one thing that never changed from Wooyoung was how easily he can read you. "I know... You wanted to have another child, Wooyoung, I do and I think you still have not let go of the one we lost and that's why you've been pulling away from me this past year and I'm so done with that, really," You felt your cheeks burn to your eyes and tears well up to the point of almost spilling, but you willed yourself not to. Hearing this, Wooyoung's eyebrows furrowed and his arms folded in front of his chest, "But I have, (y/n), I... Accepted that we lost that one a long time ago and there is no way we can bring that one back." "So then I don't know what's wrong with us! After almost 20 years being together, 16 of which we spent in a marriage, I don't think something can just snap and everything turns to shit. For fuck's sake, Wooyoung we haven't had sex since then! We used to not be able to have our hands off each other and now it's like we don't have passion for each other anymore. So you make the choice here, Wooyoung, either we try for a third and hope that this baby will bring us the joy we seem to have lost in the past year or you and I go through marriage counselling."

The words barely left your lips when Wooyoung shoved you hard enough that you fell onto the bed, bouncing slightly as your back collided with the soft mattress yet you somehow felt hurt. He quickly climbed on top of you and kissed you whilst taking his blazer off of him. "You want a baby? You're gonna get one," he muttered against your lips. After almost a year of not being intimate with each other, you expected the kiss to be passionate and homecoming, not cold and distant. There was no passion in his kiss, it was just... There. The action seemed more like an attempt to shut you up rather than a proclamation of his love. The hands that used to caress every inch of your skin now yanking and tearing at your clothes with no care, he didn't even bother to completely undress you and you could assume that his movements were simply muscle memory. What you did at that moment was not making love, that was simply having sex. Fucking.

Wooyoung was usually very attuned to your body and its needs, each tick and squirm was interpreted correctly in his head and he was able to calculate what to do next to ensure both of your pleasure. Each session of intimacy was always categorized as lovemaking because that was what it was, an expression of unadulterated, raw intimate love. But this? He didn't even realize that he was basically fucking a corpse. At least, that's what you felt like. Lips on your skin, your husband's warmth encasing you, touch lingering, yet you felt nothing short of coldness. Touches that used to be feather-like and careful seem more like restraint now, harsh and emotionless.

Even after you two were done- well, after he was done, you couldn't move. Your husband left you lying on your bed all alone, the remnants of his release staining your thighs and dried once the excess leaked out of you, body sprawled and unmoving while your gaze fixated on the only source of light, the crack from under the bathroom door where Wooyoung was cleaning himself.

Slowly, your eyes closed from exhaustion, both mental and physical. Despite that, your brain wouldn't let you rest, it forced you to fixate on one thing and one thing only:

Your husband, the man whose affection and love is so exceedingly plenty that it just burst out of his body has no more left of them for you which can only confirm one thing.

He was seeing someone else.

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[yelena-bellova]

Heartfirst: A Ted Lasso Story - Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen: The Hills

Plot: When Y/n doesn’t show up to a staff party, Jamie takes it upon himself to investigate why.

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: language, mention of child neglect/abuse, one dirty joke

A/N: I did not expect to have this one done so soon after the last, but it came together super fast so I’m just running with it before I overthink it.

This chapter’s a bit more inside Jamie’s head, something that will happen more as we round the turn on the series. Richmond Hill is an actual place and it looks gorgeous and super peaceful. The perfect setting. Hope y’all enjoy, and let me know if you’d like to be tagged 🌈

—————

Every few months, the AFC Richmond staff had a cook-out. The entirety of Nelson Road was invited from star player to security guard. It was a great way to help facilitate the family atmosphere they prided themselves on. Like a lot of things, it had only been instituted after Ted arrived.

Most of the players were sat together, animatedly conversing over foldout tables and food definitely not permitted on their strict diets. Higgins and Beard were double teaming the grill. Ted, ever the social butterfly, was flitting from person to person, not satisfied till he’d made sure he’d greeted everybody. Keeley was absent, still not feeling up to a party in the wake of the video leak, but Rebecca had assured whoever asked after her that she was doing better.

Jamie was sat with Isaac and Dani, talking about the upcoming game that weekend. Every thirty seconds, like clockwork, he’d glance up at the entrance to the pitch, expecting to see someone walk through. Someone who should’ve been there by now.

He slipped his phone out of his pocket. No text. No missed call.

Jamie frowned, this wasn’t normal.

He got up from the table, knowing that if he showed any concern about where she was in front of his teammates, they wouldn’t hesitate to tease him. Ask questions. Why did he need to know? Why did it matter so much to him that Y/n hadn’t shown up? Jamie didn’t care to deal with any speculation, his mind was singularly focused on figuring out where she was.

As Ted was at one of the tables, filling a plate, Jamie grabbed an empty one and sidled up to him.

“Hey, Jamie,” Ted greeted.

“Hey,” he replied.

“Havin’ fun?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jamie muttered, “Couple people missin’.”

Ted glanced around as if he hadn’t noticed, “Yeah, Sam mentioned he needed to be at the restaurant tonight.”

Jamie looked back at their group, realizing Sam wasn’t there. Huh. He should have noticed that.

“Oh, yeah,” he nodded, moving with Ted down the line while not taking any food. He tried to sound as casual as he could, “Y/n ain’t here either.”

By now, Ted was fully aware that Jamie and Y/n were connected at the hip. He knew better than to comment on it, but he wasn’t at all surprised by Jamie’s clumsily concealed concern.

“Yeah, I knocked on her door before I left,” Ted explained, “See if she wanted to walk over together. She said she wasn’t feelin’ well.”

That only worried Jamie further. Not because he thought she was actually unwell, but because he’d just talked to her the night before. She’d been fine.

“Ah,” he said.

“I’m sure she’ll bounce back before the match,” Ted smiled, reassuring Jamie with a pat on the back.

Jamie stayed, twirling the empty plate in his hands. Y/n wouldn’t lie for no reason, something had to have been wrong. And he couldn’t ignore the tightening in his chest because of it.

——————

Y/n laid on her living room floor, her back against the rug and her feet resting on the couch. For whatever reason, the floor seemed like the best place to be when feeling miserable.

She knew she was letting people down by not being at the picnic. Lying to Ted, something she could do so easily a few months ago, had nearly made her wince when he knocked on her door an hour prior. But to explain why she wasn’t going would have taken much longer than simply calling on the anxiety-provoked stomach ache she had and claiming she wasn’t up to being social. She could spend the evening by herself and give herself a clean bill of health the next morning.

The first sound of something hitting her window she mistook for a very large bug and didn’t flinch.

The second one got her to lift an eyebrow, glancing over at the glass.

Another one and she dragged herself to her feet, pulling back the curtains to find the culprit. She felt stupid for not banking on the one person who surely would have figured her out.

Jamie rolled his remaining pebbles in his hand, waiting as Y/n unlocked and opened her window. He’d known if she was in a mood, she wouldn’t be answering her door.

“You’re not at the party,” she called down.

“You���re not sick,” Jamie squinted up at her.

“You don’t know that,” Y/n replied, she barely had the strength to argue with him but damn it if she didn’t try.

Jamie frowned at her, “Seemed fine last night.”

In her stupor, she’d forgotten that they’d been texting less than 24 hours before.

“Things…” Y/n shrugged, “Develop quickly.”

“Right,” Jamie sighed, somehow having her lie to his face was worse than not knowing where she was, “You tell me what’s goin’ on, or I start throwing rocks again.”

Y/n didn’t particularly want company, but Jamie was…Jamie. He wasn’t going anywhere.

She relented with an exhausted smile, walking away from the window. Jamie headed for the front door.

Y/n unlocked the door and trudged back up the stairs, Jamie entering just as she made it back up. She retook her place on the floor, they were long past the point in their friendship where she had to play hostess.

Jamie stood at the top of the stairs, unable to see Y/n. He stepped into the space further and peeked over the couch, spotting her hair.

He chuckled, “The fuck’re you on the floor for?”

“It’s my thinking spot,” Y/n replied, keeping her eyes closed.

“Hm,” Jamie smiled, trying not to laugh at her when something was clearly wrong, “Well, if you are dyin’, maybe tell me now. It’ll be a bitch tryin’ to replace ya. Keeley’ll have to start right away.”

Y/n sighed, “I’ll live.”

Jamie waited a few seconds to see if she’d explain further. When she didn’t, he crossed the distance between them and took a seat on the couch.

“So…” he pursed his lips, “You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on?”

Y/n’s vision blurred as she looked up at the ceiling. Since she’d woken up, any move she made felt thick, like trudging through mud.

“It’s my dad’s birthday.”

Jamie blinked a few times, the wash of concern morphing into understanding. Of course she’d lied, of course she was on the floor. Of course.

“And as much as I enjoy watching Beard and Higgins argue over the correct way to grill a steak,” Y/n sighed, “Didn’t exactly feel like being around people.”

She didn’t need to explain herself. Jamie and Y/n had seen each other through most of their terrible family anniversaries. They rarely mentioned them, either their time spent together conveniently fell on the dates or they invited the other one out for no particular reason. This was one of the first times Y/n had actually told Jamie what day it was, and that meant it was bad.

Thus, it had to be treated the same as the others.

Jamie exhaled deeply, “Where d’you keep your blankets?”

Y/n didn’t say anything, simply pointing down the hall where her linen closet was.

Jamie got off the couch, patting Y/n’s knee as he did and headed down the hallway. Per her excessive organizational skills, all the towels and blankets were meticulously folded.

