#but at least give him a tent to sleep in instead of him just standing out in the middle of nowhere | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

moonstruckme · 3 months

Note

James Potter or tasm!peter parker fluff or comfort?? I dont mind whatever you write ill love 🙏🙏

Thanks for requesting :)

cw: implied past abuse

tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

Peter’s having a rough week. These things always seem to happen to him. He’s got a big presentation at work on Friday, by which time the project he’s been underfunded and understaffed for has to be finished. His Aunt May has been busy with work, too, so either you or Peter is at her place most nights trying to help out, except she seems to think when it’s Peter it’s familial responsibility but when it’s you it's an unfair burden, so it’s mostly been Peter. There’s also an impressively organized cell of criminals he’s been trying to investigate before they blow up a bank or something. So of course, he’s sleep deprived to boot.

And while you know the rough edge of frustration in his voice isn’t meant for you, hearing it makes your skin tighten nonetheless.

“How does a person run out of salt?” Peter stalks through the front door and straight into the kitchen. “Or maybe the better question is, why does it take going to three bodegas to find one with salt in stock?”

He’s soaked from the rain, and you feel guilty for being all cozied up on the couch while he’s been running around the city. Maybe it’s irrational, but you feel sort of like you should have been stressed out and cold all night, too. In solidarity.

“May didn’t have salt?” you guess as Peter opens the fridge, stooping low to peer inside.

“You should see her pantry, babe. It’s like everything either expired at the turn of the century or got bugs in it. Hey, did you make anything for dinner?”

“No.” You hesitate. “You told me you wanted to eat at May’s, so I had the leftovers from last night.”

“Shit.” He closes the fridge, resting his forehead on the door. “You’re right. I totally forgot, I only made enough for her.”

“I’ll make something now.” You stand. Peter gives you a look that conveys both apology and gratitude as you join him in your small kitchen. “You feel like pasta?”

“Thank you,” he says, kissing the top of your head lightly.

“Course,” you murmur. Really, it feels like the least you can do. “Would you mind chopping up some basil?”

“For my own dinner?” Peter teases. The levity in his voice is obviously forced, and the air between you heavies as he realizes you’ve heard it too.

You almost don’t want to ask, but you do want to be a supportive girlfriend. You can lend him a compassionate ear. “How was work today?”

He sighs, grabbing the cutting board from a cabinet near your feet and shutting the door with perhaps a tad too much force.

“It was…ahh.” He scrubs a hand through his hair, stooping again into the white fridge light to find the basil. It casts dark shadows underneath his eyes. “You’ve gotta be sick of hearing about this.”

“It’s okay. Unless you don’t feel like talking about it.”

“No, it’s just, how do they expect us to stick to their tight schedule when half of my lab is being pulled away to other projects all the time?” Peter’s knife slices through the basil, hitting the cutting board with a sharp thunk. “Today, we were down one intern who caught the stomach flu, and it set us way back. One intern shouldn’t be that crucial to a big project like this!”

You hum, ignoring the way the back of your neck prickles. The tension emanating from Peter is completely valid, your reaction a bothersome, purposeless souvenir from an old life. You find yourself staring into the pot of water and waiting for it to boil.

“And it’s not like it’s anyone’s fault, but all the rest of us are working extra hours to try and get this done in time.”

Small bubbles in the bottom of the pot, rising tentatively to the surface. Peter’s knife thunks a quickening rhythm on the cutting board.

“If they’d given us the money we asked for, we could have hired more people, been working with better equipment, but instead—” The water starts to rumble, steam warming your face. It’s thick in your throat. “—it’s like we don’t even work for a top-notch lab. Like, do they think we really believe they don’t have any resources to spare?”

Peter’s voice is rising, irritation sharpening his words. You reach to turn down the stove when big bubbles reach the surface, splattering hot onto your wrist. You ignore the sting.

“My boss keeps talking about how important this presentation is,” Peter goes on, opening the cabinet next to your head and reaching inside, “but if it were really important, he’d have—” He slams the cabinet door.

You both freeze.

To anyone else, it would look like nothing—the way your expression stays perfectly still, your muscles stiffening just slightly, the invisible pause in your heartbeat. But Peter knows you.

“Sorry.” He sounds as breathless as you feel. “I’m sorry. You okay?”

“Mhm.” Despite your best intentions, your voice comes out pitchy. You can’t make yourself move in a way that feels natural, so you stay not moving at all. Steam wafting warm up onto your face.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Peter says, tone softer than you’ve heard it in days. “I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean to yell.” The roiling pot has calmed to a gurgle. You can see him swallow in your peripheral vision. “Can you look at me?”

You take in what you hope is a subtle breath, turning to your boyfriend with a wan smile. “Sorry,” you manage. “I don’t know why I did that.”

“It’s okay,” he says, brows bunched in the middle. Brown eyes like a puppy’s.

He shifts his arms, a question, and you step into them. You do it more for him than for you, but the second Peter’s arms wrap around your back the last of the tension shudders out of you. You hug him back, rubbing between his shoulder blades reassuringly.

“I scared you?” he asks, still in that soft voice like he’s afraid of startling you. It’s not really a question. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to get so mad.”

“You’re allowed to be mad,” you argue weakly. There’s an embarrassing blockage in your throat. “It’s not your fault if I freak out, you should still be allowed to vent.”

“No, but I know how you are.” Peter squeezes your shoulders. “I can vent without slamming things. It’s not nice.”

You don’t have much of an argument for that. Still, “You really shouldn’t be the one comforting me right now,” you point out.

A light hum. “Says who? I’m feeling a lot better already.” His hand climbs up to cup the back of your neck, his face turning down so his lips rest on your head. “Should’a just gone straight for the hug when I got home. Might have saved us both a lot of ranting.”

You push your face into his sweatshirt, mindless of its dampness. He smells like rainwater. You don’t know how you could ever have thought, even for a second, that someone like this could be capable of hurting you.

“I’ll make a note of that,” you murmur.

“Yeah, please do,” Peter teases, pressing a kiss to your head. He pulls away and sets two still-chilled hands on your face. “Are you really okay?” he asks sincerely. “I know how scared you get, sweetheart. I’m so sorry I did that to you.”

“You didn’t mean to,” you tell him, “and it wouldn’t be your fault anyways. I’m really okay.”

Your boyfriend nods, but he still looks troubled. “Another hug for good measure?”

“For you or for me?”

A corner of his mouth kicks up. “Does it matter?”

It doesn’t really.

427 notes · View notes

graveyardcuddles · 3 months

Text

The Space Between - NSFW Reader x Astarion one-shot

18+ MDI

Summary: blood drinking and other fun activities in front of the mirror.

Word Count: ~ 2800

tags/warnings: post-canon, established relationship, porn with feelings, afab reader, gender-neutral reader, shameless vampire smut, blood-drinking, scent kink, mirror play, body exploration, fingering, PiV sex, unprotected sex

Astarion rarely ever mentions his lack of a reflection these days. Whenever the topic is brought up it's normally in his trademark sense of humor: a casual "You're blocking my view, love," when you enter your shared bathroom to preen as he's washing his mouth out with mint and rosemary water in the mornings. One of the many new habits he's picked up in the months since the two of you moved in.

He'll occasionally sneak up behind you to wrap his arms around you unexpectedly while checking over your outfit in the mirror, scaring the daylights out of you more than once. "We do look good together, don't we?" playfully whispered to you as his cool breath tickles your ear before proceeding to break out into heady laughter at your frightened reaction.

Your lover has had so many things taken from him. You could hardly blame him for holding onto his rage. Wrath was all he had for so long. Enabled him to survive before you came into his life and shared your blood with him. Gave him hope that despite everything he lost, he might one day at least have revenge. After achieving said revenge, for the first time in nearly two centuries, he could imagine more.

Adventures with you in the years following the fall of the Absolute only brought you two closer, intertwining his life with yours. The feeling of belonging to someone without being possessed by them. It was overwhelming at times for him. Most of the time on your travels together, he was happy to sit or stand back while you planned out the finer details of travel routes and provisions around the campire, carefully mapping out the following day. Yet it was usually never very long before he decided ne needed your attention, using his vampiric stealth to his advantage to startle you into breaking your concentration with a cold kiss to your neck.