“Got one you don’t mind getting dirty?” Jamie called.

Y/n grimaced, “There’s, like, ten different ways to take that question.”

“Not that, ya pervert,” Jamie said as he reached for the top shelf. He found a faded and stained blanket that fit the bill.

Y/n hadn’t moved an inch when Jamis came back. He gently hit her leg with the blanket, “Get up.”

Groaning, Y/n opened her eyes. “What?”

“Get up, get your shoes.”

“I’m not going to the picnic,” Y/n rubbed her eye.

“No, you’re not,” Jamie agreed, “We’re goin’ somewhere else.”

Y/n exasperatedly sighed, “Jamie-“

“If it doesn’t make you feel better, we’ll leave,” Jamie held his palms up, “Promise.”

There weren’t a lot of people Y/n would have listened to in that moment. Jamie was probably the only one, in fact. There was an unspoken trust between them.

Y/n pushed herself into a sitting position, giving him one more disgruntled glance, before standing up. Jamie pulled her the last bit before heading for the stairs.

Friday evening in Richmond was busy and Y/n and Jamie took purposeful, long strides to his car. The faster they moved, the less of a chance of someone recognizing Jamie.

“Okay,” Y/n sighed once she was in the passenger seat, “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” Jamie answered, backing out of his parking spot.

“You’re gonna drag me out of my house and not even tell me where you’re taking me?”

Jamie popped his lips, “Yep.”

Y/n shook her head in annoyance and looked out the window, watching as her home disappeared.

The silent drive lasted ten minutes, ending with Jamie pulling them into an older parking lot. Nothing but trees and grass sprawled out before them.

Jamie locked his car and set off towards the greenery, “Come on.”

Y/n followed, making her displeasure known on her face, if not her mouth.

Jamie led them down a path that quickly changed to an incline, growing steeper and steeper.

“Why is it every time you take me somewhere,” Y/n took a deep breath, “It involves exercise?”

Showing off, Jamie took the last few steps backwards. “Call it payback for training sessions,” he smirked.

It had a been a couple weeks since Roy had invited her, but Y/n was owed a fair share of crap.

“Welcome,” Jamie spread his arms out, “To Richmond Hill.”

Trying to catch her breath, Y/n stared out at the expanse. There were walking trails and thick oak trees spread everywhere. In the near distance, she could see gardens. The sky, beginning to turn all the pastels of a sunset palette, was blending with the forest green tops of the trees. It was beautiful.

“Wow,” Y/n whispered.

Jamie nudged her with his elbow, smiling, and unrolled the blanket. He spread it out across the grass and gestured for Y/n to sit down.

“So you went the whole ‘Fresh Air and Nature’ approach,” Y/n said, sinking down onto the blanket.

“Just needed to get you out of that sad lil’ flat,” Jamie took the spot next to her.

Y/n scoffed, “You picked that sad little flat.”

“Yeah, but,” Jamie stretched out and laid back, “It ain’t the flat’s fault its renter was bringing it down.”

He felt better when he was able to get a laugh, however meek, out of Y/n. It meant she wasn’t totally beyond his help.

“And now you’re gonna ask me if I want to talk about it,” Y/n said, fidgeting with her fingers. The habit had only been made worse by watching Jamie play with his hands so often.

“Nope,” Jamie shook his head.

Y/n hummed and nodded cooly. “Was the party fun before you left at least?”

“Yeah,” Jamie shrugged, “It was fine. When I was leaving, Coach was just startin’ to tell those dad jokes.”

Ted was a treasure trove of puns and some truly awful jokes. “What’s the one he loves?” Y/n tried to recall.

Jamie could recite it from memory, “‘What did the mama llama say to the baby llama as they prepared for a picnic?’”

They hit the punchline in sync, “‘Alpaca lunch,’” and descended into tired laughter.

“That got old the second or third time,” Y/n smiled down at her lap.

“Or the first,” Jamie replied.

Y/n sighed and stared down the hill, there were shockingly few people enjoying what surely was a busy place any other time.

“How’d you know about this place?”

“Come here every once in and a while,” Jamie answered, his hands folded behind his head, “Good for trainin’. Good for just…quiet.”

She had to agree. If one needed to do any contemplating, this would be the place to do it.

The silence was encouraging. “I haven’t spoken to my dad,” Y/n started, bitterly smiling at the air, “In a year, I think.”

While it wasn’t totally surprising in Y/n’s situation, the statement itself was. Jamie raised his brows, “Fuck.”

“It wasn’t even a holiday or anything,” Y/n continued, “They’d just found some old toys in the garage. Told me they’d pack ‘em up and send them.”

“Isn’t it a fuck ton of money to ship here from the States?” Jamie asked.

Y/n chortled and picked at a piece of grass, “Shows how badly they wanted to get my stuff out of their house.”

Jamie ran a hand over his face, he couldn’t relate. His mum had kept his childhood room exactly the way it had been when he moved out.

“When was the last time you spoke to your dad?” Y/n dared to ask, she wanted to feel a little less lonely.

“Haven’t,” Jamie answered plainly, “Not since Wembley.”

Y/n hugged her legs to her chest, “Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t. What about before then?”

“Before that,” he sighed, “Only when he wanted tickets or somethin’.”

Jamie tried not to think about his father, not unless it could be used as fuel to play. Proving his dad wrong was one of the things that had made him great, if not the thing. But even the great Jamie Tartt couldn’t banish the ever-persistant voice in his head telling him that he wasn’t good enough. That he was only good for what he good get out of him.

“If you could have a releationship with ‘em,” he ventured to ask, “With your mum…would you?”

Y/n looked over her shoulder to meet his gaze, but he had unfolded one arm to fiddle with his ring as he usually did during their more serious talks. “Like, if they wanted me?”

“If they wanted to talk,” Jamie added, “Wanted to be a part of your life.”

It was a loaded question. There was hurt in both potential answers. Y/n had found life on her own, a life she rather enjoyed. But the only reason that life had come to be was because she needed out of America, away from her parents. On the other hand, she felt like a child on special days like her dad’s birthday. She’d have given anything to fly home, hug her father and sing him ‘Happy Birthday’ alongside her mom and Caylee.

She lived in the nicest possible version of the worst outcome, but she’d have died for even the crappiest of the best one.

“I don’t know,” she answered, “Truthfully, I don’t think there’s any hope for us. Caylee’s off with her life, I have mine…” Y/n squinted into the distance, “And they have theirs. I think we’re past the point of no return.”

Jamie wasn’t trying to get her to come to any conclusion. He was just curious. He’d thrown his dad out of his life several times, but he’d always gotten back in somehow.

“What about you?” Y/n asked.

He blew out a gentle breath, there’d always be a part of Jamie that wanted a relationship with his dad. The version of the man he’d wished for as a child.

“Nah,” Jamie replied, “Don’t think so. Think we hit that point when I decked him.”

Y/n rested her chin on her knees, “That would do it. Do you regret it?”

“What? Hittin’ him?” Jamie waited until Y/n nodded, “Fuck no. I just…” He looked down at his ring again, “Just hate that I had to.”

The words were sour in Jamie’s mouth. They didn’t belong there. No child should ever be in the position to say they landed one on their parent. Worse, that they didn’t regret it.

“Do you ever regret leaving America?” Jamie asked, his eyes tracing Y/n’s profile, “Comin’ here?”

“No,” Y/n answered, feeling a few tears beginning to well. “I just hate that I had to.”

They sat in silence after that, letting the cool evening breeze hit their open wounds. Neither of them were good at being vulnerable, their friendship had forced them to become comfortable with it. But still, it hurt to hurt.

Eventually, when the sun began to melt into deeper shades of pinks and oranges, Y/n laid back on the blanket. Without looking, she reached between her and Jamie’s bodies and took his hand, weaving her fingers between his. Jamie didn’t hesitate to do the same.

“This is better than the floor,” she admitted softly.

Jamie smiled, shutting his eyes as he turned himself to stone. It was a moment he was afraid would end if he touched it. And he wanted to make it last as long as he could.

—————

Heartfirst Taglist: @lalla-04p @optimisticsandwichgladiator @makingmunson94 @taytaylala12 @storysimp @sokkigarden @lightninginab0ttle @poohkie90 @alipap3 @verra-nerevarine @shineforever19 @spaceagechimera @burnafter-reading @qardasngan @cyberpvnk-enthusiast @sogoodtoheritsvicious @buckybarnex @angelsunflxwer @blueanfield @thewildestwonderland @sablecities @oxxolovemelikeyoudooxxo @strawberryacethingz @mentalistfan @tortilla-maria1 @katdahlali @for-fuck-sake-im-alive @glitterquadricorn @jamieolivia27 @imvibin69 @katlizada @lil-tracys @fanaticalfantasist @heyitz-julia @cactajuice @peachyy-tea @notalxx @rockchickrebel @anxiety-prime-max @mentalistfan @loveforaugust @jellycolors @actuallybarb @heletsmelovehim @lovinnscarletknight @imfalling-inlove @leslieiscrying @meg-ro @littlemisssunshine192 @beboldbebravethings @maydayfigment @spencerreidsbookclub @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @lemoonandlestars @im-a-weirdo-for-life @mindless-rock (tags cont. in comments ❤️)

[arcsimper5]

Aloha 🌺

I’ve recently discovered your blog and I looooveee your fics 😭.

I saw that your requests are open but I didn’t see any rules so excuse me if I did something wrong.