You weren't all that surprised to how well he took to his freedom, having had faith in him and his resilient nature. But sometimes you were taken aback how easily Astarion accepted the daily monotony of everyday life. Oh sure, he had much to complain about and many eye-rolls to give every time he mentioned how terribly boring the whole prospect sounded. At first, he was resistant to routines. Too restrictive. He was free now. He wanted to do whatever he wanted when he wanted. You assured him you weren't about to give a vampire a sleep schedule but that he should at least pick up some hobbies during your off-seasons of adventuring.

Eventually, the two of you settled into something of a routine, and over time, you found yourself unable to imagine a life without him. The way his laughter filled you up with joy. The sound of him practicing on the recently-aquired piano in your living room, shy and tentative at first. He now plays almost daily. The way the scents of the perfumes he crafts fill your home. Everything about Astarion seemed to fit perfectly into your life, even if it took patience and time.

You had just finished a bath and were going through your nighttime routine as you stood before the full-length mirror in your bedroom. Letting the towel fall away, you combed your hair and applied perfume to your wrists and clavicle. It's a new blend of fragrancs Astarion had spent a tenday perfecting. Floral with warm undertones and a hint of sweetness. It was easy to lose yourself in it. Close your eyes and let it's aroma warm and dissipated across your skin. You feel relaxed and light. If Astarion wanted to be particularly cheeky, he could startle you quite badly if he wanted to. Instead, he announces his presence softly.

"Hello, darling," he purrs to you as he steps up behind you.

You smile as he places the tips of his fingers on your shoulders, touching you so lightly you can barely feel them. Letting yourself lean back a little, you relax into his chest and run your fingers through his hair, inviting him to touch you further.

"Fond of the new blend, are you?" He lips leave cool kisses in the crook of your neck as breaths in your scent. You chuckle and kiss his cheek.

"As a matter of fact, I am. I think it might be my favorite so far." He grins in that unique way he does when you know he's hiding something.

"What is it?" You query as he kisses your shoulder and runs his hands down to ever-so-lightly hold onto your hips. "Oh nothing," he says nonchalantly as he kisses up your neck, kindling warmth throughout your body.

"Right... you're just that giddy I enjoy the new scent, is it?" Your hands wander through his silver curls and gently brush against the tip of one of his ears. His fingers dig into your hips, and he buries he groans softly into your neck. "Mmm, I might have made it with you in mind," he mumbles into your skin.

You watch in the mirror as invisible digits dig into the pads of your hips, skin on your lower belly pulled taut from how hard he was gripping you. It was nearly painful. You inhale sharply give his ear an extremely soft tug, determined to give as much teasing as you got.

"Oh? Do you mean it compliments my natural pheromones is that it?" Astarion hummed and kissed along your neck mercilessly. "Something like that," he says melodicly as he grazes his fangs across where your jugular throbs, tantalizing him.

In the mirror, your arm seemingly floats overhead, caressing your unseen lover. You turn to actually look at him, and his eyes are full of lust and longing and vulnerability. "It's inspired by the scent of your blood," he whispers as those big crimson eyes stare at you through silver lashes. "Meant to pair with your impossibly delicious bouquet." One of his pale hands comes up to cup your breast.

You sigh at his touch. "Would you like to test how well they pair together, then?" He begins to trace lazy circles around your nipple with his forefinger, and you inhale sharply as you watch its reflection wiggling and twitching in the mirror. The sight alone was making you quickly lose your composure, his fingers sending cold shivers across your skin.

Your excited heart begins pounding rapidly against your ribs, and you're certain that Astarion can hear it. Probably smell it. He once told you the scent of someone's blood becomes stronger the faster it rushes through their body.

"In fact," he leaves a deep, bruising kiss on your neck, and the imprints of both of his hands sink into the flesh of your breasts as they dig into you. His needy grip on them has you bracing against him. "May I please indulge, my love? We can move to the bed and get more comfortable."

You were rapidly losing your will to continue teasing him. Leaning your head back, you offer your neck to him in answer. "Mmm, no. Wanna watch you drink from me here," You lean back further and stare up as him adoringly. He smiles with a wicked sort of pride that's normally reserved for combat. "Well, how can I say 'no' to that?"

With practiced lips, he feels out your pulse point slowly, taking his time. The burning in your core that's been building for a while now is nearly painful. You watch your nipples continue to be pintched and stretched seemingly on their own. Astarion licks up your artery, and you can see his saliva glistening on your neck just as you feel it.

Despite your best efforts to maintain your composure, you squirm a little in his hold. He laughs, kissing your cheek. "You know better than to flail about, darling. Let's not have an accident, hm?" Gently, he tilts your head back and to the side, holding you firm by the jawline. His forefinger and thumb rub your chin tenderly as his fangs line up with your neck. His other hand comes up to rest his palm over your heart, feeling it hammer underneath his touch.

You watch as the side of your neck, slick, wet, and rudy from hickeys and love nips, forms two tiny indentation marks. He ghosts his fangs over the spot, creating pinpricks marks over where your blood pounds just under the skin.

The tension builds as those twins dots dig deeper into your skin. The burning icy bite turns into a sharp sting as you hear the soft mutted 'pop' of your skin being broken. You exhale a strained moan as the marks on your neck erupt, and crimson ichor wells up and washes over your flesh. Your neck is painted in red as his velvety tongue works over the wounds, each roll licking up more maroon gushes.

Mouthfuls of your blood vanish before your eyes as he drinks you in, making you a part of him. Invisible lips and teeth tug and suckle at your flesh, drawing out more blood. In your ear, you hear the sound of your blood on his lips, every greedy gulp from his throat, and every little satisfied exhale from his nose. You begin to lose your balance as your head gets light, but his hold on you remains firm. Just as you feel yourself growing weak, he withdraws his fangs and laps at the bite to close the wounds.

Without warning, he uses his supernatural strength advantage to lift you off of your feet, hugging you by your waist. You lean back against him and watch as you float midair, your feet hovering a few inches off of the floor. A trickle of blood flows from your neck down your torso. Your head is spinning, your toes curl, and you feel as though you might pass out. Luckily, he takes mercy on you and slowly sets you down. You stumble a little on your feet. "Ugh, asshole," you mutter. Astarion can only laugh.

"Delicious as always," he says to you, voice low and rumbling. "You are always full of such brilliant ideas, you know that?" he giggles as he nuzzles into your neck, keeping a firm hold on you. Turning your head to look up at him, he traces the edges of your face as he smiles, a bit loosened up from your essence.

He pulls you into a bloody kiss, mouths open, and tongues overlapping one another. His hand cups between your legs as you kiss, and you moan loudly into his mouth. When he pulls away, he gives you a playful look. "Sit, love," his eyes are full of anticipation as he gingerly pushes you down by the shoulders.

You sit back on your knees, and he settles down behind you, keeping an arm around your waist. "You like seeing yourself like this, darling?" He pulls you flush against him to sit on his lap, back flushed against his chest and legs straddling his thighs. You feel his arousal pressing into your ass as your reflection hovers just off the ground in the mirror, leaving you exposed to him. "Because I adore you like this. So wanton," he kneads one of your breasts while his other hand holds you still against him.

Your core throbs with need, and Astarion watches you over your shoulder eagerly. He tugs on your nipple some more, causing pleasure to shoot down your body. You feel your cunt fluttering around nothing as he mercilessly draws out your pleasure. Your pelvic muscles contract involuntarily as you stiffle back a whine.

"Aw, does it ache, darling? Do you need to be filled so badly that it hurts?" He keeps playing with your breasts and your body heaves and pants from your nipples being overstimulated and your pussy being neglected. You loll your head back, aching with arousal. "No, no," he scolds, taking you by the jaw and making you watch yourself. "Just look at the mess you made, naughty thing." He wasn't lying.

Your cunt was desperate for attention, pulsing and leaking slick down to the bulge of his pants. You're beyond trying to keep yourself quiet and you moan desperately as Astarion applies pressure to the flesh just above your clit with his fingerpads, just barely tugging on the sensitive bud. He was torturing you, so close and yet so far. "Ugh, Astarion pleeeaasee." You grind your ass against his erection, trying to convey your desperation. But feeling him throb underneath you as he groans your name only drives you more crazy.

His fingers move down to finally run along between your legs, tracing light circles slowly around your bud. Taking his time. You moan openly for more. As you wriggle in his lap, he plays with your pussy, admiring how it pulsates so frantically, begging to be filled.

He finally gives you some relief as he presses two fingers inside you, your body more than ready enough. His silver curls tickle the side of your face as he leans his head forward to get a better look. As you feel the familiar, wonderful stretch of his cool fingers, he gasps softly in quiet astonishment.