May I request a sweet (possessive) Hunter x F!Reader fic? I loved how you touched on Hunters doubts in Flutter but I’d love to know how you’d think he reacts when there is an idiots in love trope going on.

Spice/smut is always welcome but I don’t want to restrict your creativity.

Thank you 🙏🏻🌺

Hellooooooo lovely anon!

I'm so sorry this took so long, I've been flitting from project to project and not had time to really sit down and think about anything!

So, I wrote what turned into basically a prequel for Flutter, as within that there's a mention of how reader and Hunter got together.

This is a spicy little ficlet, so I hope it's what you wanted and what you were looking for!

Tension

Pairing: Hunter x Reader Explicit content within! Warnings: Angst, pining, idiots in love, guilt, swearing, mentions of bad past.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hunter could practically feel the anger radiating from you as you tucked Omega into the spare bunk, making sure Lula was carefully snuggled under her arm before you leant in, whispering goodnight.

Your soft smile, reserved for the young girl, was quickly replaced with a glare as you tugged the curtain across and turned to him, a fire unlike anything he’d ever seen in your eyes.

“My room. Now,” you instructed, heading for the makeshift quarters you had in what had formerly been the storage room. It was by no means large, barely fitting you slightly larger than regulation bed and a small storage chest side by side, but it gave you privacy at least.

If Wrecker, Tech or Echo noticed your anger, they didn’t say anything, all merely shrugging or shaking their heads when Hunter sent them a desperate look, one that screamed ‘help me’.

But he was on his own, letting out a deep sigh as he trudged after you, his head hanging a little.

You stepped to the side, allowing him into the room with you before you closed the door behind you, crossing your arms across your chest.

Hunter took another deep breath as he turned, bracing himself for your telling off.

“How could you?” 

The simple question was laced with venom, anger pouring off of you in waves as you hissed it, leaning forward a little.

“Who the kriff do you think you are that you can just decide that Omega is going to live with a bunch of strangers she just met, and not even talk to us about it?”

“They’re not strangers,” Hunter protested, “they…”

“They are to her!”

Your heart was hammering in your chest, eyes stinging as you stared at Hunter, trying to keep your composure.

“I know what it’s like, to be cast off because no-one wants you, Hunter. You can’t just… do that!”

“I… I wasn’t trying to abandon her,” Hunter murmured, shame flooding his system. Any anger he’d felt at your earlier comments began to melt away as you continued, the salty scent of your tears hitting him like a speeder.

“But that’s what she’ll think,” you choked, breath catching in your throat, “that kid has never been allowed to make a decision in her whole damn life, and the first one she’s made, you try and take away from her!”

“Because I was doing what I thought was best!” Hunter protested, folding his arms to mirror yours, his defences going up once more.

“For who? For her? Or for you?”

“That’s not fair,” Hunter snarled, his eyes narrowing, “Cut and Suu are good people. She’d be with kids her own age…”

“I don’t care if they’re the Force incarnate!” you shouted back, immediately closing your eyes and taking a steadying breath, trying to claw back a sense of calm. “You can’t just decide she’s going to live somewhere else without talking to her, or to us!”

“We don’t know the first thing about kids!” the sergeant barked back, taking a step towards you. “How are we supposed to look after her?”

“Trying would be a good start,” you snapped back sharply, “not shouting at her for making a simple mistake, not trying to dump her on other people. Omega saved your life on Kamino and Force knows she saved all of our shebs back there. Cut, Suu and the kids wouldn’t even have been on that shuttle if it wasn’t for her!”

That silenced Hunter for a moment, your words swarming over him.

“She’s just a kid,” he protested weakly, shaking his head. “I… I’m sorry. I panicked. I… I thought she’d be better off with them. Safer, with them. Being here, on this ship… it’s no life for a kid. It’s barely a life for us… for you.”

His gaze softened as he looked back up at you, the sincerity in them disarming you abruptly.

“Hunter,” you croaked, your tears finally spilling over, “she… She wants to be here. With you. Her family.”

“But she deserves…”

Cocking an eyebrow at the derisive snort you let out, Hunter’s eyes narrowed once more, less anger and more confusion driving the action this time.

“Didn’t we have this exact conversation just after Onderon? Before everything went to shit?” you murmured, dropping your arms to your sides. “You trying to get me to leave with the refugees because it would be ‘safer’? Because I ‘deserved better’?”

Hunter shuffled uncomfortably, drawing in a deep breath as he too let his arms drop, his eyes closing against your reasoning.

“I’ll tell you now what I told you then; I’ve made my choice. I would rather spend my days locked in an Imperial prison than apart from you, from my squad. Omega made the same choice. You seem to have that effect on people.”

The joke caught Hunter by surprise, a short peal of laughter escaping his lips before he shook his head, his expression softening once again.

“For our sins,” he huffed dramatically, your lips turning up into a soft, fond smile for the first time since you’d left Salucemi.

“Hunter,” you called, the exhaustion in your voice suddenly clear. Looking you over cautiously, Hunter stepped forward, coming to meet you as you raised your hands. His met yours without hesitation, lacing your fingers together as your foreheads came to rest against one anothers, both closing your eyes and enjoying the moment. 

“It won’t happen again,” he promised lowly, his guilt obvious, “and… I’m sorry.”

“I know,” you sighed, squeezing his hands softly, offering silent comfort. “Look… if things get too bad, I… I’ll take Omega. I’ll take her and find somewhere, and we can…”

“No…”

The word was huffed so softly, you weren’t sure Hunter had spoken at all until you opened your eyes, shocked at what you found.

Hunter’s gorgeous, chestnut grey eyes were reddened, a single tear rolling down his tattooed cheek, your breath stolen by the way he looked at you.

“Hunter?”

“I… I need you,” he admitted gently, “I… Maker, cyare, I…”

Your stomach fluttered even as your confusion grew.

The relationship you shared with Hunter had always been… different.

While you could joke with Wrecker, chat for hours with Tech and reminisce with Echo, Hunter had always been more… intense. 

The first time you’d found him having a panic attack, you hadn’t hesitated to pull him into your room, laying him down and stroking soothing hands through his hair until the panic subsided.

By the time he woke up some four hours later, he’d been shocked to find himself in a comfortable bed, surrounded by plush pillows with an eye mask on and soothing ocean sounds playing from a small device on your trunk.

Since that day, you’d confided in each other, become closer in a way you had never thought possible. And selfishly, it had left you wanting more.

More of Hunter. More of his attention, his affection, his body and mind… But you would never ask. It was against regulations, and it was a distraction. Until the war ended.

‘He doesn’t mean it like that,’ you chastised yourself inwardly, ‘he doesn’t. He can’t.’

“Hunter?” you managed, the question breathed into the space between you, your eyes still locked with his, “What… What do…”

“On Onderon… I… I didn’t want you to go. I was so glad you chose me, chose us. And then, seeing you cuffed in the cells… I thought I’d made a bad call. I thought I might lose you. I should have… I should have said something then, but…”

“About what?” you prompted into the void left by his cut off sentence, his eyes closing once again as he sucked in a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

You couldn’t suppress the gasp that left you as Hunter pulled you against him suddenly, pressing you back against the wall of your room. With once swift motion, Hunter’s hands, still laced with yours, lifted your arms and pinned them over your head.

He withdrew from the keldabe, shifting just enough to lean down, pressing his lips to yours in a searing kiss.

For a moment, your brain simply went dark. It stuttered, trying to process the feel of Hunter’s lips on yours, the weight of his body pressing against you, all taut muscle and strong grip, the swipe of his tongue against your mouth…

Letting out a soft moan into the kiss, you opened up to him, Hunter taking full advantage. As your tongues touched, you both let out a whine, your entire body shuddering under his touch.

The reaction seemed to break whatever spell had drawn you together, the sergeant almost leaping back, letting your hands go and holding his own up as if to not appear threatening.

“I… I’m sorry,” he gasped as you leant against the wall, panting for breath, “I shouldn’t have… I should…”

You cut him off with a kiss of your own, practically throwing yourself against him, pinning him against the wall this time. As your hands moved up his chest and to his neck, threading into his thick curls and tugging gently, his wound around your back, clutching at you desperately.

The next few moments were a blur, hands roaming over each other's bodies, pulling at clothing, teeth and lips and tongues clashing in a passionate dance.

By the time your naked back made contact with your bedsheets, you were a babbling mess, barely coherent as Hunter’s mouth moved over your breasts, flicking over one nipple while clever fingers toyed with the other.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you,” he murmured into your soft flesh, “no karking idea.”

“Is, is this really happening?” you gasped as your back arched, drawn into Hunter’s teasing touches.

“I karking hope so,” he purred against your stomach as he made his way lower and lower, kissing every inch he could reach, “because if it’s not, and I wake up alone in my bunk with a hard-on, I’m coming to find you, and making it real.”

You could only shudder and cry out in response as his tongue finally found your centre, licking stripe over your clit, to your dripping entrance.

“Now lay back, mesh’la, and let me take care of you.”

[dreamingofmarauders]

Heart of Stone

Sirius Black x GN!Reader

Summary: After repeatedly feeling disappointment from supposed friends, the last straw is when your heart shatters after the love of your life turns you away like everyone else, so you decide to harden your heart so much that nothing can ever hurt you again. Fourteen years later, the same man enters your life once again.

Warnings: Fake friends, feeling unloved, heart break, loneliness, mentions of death, crying, cussing, angst, a hint of fluff

Word Count: 4k

A/N: This one is a bit of a longer piece, I just recently finished it and I really loved this idea and I think it turned out not too bad. I tried to keep it GN!Reader but if it does not seem to be at any point, please let me know! Apologies if there are errors/typos, I tried my best to catch them. If you enjoy it don't forget to give it a like! A reblog would be appreciated as well :)

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

You sighed, eyes flitting between your friends, or that's what they said they were to you anyway. You, however, felt otherwise. Sure these people were in your year, half of them your dorm mates, but when they made plans without you, forgot you were there during conversations, you would feel your heart clench and feel otherwise.

You had known love from dear ones once, when you were young. But, fate had been too cruel to you and snatched your parents away from you just as you had entered Hogwarts. It had taken a huge toll on you, realizing your parents were gone forever. Sure, you had moved in with your uncle and aunt and their kids, but having already been distant from them, it affected the amount of love you received from them.

It took you some time but you were able to make friends slowly after you were able to accept the fact your parents weren't coming back. The years progressed and while you had initially loved your friends, now you felt more a tag along than anything. They barely acknowledged you and would only notice your presence if you suddenly spoke up.

You were tired of it and soon broke ties with them. However you were unaware at the time, but someone entirely different would enter your life and change everything for you.

That someone was Sirius Black.

You weren't even sure how it had begun but suddenly one day the Gryffindor began to ask you out, and continued to do so until you finally said yes some months later as you both neared the end of your sixth year.

And that was the best decision you had made.

You were beyond happy with Sirius and you couldn't imagine your life without him.

You were madly in love with Sirius Black.

Your life was looking all good.

Until now.

"What?" You breathed out in disbelief as you stared at the man in front of you.

It was a late autumn evening in 1981, and Sirius was over at yours. The two of you had yet to move in to a place together since Sirius stilled lived with his best mate, Remus, and since Remus struggled financially, sharing a flat the two best friends could pay for it together, which you and Sirius both understood how much easier it would make things for Remus.

It was always a joyous and lovely time whenever Sirius came over to your place, except now, you felt your whole world crashing down.

"You heard me the first time." He grunted out, "I want to break up."

Your lip wobbled as tears began to cascade down your cheeks.

"Why?" You whispered out, the heartache reflected in your voice.

Sirius looked at you with cold eyes, "Why? Because you're worthless and you were just a time pass for me, nothing more, I'm tired of you."

Those words were the last straw. You heard your heart shatter into a million pieces as the sobs escaped your mouth, your body wracking with each one. For once in your life after so long, you thought things were alright, that you were happy and loved. How could you have been so blind?

"I hate you, Sirius Black." You uttered out as you felt your knees buckle out from underneath you, making you fall to the floor as you cried. "I hate you so much." You said before shakily wiping your tears away as you stood up, trying to get a grip on yourself in front of him.

"Get out." You spoke, pointing to the door, "Get out of my home and never show me your face again." You ordered, staring into those grey irises you loved so much. You saw Sirius' face flicker with a different emotion which you couldn't decipher, before his face hardened and he turned on his heels, walking away and slamming the door behind him.

As the sound echoed off the walls, you let out a sob and finally let yourself crumble entirely.

"What did I do to ever deserve this?" You cried out, pouring your heart out as you let the tears flow.

Although after that day, you vowed to never let anyone hurt you again and to never shed a tear again.

So as James and Lily died and Sirius was sent to jail for their murder, you did not cry, and as Remus disappeared without a trace, you did not cry.

You had died the day Sirius had broken up with you, as each of his words had pierced your heart like a dagger. Now, all you had was a stone for a heart.

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

Many, many years after the end of the First Wizarding War, you stood once again in a similar situation. Voldemort had come back but everyone refused to believe James and Lily’s son, Harry Potter. So Dumbledore took matters into his own hands.

The Order of the Phoenix was back in business.

You sauntered in, causing all heads to turn and some to even gasp in surprise. After all, you had worked hard and become one of the top Aurors of the department.

“Glad to see you have finally arrived, Y/n.” Dumbledore said to you before turning to the whole room, “This here is Y/n L/n for those of you who may not know, and they will henceforth be joining us from today.”

Murmurs and nods of agreement filled the dining room before you were gestured to a seat by Dumbledore. You swiftly placed yourself on a chair, turning your full attention to the Hogwarts Headmaster. Although you of course felt that prickling at the back of your neck, the sensation of being watched.

You knew who it was, and you hated him. So you did the only thing reasonable.

You removed your gaze from Dumbledore to the Azkaban escapee, who watched you from the head of the table, your ex, Sirius Black, and stared him down with a coldness that sent the warm smile that erupted on his lips vanishing, making guilt flood his face.

Satisfied, you turned back to the Order Founder once again.

The meeting went on and before you knew it, your chair made a sound as it scraped against the floor when you stood up, as you headed out of the meeting room and straight for the main door of Twelve Grimmauld Place.

A hand caught onto your wrist, pausing your movement. You felt your body stiffen. Even after all these years, you still remembered his touch.

“Let go, Black, I have places to be.” You gritted out.

“Hear me out please.”

You immediately freed yourself from his grip and spun on your heels, glaring at Sirius who only watched you with a broken look. He had caused this and he had regretted it since that day and would regret his decision until his last breath. He had hurt his Y/n and turned you into this shell of a person.

“Like I said that day all those years back,” You began saying, “I don’t want to see your face.” You spat at him before turning to go, leaving Sirius stare after your retreating figure in guilt and heartache.

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

“He really misses you, you know?”

You looked up at the tall man beside you, your piercing gaze staring into his soul.

“It was his fault for whatever happened. He left just like you disappeared as well.” You replied making the Gryffindor’s expression turn into one of shame.

You had ran into Remus Lupin at the second Order meeting, seeing the werewolf after so many years, but like towards everyone that had hurt you, you had disregarded him.

Now as you and Remus were on your assigned mission together, the Gryffindor tried to make another attempt to get through to you.

“I’m sorry, you know that, Y/n.”

You let out a breath, “Focus, Lupin, danger could be anywhere.” You stated instead, ending the discussion altogether to which Remus shook his head in defeat, heaving a heavy sigh.

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

”Y/n/n.” He said as he corner you at the stairwell. You glared up at him as he caged you against the wall.

“Move Black, before I hex you.” You gritted out, making Sirius only shake his head.

“Not until you listen to what I have to say.”

You groaned, letting your head fall against the wall. Sirius had been persistent in his attempts to catch you, but you always got away from him quickly. To be frank, you were tired of it.

“Fine.” You said and watched Sirius’ face light up. “But after this, you will not try to approach me ever again, got it?”

Sirius’ smile dimmed but the hope in his eyes shone just as before. “I give you my word.”

You released a breath, irritatingly, pushing the man away, gesturing for him to follow you to the room that housed a small library. You both stood by the fireplace, the light creating shadows on your faces as you stared Sirius down.

“You have only a few minutes to explain your gibberish, so start talking, Black.” You said, your arms coming to fold over your chest as you began to tap your foot impatiently.

Sirius sighed, running a hand through his hair, “I am truly sorry for all the pain I caused you. I deserve every bit of your hate, but you need to understand I did it to keep you safe.”

You arched an eyebrow, letting out a cold, mocking laugh, “Seriously, Black?”

Sirius nodded, “You have every reason not to trust me but believe me, I only broke up with you because I needed to make sure you were safe.” He paused, sucking in a breath as you watched with slight curiosity, “I had originally agreed to become Lily and James’ Secret Keeper, and I knew I was going to be a big target.” Sirius paused, his voice choking, “I-I couldn’t have let you get harmed due to me, y/n/n, I loved you too much. I did what seemed reasonable at the time; To push you away.”

Sirius sank down into the armchair, holding his face, “Of course, not only did I fuck up by losing you for good but I suggested Peter as Secret Keeper, and that decision cost James and Lily’s lives.” He said, staring blankly into the fire.

Sirius dared a glance up at you only to discover that you were already gazing at him. There was a different, softer, emotion in your eyes, but Sirius couldn’t decipher what it really meant. He watched you open and close your mouth a few times, before loudly clearing your throat.

“I don’t know if your story is true or not but I’m sorry about James and Lily, they didn’t deserve any of it.” You paused, swallowing, “I’m sorry about you landing in Azkaban, because you weren’t at fault for their murders, but I can't forgive you, we could have worked something out but you made the choice to push me away and it worked. I can't ever forgive you for the pain you caused me.” With that, you looked at him, shaking your head slightly before walking off, leaving Sirius to stare after you as your words echoed around in his head, his heart dropping.

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

True to his word, Sirius had stopped pursuing you after that fateful day, for which you were grateful. However, you felt a rather peculiar feeling pulling your heart after that conversation, but you couldn't understand what it was and why it was bothering you.

One evening, you had been invited to a party to celebrate Ron and Hermione becoming Prefects at Grimmauld Place. You had just stepped out of the bathroom and were heading back to the dining room, when something caught your ear.

"Hey, isn't that Y/n?"

You paused, the voice seemingly coming from the room closest to you currently on the floor.

"It is." A rather familiar voice answered.

Sirius.

You quietly peeked into the room, only to find Sirius sitting, with what seemed to be a photo album laying open on his lap and Harry peeking over his shoulder.

"Wait... Are- Were you two..."

"A thing? Yeah, we were." Sirius said, his voice carrying a fondness that he had always used with you.