"Look, love," he whispers to you. Looking in the mirror, you see the ringed muscles around your cunt quivering as your pussy is gapped open by his fingers. Two fingers become three as he plunges even deeper and wider into you. Your lips are pulled and pushed back and forth by unseen forces as Astarion whispers sweet nothings in your ear. Your body is unbearably hot, yet his cool frame and fingers provide relief even as he simultaneously makes it worse.

"You're so beautiful like this," he says softly, his teasing demeanor beginning to fall away. "Your body is so open for me. It's so lovely, so gorgeous. All for me." He kisses you on the side of your face as you lose yourself to the sensations. "Fuck," he pulls his fingers out of you and pushes you off of him to undo his pants. "You'll be the second death of me."

Astarion pulls you back onto his lap, shifting your hips so that his cock is nestled between your folds, parting them and rubbing up against your clit. His lazy rocking motions are meant to further edge you, but you can hear him breathing heavily in your ear, trying to maintain composure.

You rolled your hips in turn, increasing the friction and causing lewd sounds to fall from both of your lips. Astarion makes a high-pitched whining sound that he fails to stifle, making him bite his lip and knit his brows together in desperation. He was adorable like this.

You reach down between your legs and stroke up and down your folds and his shaft. Grabbing onto his length, you turn back to look at him, seeking permission. He nods, gripping your hips tighter.

You line him up with your entrance and watch as your pussy stretches again, the pressure pushing inward as the head spreads you open. Lowering yourself over him slowly, you savor the sight of him filling you.

"Gods," his chin digs a little into your shoulder as he watches along with you, his breathing heavy. He openly moans as you sink down on him fully, feeling the base settling around you. He whispers your name and pulsates within you, causing the ring between your legs to flutter.

"Fuck," his digits sink into the soft flesh of hips and he struggles to form words as he observes your body. "So full of me," he pants.

Holding the position, you can see at least a few inches within your body, your pelvic muscles hugging Astarion tight. You tilt your head over to look at him, how he watches your body react to him. He looks almost dizzy, his mouth hanging open in a haze of lust. You run your fingers across his cheekbone gently, breaking him from his concentration on your reflection.

His eyes hold your stare as you simply feel one another. Your arms wrap around his head as you pull him into a kiss, this time gently. Still full of passion but slow, burning, lips and tongue softly brushing against one another as your faces nuzzled together. "I'm yours," you break the kiss to say to him. Within you can feel his cock throbbing, causing you to gasp and tighten around him.

"Say it again," he growls softly, pressing his forehead into yours and moving a hand down to just above your pubic bone. He applies counter pressure on where his cock is already internally pressing on your g-spot.

He rocks just enough to move in and out of you by a few inches, keeping himself inside. "I'm yours, Astarion!" The bow drawn tight inside of you was threatening to let loose. You were babbling more than dirty talking as Astarion turned his attention once more on your pearl. As he bounces you roughly in his lap, he presses onto your lower abdomen while rutting into you.

The rough fucking along with the stimulation of your g-spot and clit have you cumming around his cock, your muscles contracting wildly. Astarion praises you breathlessly as he watches you flex around him in ecstacy, and his voice is quickly cut off with a succession of whines, which become moans as your climax pushes him towards his own.

His cock throbs, filling you up as he clutches onto you, pale fingers digging into your ass and hips. In the mirror your messy and swollen pussy pulses rhythmically as it leaks with his cum.

You relax into his chest as you let him slip out of you, his arms wrap around you and hold you close.

You sit there together for a long while, kissing each other tenderly. His lips delicately kiss each finger on your hand, and then the back of your hand and up to your shoulder before kissing all over, adorning you with affection. He kisses you as if he's trying to trace constellations on your face. You shift to sit on his lap and cup his face gently. Sweeping a lock off of his forehead, you lean forward to kiss his brow. "We fit together perfectly."