"But now you aren't together anymore? Why?" Harry questioned, his eyebrows furrowed as he scratched his scalp, reminding Sirius of his best friend.

"Because I messed up the best thing in my life." Sirius answered, his tone holding a somberness to it. "I thought it was best to break up with them to keep Y/n safe, but not only did I screw up there but my mistakes also cost your parents' lives, Harry."

There was a tense silence that felt suffocating to Y/n, who was listening carefully from the outside.

"Do you still love them?" Harry slowly asked, gazing at his godfather with sympathy and curiosity.

"Never stopped. Y/n's one of the reasons I was sane in Azkaban. I never stopped loving them, Harry, and I never will." Sirius answered, his eyes glossing over.

You felt your heart twist, something familiar coming up but you shook your head fiercely. You couldn't become weak.

Not again.

With an air of determination, you walked back to the party, unaware that the past was catching back up to you.

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

Months had passed since then, you had been on guard duty the most, guarding the prophecy in the Department of Mysteries. The one day you had not been able to attend your assigned shift because you had fallen ill, Arthur Weasley had been attacked by Voldemort’s snake, Nagini. Thankfully the ginger man pulled through and was fine. Some months after that, there was no trace of the white snow as June had long arrived, bringing warmer days.

Ever since you overheard Sirius talking about you with Harry, as much as you denied it, something had shifted in your heart. At times, your mind was full of thoughts of the raven haired man, or you’d secretly glance at him, although much to your dismay Remus had caught you once and he had been teasing you endlessly, knowing your long buried feelings were surfacing once again.

It was one day you were at Twelve Grimmauld Place, in the dining room after a meeting. Only a few of you remained behind, your fellow co-workers Mad-Eye Moody, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Nyphmadora Tonks, a good friend of yours, along with Remus, whom you had began to fix your friendship with and Sirius, who still received your coldness, which he willingly accepted. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t showed small gestures for you, whether that was making sure your glass of water was full at dinner, or going to bed after you had retired to your room for whenever you had to stay the night. Although you wouldn’t admit it but you were touched by his actions, reminding you of the sweet time from all those years back.

However all hell broke loose as you all received a Patronus, prompting you all to apparate out to the Ministry of Magic, as Harry and his friends had apparently ended up in the Department of Mysteries, where the Death Eaters were on their tail.

The group of you burst through into the room where they all were and that’s when all chaos broke loose. The Death Eaters turned onto the newly arrived and a huge battle broke out. You found yourself face to face with Rabastan Lestrange as you ran in.

His eyes lit up in delight, “Well if it isn’t the famous Auror L/n.” He cackled, “Too bad it’s time for you to finally be defeated.” And he shot a spell at you which you dodged, instead throwing a spell his way which he deflected.

Both of you were going back and forth but he hadn’t realized you were just making him feel a false sense of security.

He laughed again after deflecting another spell, “That all you got? You’re a disgrace to the name of an Auror, L/n.”

You finally smirked, “Bye bye, Lestrange." You uttered before casting a powerful spell, that too so quickly that the Death Eater noticed it a second too late, too absorbed in his self glory and went flying, hit a wall and fell down, unconscious.

It was a secret trick you used, knowing these people were too self absorbed about themselves that any small feeling of victory would have them letting their guard down.

Satisfied, you turned your eyes towards the others. However new shouts and people pointing had you looking up only to realize Albus Dumbledore, who had been on the run due to the Ministry wanting to arrest him, had also joined the battle.

Only one pair was still battling, apparently unaware of the new arrival. You watched Sirius duck Bellatrix's jet of red light: he was laughing at her.

''Come on, you can do better than that!'' He yelled, his voice echoing around the room.

Your eyes flitted to Bellatrix, whose face took on a deadly expression of determination.

You felt your feet begin to start moving, knowing this wouldn’t end well as Sirius was distracted. You had just screamed his name when the second jet of light hit him squarely on the chest. The laughter had not quite died from his face, but his eyes widened in shock.

“SIRIUS!” You shouted as his surprised gaze turned to you, and he began to fall, right back into the Veil and you felt your stomach drop.

Your years of training came into use and you managed to get there and caught his hand, pulling him back. You lost your balance and the pair of you fell onto the ground.

You heard Bellatrix cackle gleefully, shouting, “I killed Sirius Black!” And Harry, who was in a state of shock turned to her in anger and chased her all the way out, Dumbledore following. However, you couldn’t care less. You were numbly staring at Sirius’ limp body beside you, and suddenly your heart broke.

“SIRIUS!” You shouted out in agony, cradling his face. “Wake up, please! You can’t leave me again! Please wake up!” You cried, your head falling against his chest as you sobbed your heart out. “I love you.” You whispered out, too distraught that all your intelligence had left you. It’s only when Remus sat beside you, slowly grabbing you and letting you cry against him, that he, as a last attempt gripped Sirius' wrist due to which did you all find out he was still alive.

Some hours later, you all were back at Twelve Grimmauld Place, waiting for the Healer to fix up Sirius. As soon as the Healer left, you burst into the room, dropping to your knees by the bed, watching with tears of relief pooling in your eyes as you saw Sirius' chest evenly rise and fall.

He was alive.

Everyone else present at Headquarters took a little peek at him before leaving the room, knowing you and him needed time alone.

"You were right, Remus."

Remus, who was standing beside you, looked at you with a surprised expression, "What?"

"You were right, I had been lying to everyone including myself." You told him, gently stroking your thumb over Sirius' hand, gazing at him softly. "I think my feelings had come back a long time ago, I just was too stubborn to admit them." You confessed, your heart twisting. “If Sirius had died, how would I have lived with myself?” You said, turning to look at Remus, who looked at you with sympathy.

“But you have the chance now.” He answered, squeezing your shoulder encouragingly. A knock interrupted the two of you and you both turned to find Tonks sticking her head through the door.

“You got a second, Remus?” She said, to which the werewolf nodded and patted you gently on the shoulder before following the metaphormagus out. You watched him go and as the door shut, you turned to look back at Sirius, softly brushing a few loose strands of hair away from his face

He suddenly stirred, his face scrunching up before he flickered open his eyes, grey orbs flitting around as he tried to understand where he was.

"Siri?'

Your voice caught his attention and Sirius turned his head slightly to the side to look at you, his gaze filling up with love.

"Y/n/n?"

"How are you feeling?" You asked.

Sirius stared at you in surprise, finding you by his side, looking so worried which was completely astonishing to him, since you barely ever glanced at him.

"I think so." He groaned, eyes clenching shut for a brief moment, "I remember dueling Bellatrix and then a spell hit me but after that..."

"You almost fell through the veil. You almost died." You told him, your voice cracking on the last word making Sirius frown in concern as he sat up, pulling you up to seat you beside himself.

Your lip wobbled as tears began to cascade down your cheeks. "I am so sorry for everything. I-I-" A sob escaped you, "I was so hurt when you left that I told myself I'd never let anyone else in, and I held it against you when you were nothing but sorry."

Sirius felt his heart shatter and he moved to grab you but you shook your head, "I don't deserve you." You said, curling in on yourself as you finally let yourself cry, to let all those emotions buried deep within the chambers of your heart break free.

Sirius' grey eyes filled up with tears and he wrapped his arms around you, allowing you to sob into his chest.

"It's not your fault, love, it never was." He told you, caressing your head gently.

"I almost lost you today and I would have never forgiven myself if I had never got to tell you that I still love you."

Sirius stiffened, his mind buzzing while his heart began to thump loudly in his chest. He couldn’t believe his ears.

“You what?” He uttered out in disbelief. You pulled away, wiping your face before placing your hands on either side of Sirius’ face.

“I love you, Sirius Black.” You expressed, your lips turning up into a small smile. "I love you so much."

Sirius stared at you with slightly rounded eyes before he smiled so wide that you melted.

“Am I dead and in heaven?”

“Sirius!” You scolded, smacking him very lightly on the chest for his mischief.

Sirius let out a bark of laughter before his eyes filled up with love and fondness, his grin not leaving his face.

“I love you so much, darling.” He practically whispered, his voice reflecting his heart. “I love you so much.”

You beamed at that before letting your hands slide to his neck, your breathing beginning to pick up as Sirius moved his hands down to your waist. Your eyes flickered between his eyes and back, him doing the exact same. You both leaned in, your eyes slowly fluttering and you gently attached your lips to his.

At that, memories of all those years came rushing back. The feel of each other, the kisses, the hugs, the happiness, the love.

The kiss was slow and soft but once you both got a taste of each other, emotions became high and the two of you got more aggressive, Sirius picking you up and placing you on his lap as you both deepened the kiss, wanting more of each other as the two of you had been deprived of each other for so long.

A sudden throat clearing made you jump and the pair of you pulled apart only to find a smirking Remus and a gleeful Tonks.

“So I guess it’s time for a celebration huh?” The young woman said, eyeing her cousin and friend.

“I think it’s best if we leave these two alone.” Remus commented, throwing a wink your way to which you flipped off them both, earning chuckles out of everyone.

Sirius pulled you close, kissing your cheek before you rested your head on his shoulder.

After long and lonely years, your heart had returned to its previous state, like it had been all those years ago, before it had hardened into stone.

Your heart was back with Sirius Black and his was yours.

Forever and always.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

[deathbecomesthem]

Ready, Steady, Go

MINORS DNI - STRICTLY 18+

*This is a reupload from my old blog. If you think it looks familiar, it's because it probably is.