376 notes · View notes

ohmygraves · 8 months

Text

i'm coming down with a flu i think so how about some ghost taking care of sick!reader?

when you wake up in the morning, you feel like you have swallowed pieces of glass in your sleep. your eyes felt hot, watering as you tried to rub it away to no avail. your sinuses felt awful too, you can't breathe properly through your nose. and worst of all you noticed that it's not even morning anymore, as the clock on your nightstand says 13:47 instead.

you started to panic, of course, you missed work and worried about getting in trouble with your boss, frantically searching for your phone. you saw it being charged just beside the clock (not where you left it, clearly you always fell asleep on your phone so it should be on the bed), confused as you unplugged it. your husband must've charged it on your behalf.

expecting for the worst, you braced for at least 53 missed calls from your boss and coworkers, though finding none instead. this surprises you, as you clearly know that your boss would've eaten you alive if you didn't return his calls, let alone missing most of the work hours.

simon suddenly walked in, placing a cup of hot honey lemon concoction on the nightstand. this confuses you evenmore.

"aren't you supposed to be at work?"

"well, you're at home yourself, love. aren't you supposed to be at work?"

when you rolled your eyes in annoyance, simon couldn't help but chuckle, sitting down beside you on your shared bed.

"asked th' old man to let me stay home today. said i'll get the whole base sick with the germs i carried to work."

as ridiculous as it sounds, at least it makes a lot of sense. you took a small tentative sip from the cup, flinching from the temperature. you didn't expect it to be so hot, then again simon always liked his beverages scalding.

"what about my work—"

"called your workplace for you, sweetheart. just rest for now, you sound worse than price today."

"you're so mean..."

"well i love you too."

he stood up, giving your head a small pat, his lips curled into a small smile. "i'll get you some food so you can take your meds."

you nodded weakly, unsure what else to say now since now your head feels like it's spinning. you placed the hot cup back on the nightstand, not wanting to spill it and getting hot lemon all over the bed or the carpet. no way in hell you're cleaning all the mess when you can't even stand up.

you must've fallen asleep afterwards, as simon woke you up, a bowl of hearty cream soup in hand. it has all of your favorite things in it, and smells surprisingly good. that's odd, simon doesn't really cook.

"where'd you buy this...?" you asked, clearly can't see him cooking this from scratch.

"i made this for you, love. now stop being snarky and eat it."

you didn't even have the energy to protest, just taking small bites from the bowl. it was surprisingly tasty, although a little too salty for you. some of the vegetables are also a little undercooked. now this is more like what you expected.

"not bad, gordon ramsey."

"still have the energy to joke around, i see."

"it's a compliment, simon."

now it was his turn to roll his eyes, sitting beside you and watching you eat his food. you pointed out how it tasted, and what he might have to fix next. he nodded quietly, hand caressing your hair slowly as he listened.

"i didn't get any call or text from work... what did you do?"

"just a little convincing, nothing big."

he didn't mention (vaguely) threatening your boss, or how he basically begged the captain to stay home today so he could take care of you instead. you don't need to know that.

#i felt physically ill #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty headcanon #simon ghost riley #cod headcanon #simon ghost riley x reader #cod ghost x reader #tw: sick #sick fic

637 notes · View notes

karinab00bs · 6 months

Note

can i req for a sumin stayc fic!

A Night to Remember

Sumin x named reader! (i hope u dont mind)

tags: smut, sex, nipple play, (semi?) public sex

”Is this the right road? We’ve been here three times,” Ethan’s words did not sound like a question. The girl who was called just now sighed softly because she didn’t go up the mountain that often. At first, Sumin had refused to join the event for a night of getting closer to each other on the mountain like this because she had no experience. Whether Sumin should be grateful or not because, at least she didn’t get lost alone.

”I don’t know.. This is also my first time.” Sumin could see Ethan’s confused face. Ethan should be able to depend on her being a senior, but unfortunately this time the man who was a year younger than her had to take over.

”Don’t stay away from me; if we get separated, it’s more trouble. I left a trail so that someone could find out that we are here, and please check your cellphone if there is a signal to contact the other student.” Ethan's intonation did not sound patronizing, but Sumin nodded obediently.

The sky was getting darker, darker than usual. Sumin glanced at her watch, and it was still seven o’clock. But somehow it felt like ten already. They should have been resting in the tents by this time and then, half an hour later, gathering around the campfire. But instead, they were lost in the seemingly unfriendly weather.

”Ethan..” called Sumin, and without many words, she held Ethan’s hand, who had just turned his head.

”Your hands are really cold; are you okay? Do you want to use my jacket?” Sumin shook her head slowly. She knew the night was cold, and she didn’t want Ethan to give up the only source of warmth he had for her.