Part 2 of Three's Company

wc: 2.8K

Pairings: Steve Harrington x Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader Everyone is about age 30 in this one, think mid to late 90s. This chapter is Steve Harrington x Reader smut.

A/N: This is a Steddie x Reader story, but this chapter is the first time that Steve and the reader are intimate with one another, one on one, without their mutual lover Eddie.

Contains: Poly relationship dynamics, smut (oral and vaginal), and lots of feelings. It's so soft guys.Keep reading

---

Steve and Eddie have maneuvered through their relationship quietly. They’re still long time roommates to many of the people in their lives. They don’t hide themselves away, but they don’t invite many people in either. It’s not just for their personal safety, but their emotional well being is a priority. Sometimes, it’s too much to bear to think about losing a dear friend or family member for just being who they are.

What no one had really considered before opening the relationship to add you in was the fact that you made it possible for them to go places together that otherwise might be viewed with suspicion. There was no point in focusing on the injustice of that, bitterness can turn a good thing sour. No one wants that. The three of you are finding ways to fit your lives together, and so far it’s been shockingly natural. With love at the center, the rest seems to just fall into place.

So, why are you so nervous right now? A weekend alone with Steve isn’t something out of the ordinary - but this is the first time the two of you will be alone since you’ve been intimate. Eddie has always been there until now. What if there’s nothing without your shared love to hold onto? It’s a niggling fear that flits to the forefront of your thoughts when you least expect it. What if this is the way the end begins. 

You’re sitting in the chair in the corner of Eddie’s bedroom watching him pack his bag. He’s leaving in a half an hour, Eddie’s never been good at planning ahead. Unsaid concerns have turned into a lump in your throat. You can only sit and watch him move from the closet to the bed, snapping his fingers together when he remembers an item or two that he almost forgot to pack. And then he breaks the silence.

“What do you and Stevie have planned this weekend? I’ll miss you two so much.” Eddie’s tucking a fourth pair of black jeans into the corner of the suitcase, far too many for the three days he’ll be gone. He’s likely to forget to pack any socks, but have enough pants to last a month.

“Oh,” you pull your legs up to rest your feet on the edge of the chair. You’re pulling yourself in, making yourself small, “I don’t know. We haven’t talked about it. I might just spend some time by myself.”

Eddie slows his movements and sighs a little to himself before saying, “I thought it might be nice if you two spent some time alone together.” Eddie moves toward you, and drops down to his knees in front of you. He lays his head in your lap, “I know you both, and I love you both. I see it, ya know? There can be more between the two of you, if you let it happen.”

You don’t respond, but you let the words roll around in your head while you run your fingers through his hair. Yes, he’ll only be gone for a couple of days, a short weekend trip to visit Wayne and go fishing, but you ache at the thought of his absence. He is your heart. For him, you will try. And for yourself, too.

—

Steve comes home an hour after Eddie’s already gone. You make a point to be sitting in the kitchen with a pot of oolong when he walks through the door. A loaf of banana bread is cooling on a wire rack on the counter, a treat you know he can’t resist. 

“Hey,” Steve’s smile is wide when he catches sight of you. He kicks his shoes off by the door and heads over to kiss your head in his usual greeting. “Oh, ho ho, is that what I think it is?” 

“Mmm, yes it is. Fresh out of the oven. Look at what a good little homemaker I am.” You flutter your eyes at him and smile. “Let’s have some and spoil our dinner. I made tea.”

Steve immediately gets to work pulling out small plates from the overhead cupboard, and setting the butter dish on the kitchen table. You see him breathe in the smell of the bread deeply when he cuts the first slice, it’s still warm enough that steam rises from the loaf when the knife cuts through it.

You love seeing him like this. Steve finds the joy in these little things, and even before the dynamic shifted between the two of you, offering Steve little treats was always one of your favorite things. 

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but I’m not complaining.” He sits down and melts into the chair. His glasses fog when he takes his first sip of tea. You’re studying him, watching the way he tastes the bread and drinks his tea. You watch the muscles in his jaw. You watch him suck the crumbs off his thumb. He really is very pretty.

You ignore the fear inside you, and do what feels natural. You sneak your foot over to his, and rub the arch of his foot with your big toe. He grins at you through the still foggy lenses. His other foot rubs the side of yours. This game of footsie while you eat banana bread at 5:30 on a Friday evening feels more intimate than when you swallow each other's moans under the covers of Eddie’s bed.

“What do you want to do tonight, Steve?” You pinch the top of his foot with your toes in conjunction with the question. Playful and light to hide the anxiety. Because you don’t have plans with Steve tonight, and you don’t have the kind of comfortable relationship that you and Eddie share where time together is a natural thing that just happens.

“Tonight? Oh, I don’t know,” there’s genuine surprise in his voice, as if the idea that the night might come never occurred to him. “What about you, Honey? Think you might want some company?”

Honey. The name is warm and sticky, it sends a tingle down your spine. It’s better suited for the man sitting across from you, with his gold flecked irises and the amber highlights threading through his graying hair. Never mind his sticky sweet nature.

“That would be just the thing, Stevie. I’m already lonely with our sweet muppet gone. We can keep each other company, hm?” 

Steve sits up straight, lighting striking him, “Oh! I know what we can do.” He jumps out of his chair and strides over to the drawer next to the dishwasher. He fiddles around in it, and pulls out a paper menu. It’s the place around the corner that Eddie hates. You tried to make him love the unique dish that reminds you of home, but he turned his nose up at it. The same man that eats Vienna sausages and Velvetta won’t even try a plate of the surprisingly complex dish that is Cincinnati chili.

“You just scored big points, Stevie. Throw in a couple of cannoli from Angelo’s, and I’m yours forever.” 

—

With full bellies, it was natural the way you fit into his side while the blue glow of the television screen played your favorite John Hughes film. Steve’s hand runs up and down your arm, but his eyes stay on the screen - he loves these kinds of movies, and it’s rare when he can enjoy them without the moaning of your shared boyfriend. For you and Steve, this is an experience neither of you realized you were missing. It’s warm and lovely to be with him like this. Quiet and secure. Held. And you want him more than you thought was possible. You want his hands on you. 

You’ve been in the dark with Steve and Eddie. You’ve shared the heights of pleasure with them both. But you and Steve have yet to cross the line into lovers. You’ve mapped Steve’s beautiful body with your eyes, your mouths have met in passionate kisses while Steve’s cock is inside of your boyfriend. You wonder, will he have you?

This is when you decide it’s worth the risk of rejection to see if he also wants to see where the night could take you. You turn your head and look up at his face. You can see the moles scattered across his skin under that blue light, and you speak.

“Stevie,” your voice is a whine, betraying the sudden need that’s building in your gut, “you look so pretty right now.”

The blue light of the television screen across the room flashes in the lenses of his glasses when he whips his head to face you. You can’t see his eyes, they’re obscured by the glare. Steve leaves nothing to the imagination, he doesn’t make you wonder. He takes off the acrylic frames and searches your eyes. Satisfied with what he sees, he smiles as he cups your face and leans down to kiss you.

Slow. The eagerness is there, it would be a disappointment if it was missing, but it’s slow. He’s tasting you, savoring the flavor of your lips - red wine, salty popcorn, and mint lip gloss. You think you could stay like this, open mouths searching one another, teeth scraping soft lips, forever and never tire of it. A wide palm instinctively finds the bare skin at the small of your back, a thumb strokes your spine.

“Steve,” the word released into the air between your mouths makes him dizzy. “Stevie, please.”

Steve breaks the kiss to rest his head on your forehead. The air between you is heavy and humid. Your eyes, blurry from the closeness of your faces, bore into his. Any question either  of you may have had about whether there is something between the two of you without the affection of your shared lover evaporates into the air with your shared breaths. 

“I want to see you, Honey. You’re so pretty.” Steve closes his eyes when he tells you this. And you think, how could I deny a request like that from this man. 

His eyes remain closed as you stand. You take your hand in his, and pull him to his feet. Neither of you realizes the film is still playing on the screen in the living room as you lead him down to the room at the end of the hallway. Your room. 

Steve stands and watches you while you undress. He’s seen you this way before, many times. He’s never failed to see the beauty in your form, but it’s different right now. Quiet. He can watch the way your hands move. He can see the muscles flex in your shoulder as you reach behind your back to unhook your bra. He can see each soft curve of your skin and admire them. 

Eddie isn’t a distraction. Eddie is a force of nature. Eddie is the sun. It’s easy to be blinded by him. His absence tonight allows the light to stay low, it allows movements to slow. It allows you and Steve the space to look at each other and spend the time. Your only regret is that Eddie can’t be a fly on the wall to see these quiet moments between the two loves of his life. 

You don’t feel insecure as you kick off the small piece of fabric from your ankle, letting your black panties hit the shin of Steve’s jeans. You feel powerful. He’s eating you up with his eyes. You can practically see smoke leave his nostrils when he huffs through them, lips tight. His jaw is clamped, while you crawl onto the bed, allowing him a full view of your slowly swaying ass.

“Jesus Christ. You’re gonna kill me.” Steve is still standing at the end of the bed as you present yourself, laying on your back, legs spread. Your hand roams your chest and stomach, dipping to the soft pubic hair - touching the places where you wish his hands would search.

“Stevie. Are you just gonna stand there?” Your words are soft. A hand grasps one of your breasts, squeezing it. Desperate to feel something. The open air between the two of you is too much. Steve doesn’t bother with his own clothes, his fingers are aching. They’re empty, and are desperate to feel your soft skin.

Slow. Deliberate. A steady hand travels down the valley of your chest, long fingers brushing gently across your skin. Gooseflesh erupts along their path. You’ve been holding your breath in anticipation of his touch. His attention. He’s focused on only you tonight for the first time, and you are full.

“Your skin is so soft.” Steve’s voice breaks the silence, and you release the air from your lungs. “Look at you.”

You can’t look at yourself, so you look at him. The moonlight sneaks through the blinds, reaching out for him. Bathed in moonlight, you see everything. You see him. You smell him. You feel him. Even now with his lust clouded mind, his hands are steady and searching. 

Featherlight touches travel past your navel. Your breathing hitches when he gently strokes against your already swollen clit. He continues to the silky smooth lips below, and runs up and down. He delights in every one of your hitching breaths, a crooked smile spreads across his lips.

“You’re wet, Honey, and I’m so thirsty. Can I have a drink?” 

You open your mouth to respond, but you have no words. He doesn’t wait for them, he dips his head down. He smells you. He’s smelled you before against Eddie’s skin, but from the source it’s intoxicating. He opens his mouth and keeps his eyes on you while he takes his first taste.

Steve hasn’t tasted a woman in years. He hasn’t missed it, not really. Right now, though, he cannot believe how sweet you taste. How soft your thighs feel. He can’t get over the way the fine hairs on your skin stand up with every little touch he offers. His fingers sink into the flesh of your ass as his tongue moves. You’re so slick. He can feel the way your little button grows under his tongue. His cock aches to feel you around him. 

Not yet, Steve, he reminds himself. He can feel you shuddering under him. He can see your eyes flutter. He needs you to come. You’re close. He closes his lips against your clit, and sucks gently while running his tongue against you with a persistent pressure.

Gone. You’re gone. You can feel fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass, keeping you from floating off the bed and into the air. You can imagine yourself drifting off through the vastness of space fueled by the ecstasy you feel. Your body trembles. You cry out for him, you cry out for your Stevie. Your sweet boy. 

Your cries of his name undo him. His lips are still attached to you, still letting you ride out your orgasm while one of his hands unzips his pants. His cock aches. The immediate need, releasing the painful constriction of his jeans, isn’t enough. He needs to be inside of you. Your eyes finally meet his again. 

“Please, Steve. Please. I need you inside me.” Your begging is met with a groan against your cunt. His lips let go, and you see how red they are. Swollen from their work. You rock against nothing at the sight. The slow and steady movements are gone now. Steve throws his shirt - pants - socks - boxers - to the side with speed. He’s laid bare in front of you, a marble statue brought to life. 

Your legs open to receive him, and he slots between them. Steve fills you up with the first thrust, and you’re seeing stars. You’re vaguely aware of the sound leaving your throat, something between a moan and a cry. Steve’s hand is in yours, a thumb runs against a finger in a soothing way. You both sink into each other. You both feel everything.

“You’re so soft.” Steve’s soft whisper against your neck vibrates against your skin. “So soft. You feel so good.” 

Soft words are contrasted by rough thrusts of hips desperate to push your bodies to connect as deeply as possible. Mmm, so good. So fucking good, Stevie. Steve is gone. He can’t be reached now. He’s lost in the soft flesh of your body under him. He’s used to the sharp angles of Eddie. His mind is gone, his body is moving on its own. He can feel how close he is already, lost in your warmth. 

It’s not a lightning crash. Not an earthquake. It’s soft, like every other moment between the two of you. Steve’s face in your neck, his hand gripping yours. He comes undone with your scent in his nose, and your taste on his lips. His hips slow, and you pull him tighter. You hold him close to your sweat slicked chest. You let him rest there, on your pillowy skin, bodies still joined. 

That’s how you stay that night. Holding one another, leaving the mess you both made for the daylight hours. When you wake in the morning, you find that Steve’s hand is still holding yours.

[luvrboydave]

Please don't kill me, Mr. Ghostface, I wanna be in the sequel!

pairing: ghostface!kirk hammett x fem!reader

warnings: somewhat dark content, stalking, creep!kirk, panty stealing, knives, blood, violence, little bit of a breeding kink, sadism maybe (?), degradation, name calling (slut, whore), pet names (doll), possibly ooc kirk

words: 3.1k

a/n: i did not proof read this so if there are mistakes that's totally on me LMAO i hope you all enjoy bc this was my first time writing anything like this (it ended up being a little less ghostface centered bc my brain went on autopilot)

By the time he has you checked out, it’s a few minutes past closing. He sees you to the door, holding it open for you like the gentleman he is. As you’re leaving, Kirk calls out to you, that sickly sweet smile on his face, “Be safe. It’s dangerous for girls like you to walk the streets at night.”

Kirk first notices you when you strut into the movie rental store a few minutes before closing. You look entirely lost, eyes scanning the store hurriedly. When he walks over to you, he swears that he’s just doing his job, being a good employee and helping out lost customers. But deep down, he knows he’s lying to himself. He puts on that bright smile he hates so much and asks what you’re looking for in his nicest voice. When you tell him you’re looking for Friday the 13th, Kirk knows he has to have you.

Your cautiousness makes it way harder for Kirk to follow behind you. In retrospect, maybe telling you the streets aren’t safe wasn’t the best idea if he wanted to stalk you back to your house, but he’d just have to deal with it. When you look over your shoulder, you see a flit of darkness from the corner of your eye, choosing to brush it off as the shadow of an animal. You speed up slightly, just wanting to get home and watch the movie as quickly as possible. Kirk continues to follow you, dipping back into the shadows when you check over your shoulder.

His words make you feel uneasy. You’d heard that there have been rumors of a so-called ghostface copycat killer on the loose. Some unstable dumbass killing people with that stupid mask on after watching Scream. You’re extra cautious on your way home, checking over your shoulder occasionally to make sure you’re not being followed.

Eventually, you make it to your house, breathing a loud sigh as you finally unlock your door. You step inside, slipping your shoes off and turning the lock behind you before heading towards the living room. You set the VHS on the coffee table and walk to the kitchen, preparing something to eat during the movie. You head back to the living room, sliding the VHS into the player and plopping down on the couch.

Kirk watches you closely through the window to your left. He studies your reactions to the movie, how you jump when a loud noise plays or how you grimace and squirm at the gore; he finds you fascinating. He watches you for the entire duration of the movie, only leaving after watching you get undressed for bed. He leaves your house that night with a painfully hard dick and a plan to have you all for himself.

–

Kirk continues to watch you for at least another week; he’s practically memorized your schedule by now. He knows that recently, it’s become your habit to come into the rental store to rent a new horror movie every night, which is very convenient for him. He can follow you home and observe you as soon as he closes the shop, and on his days off, he can sneak into your bedroom window while you’re away and rummage through your underwear drawer, maybe even take a pair home for his nasty fantasies and return them the next day soiled with his cum. Kirk knows it’s disgusting, but that’s exactly why he enjoys it so much; the thought of you wearing a pair he’s soiled and not even realizing it gets him so worked up.

Kirk smiles to himself as he’s shelving tapes. Tonight, he would execute his master plan. Glancing at the clock, he sets things into motion—11:50 p.m. Right on time, you walk through the door, your previous rental in hand. Kirk nods his head to you in acknowledgement as you drop your tape into the return bin. He eyes you as you head to the horror section to peruse the available films before returning his attention to his task.

“Excuse me, Sir?” You squeak, standing behind Kirk. He whips around to face you, smiling and greeting you, “How may I help you?”

Kirk takes a moment to think; it’d be pretty ironic if he picked Scream for you. You watch his smile widen as he says, “Why don’t you just rent ‘em both?”

“Well, I’m a very indecisive person…so I was just wondering if you could help me decide which movie to rent.” You mumble quickly, holding up Scream and A Nightmare on Elm Street.

You shrug. “That’s my limit. I need to save as much money as possible, y’know.”

He puts his hand on your arm, and you tense up.

“How about I rent Elm Street for you…I’ll let you take it home if you promise to return it by tomorrow.”

Your eyes widen, and you smile at him. “Really? I swear I’ll have it back by this time tomorrow!”

He chuckles at your words, and his hand slips from your arm to your lower back. He guides you up to the counter, hand lingering for a bit too long on your body as he moves to check your rentals out. You think nothing of it, brushing it off as him being friendly.

He sees you to the door again, waving to you and shouting, “Have a good night, stay safe…” before closing the doors and locking up.

–

When the person on the other end replies, your stomach drops. His voice is gravelly, very obviously altered with a voice changer.

You’re almost an hour into Scream when the landline rings. You get up from the couch, stopping the tape before answering the phone, “Hello?”

“Who is this?”

You barely think before answering him, “Is this some sort of sick joke? It’s not very funny.”

“I assure you, this is very real…but you’ve got it all wrong in that pretty little head of yours. I just wanna talk...” he pouts on the other end.

“I don’t care. Bye now.” You state, putting the phone back on the hook and breathing a loud sigh.

As soon as you sit down and prepare to continue the movie, the phone rings again. You throw your head back and groan, standing up again to answer the call.

“Hello?” You hiss, annoyed that your movie time was interrupted by some dumbass playing a prank.

“Well, that wasn’t nice…” The man on the other line laughs, “I only said I wanted to talk.”

“Talk to someone else then.”

As you move to hang the phone up, you hear him growl, “Don’t you dare hang up on me, slut. I’ll slit your pretty little throat if you even think about it.”

Your words get caught in your throat, stunned at the switch from the once calm voice to the threatening one you hear now.

“Now, listen carefully, we’re gonna play a little game. Get one question wrong, and you’re dead, understand?”

You stand in shock, throat tightening painfully and tears beginning to well at the corners of your eyes.

“I said, do you understand? Yes or no.”

You nod, whimpering a soft “yes” through your tears.

You easily answer his first two questions, both about movies you’d already seen.

“That’s not fair! I haven’t finished watching the movie. There’s no way I’ll be able to answer this one correctly!”

“Good…now, who is the killer in Scream?” he asks, and you can almost hear the smirk in his voice.

“Too bad. You better start thinking of a good answer. Otherwise, it’s game over for you.”

Your brain is moving at a mile a minute, trying to recall every detail from the past hour of the movie that could point to who the killer might be. You remember the scene where the character Stu explains how to gut someone, which is quite suspicious. You take a shaky breath before answering, “Stu. The killer is Stu.”

“Sorry, doll…That’s incorrect. I guess that’s game over! The correct answer would’ve been Stu and Billy.”

“Wait, no! There was no way for me to get that one right! You tricked me!” You cry desperately, sinking to the floor and hiding beside the couch.

“Hmm…I guess that one was a bit unfair. Okay, how about this one: where am I?”

As he finishes the question, you hear your bedroom window being forced open and the stomp of heavy boots on your floor. In a panic, you drop the phone and quickly rush to the kitchen to grab anything you can to defend yourself. You grab a knife and duck behind the kitchen island, trying to steady your breath and be as quiet as possible. Holding the knife close to your chest, you peek around the island, catching a glimpse of a pair of black boots in the living room. Slowly, you begin crawling towards the hallway to your bedroom, thinking you could escape from the window he entered through.

Halfway down the hallway, the floor creaks as you take a step. You feel as if your heart is going to burst from your chest. The masked man’s head whips towards your direction, watching you as you scramble up from the floor, dropping the knife, bolting into the open bedroom door and slamming it behind you. Once in the room, you immediately run to the window but quickly realize that it’s closed. Curses fall from your lips as you search for an alternative, ultimately deciding to slide underneath your bed.

Your bedroom door creaks open, the man’s heavy boots sounding like thunder with each step he takes. You cover your mouth with your hand, eyes squeezing shut to keep yourself from letting tears spill down your face. You can hear him open the window again, and you assume he’s checking to make sure you didn’t get away. He moves from the window to the closet, throwing the door open and checking every inch for you.

Your heart is pounding as he circles the bed. And then suddenly, his footsteps stop. You wait a few seconds before doing your best to look over your shoulder in the cramped space. A scream escapes your throat when you see that goddamned mask looking at you all squished under the bed. You feel his hand grab onto your ankle, and before you can even start to react, he’s pulling you out from your hiding spot. Your hands grasp for something to hold onto, legs kicking frantically to try to escape his hold.

Your efforts are in vain as he easily pulls you from underneath the bed. You continue to struggle in his grasp, flailing around, trying to get him to let go. The man makes the mistake of not securing your hands first, allowing you to reach towards his mask and pull it from his head. Your Brows furrow in confusion as you take in the face of the unmasked man–the sweet movie rental boy named Kirk. He’s stunned for a second, not expecting you to be so bold, but quickly snaps out of it and reaches for his knife. He uses one hand to hold you down on the floor as the other presses the knife to your throat.

“I wasn’t planning on killing you before, doll…I was just havin’ a bit of fun.” He clicks his tongue and shakes his head, “But now that you’ve seen my face, I’m afraid you’ve gotta go; I can't have you running around telling everyone my secret.”

“Please…” You whimper quietly, “I’ll do anything; please don’t kill me.”

“Those are dangerous words, slut. Are you sure you stand by them? You’ll do anything for me to spare your life?” His tone is sinister, and you see a dangerous glint in his eyes through your tears.

“Yes. I swear, anything you want.”

His grip slowly loosens on your neck, and he lightly slides the knife's tip down your neck.

“Good.” He smiles, standing up and grabbing a fistful of your hair, “Get on the bed.”

Kirk uses his grip on your hair to pull you up from the floor and shoves you back onto the mattress. You watch him, eyes wide and scared as he stalks closer.

“Shirt off, now. Otherwise, I’ll take it off for you, and I promise you don’t want that.”

You pull the shirt over your head with shaky hands, immediately moving to cover your exposed tits out of embarrassment. Kirk growls and reaches forward to move your arms away from your chest.

“Hide yourself from me again, and I cut you, whore.”

Kirk continues making you undress until you're in only your pretty blue panties. When he sees the pair you decided to wear, that dangerous smile returns to his face, “Y’know…that’s one of the pairs I jerked off with.”

He says it so casually that you almost disregard it until you fully process what he said. You respond with a simple “Huh?”

“Yeah, I snuck in here and stole a pair to use almost every time you were gone.” He laughs, “You make it awfully easy for someone to break in…if I didn’t know better, I’d think you wanted me to.”

Kirk unlaces his boots, slides them off, and then climbs onto the bed to hover over your body. His hand slips lower and lower, caressing down your plush body until he reaches your clothed cunt. Running two fingers over your pussy through your panties, Kirk chuckles, “You should be ashamed of yourself. You’re soaked for the man who threatened to kill you…fucking whore.”

You whine as he rubs at your cunt, hips lifting to chase his hand as he pulls it back.

“Look at that…” he teases, “My little doll is already desperate for me, and I’ve barely touched her.”

Kirk finds the knife again, sliding it up your leg slowly before finally letting it rest on your cunt. Your heart speeds up when you see the knife so close to you. He drags it to your hip, slipping it under the waistband of your underwear and slicing through it, mirroring his actions on the opposite side as well. He pulls the ruined fabric away from your sopping cunt, leaving you entirely bare under him.

In an instant, the blade of the knife is pressed to your throat again. He slips a finger into your cunt, fucking it into you painfully slow.

“Better not move too much. We wouldn’t want that pretty throat of yours slit open, would we?”

Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, scared that any slight movement of your throat will get you cut. When your hip bucks up into his hand again, you feel a sting where the knife is pressing into your skin. “Whoops!” He exclaims in fake surprise, “Guess I got a little carried away…” Kirk brings the knife away from your neck and up to his lips, tongue darting out to clean your blood from the blade.

You’re absolutely sure he has a few screws loose, but you honestly couldn’t care less right now. You cry out as he adds another finger, stretching you open perfectly. Your hands grasp his hair, threading your fingers to find purchase in the curls. Your vision blurs as he speeds up, the coil in your stomach feeling like it could snap at any second. Kirk makes you cum faster with his fingers than anyone else has ever made you cum.

You moan loudly, body shaking and convulsing as you let go around his fingers. He helps you ride out your orgasm, thumb rubbing lightly at your clit, overstimming you ever so slightly. Kirk drops the knife to your side and begins lifting the black ghostface robe off of himself, revealing the Misfits shirt he wore earlier that night. He unzips his jeans and pulls his boxers down just enough for his dick to bob out.

‘Can’t wait to slip into your tight and messy cunt, doll…so fuckin’ wet for me.” He growls, teasing the head of his cock against your sensitive clit. Kirk pushes your legs up to your chest, practically folding you in half, and uses one hand to keep you in place. His other hand rests on your throat, adding light pressure as he pushes his cock into your cunt. You grip the sheets as his cock stretches you open.

He’s relentless with his thrusts once he bottoms out, fucking into you like an animal. “Fuck, Kirk!” You cry, “So fuckin’ good, feels like you’re in my guts…”

He grips your throat tighter, and the cut from earlier begins to sting again. You can't tell if the tears falling from your eyes are from the pain or the pleasure at this point; all you know is that you don’t want Kirk to stop. The lack of oxygen makes your brain feel fuzzy, and you’re not sure what to pay attention to anymore. Everything feels so overwhelming.

“Mmh, shit…I can feel you tightening up on me.” Kirk groans, “If your pussy keeps hugging me like this, I might just have to fuckin’ breed you, doll.”

Lost in the moment, all you can do is whine his name as he fucks into you faster, lewd sounds of skin against skin echoing off the walls. He moves his hand from your throat, allowing you to catch your breath. The now free hand moves down to play with your clit, rubbing it in tight circles, pushing you closer and closer to your climax.

You see white as you cum around Kirk’s cock, low whines and loud moans falling from your lips. Kirk’s orgasm comes not long after yours, cock throbbing inside you as he empties his cum into your cunt. You expect him to pull out and leave as soon as he’s done, but surprisingly, he doesn’t. Instead, he picks the knife up again, hovering over your left tit. He brings the knife down and begins to carve something into your skin. It hurts like hell, and you tear up as he does it. He pulls back to examine his work after he’s finished, eyes scanning the marred flesh with pride. You look down, trying to see what he carved, only being able to make out the letters ‘K.H.’

Kirk pulls out from your cunt and watches as his cum spills from you with a sadistic smile. “Hope you’re on the pill, doll.” He mumbles as he tucks himself back into his boxers and zips his jeans. He puts his boots back on and grabs his knife and costume before going over to the window and opening it. As he’s climbing out, he looks back at you, who is on the verge of passing out on your bed.

“Thanks, doll…Keep it up like this, and I won’t have to kill you. See ya around.”

Kirk is gone in an instant, and you’re left alone on your bed, pussy filled with his cum and his initials carved into your tit.

tags: @ridethehammett