”No, I’m just afraid of getting lost.. Can I hold your hand?” The man nodded, not objecting at all. First, he was also cold; second, Sumin, who was everyone’s crush, was holding his hand. Who would refuse?

”Btw, do you have a tent? I only have a sleeping bag in my backpack because my friend brought a tent.” Sumin had not yet answered. The sound of thunder made the girl jump in place. Ethan approached to hug and calm her. ”It’s okay. I’ve got you,” he whispered softly. But, suddenly, they felt the drops of rain falling; it poured down on the two people, who did not have time to find a place until they were both soaked. Ethan pulled Sumin’s hand under a tree not far from where they were standing just now. It was still raining, but at least the branches and leaves kept them a little protected.

It was cold; Sumin’s whole body was wet from the rain, making her shiver, and she unconsciously heard the chattering of her teeth because it was too cold. Ethan turned to her and held her cold hands, giving them a gentle squeeze and rub to make them at least warmer.

”Ethan, I think the tent is in my backpack. Can you put it on?” Asked Sumin, the man nodded slowly, then unloaded Sumin’s carier. The girl sat huddled against the tree that sheltered them, her body trembling from the cold, making Ethan try his best to be quick in putting up the tent despite the rain that had begun to subside, not as hard as before.

Sumin closed her eyes while trying to hug herself. Then she felt a warm hand on her forehead and then on both cheeks. ”I’m afraid you’re sick; let’s go to the tent. I’ve put up the tent. There’s a sleeping bag, but if you can… ehm… sorry… you can just undress because your clothes is all wet.”

Sumin nodded quickly. ”Thank you, Ethan..” The sentence was replied to with Ethan’s soothing smile, which makes him look more handsome than before.

The rain began to subside, but the drops were still there. Sumin had undone all the threads attached to her body and got into the sleeping bag that Ethan had brought.

Sumin heard a sneeze from outside the tent. Ethan was cold too; she thought, “Ethan..” She called softly, but it was quite audible.

“Why? Your lips are blue for God’s sake.” Without being asked, Ethan entered the tent and helped Sumin lie back down. The man rubbed his palms together and then placed them on Sumin’s neck until warmth spread from there.

Ethan sneezed again, making the girl, who was still shivering, anxious too.

“Ethan.. come here; it’s still cold in here,” Sumin said while holding Ethan’s hand.

“My clothes are all wet; you’ll get cold,” Ethan gently refused.

“Just take off your shirt.” Sumin could see Ethan swallow. “It’s okay.. Come here.”

“If you say so..” Ethan replied that he was actually still full of hesitation, but why not instead of freezing to death?

Sumin bit her lip because she was still shivering, and now, in front of her eyes, she could see Ethan opening one cloth after another on her body. Well, the man was not typical muscular; he was quite skinny because of his height, but he looked proportional. Just look at how the man’s stomach was formed. Damn. Sumin averted her eyes because she didn’t want to look like a pervert.

“Sorry..” Ethan said it again before getting into the sleeping bag. Sumin nodded slowly. Ethan embraced Sumin’s body, which was smaller than his, in a hug. Slowly, Sumin’s felt more warm; she comfortably leaned against Ethan’s broad chest and tried to close her eyes. But suddenly she felt a hard object touching her womanhood. She looked up to look at Ethan’s face, which turned red. “I swear, Sumin, I’m sorry.. It wasn’t on purpose.

“It’s okay.. Maybe because it’s cold,” Sumin replied with red cheeks as well.

“Y-yes.. Obviously.. It was cold, and there was a beautiful naked girl hugging me so.. Sorry..” Sumin buried her face in Ethan’s chest and blushed. “I won’t do anything to you, unless you let me.. So.. If you want me as I want you.. you may.. do something to me.”

Hearing that sentence, Sumin moved and pulled the edge of the sleeping bag up to cover her head. She could hear Ethan laughing and calling her adorable.

Sumin hugged Ethan’s waist again and buried her beautiful face in his neck. There was silence, only gentle strokes on her head and back. Comfortable. Pleasant. But Ethan’s cock is still hard, still standing upright even though Ethan hasn’t spoken for a while, maybe calming down so as not to be carried away by his desire.

Sumin put one leg up around Ethan’s waist, indirectly giving Ethan’s hard cock access to tuck right into her pussy. She could feel Ethan holding his breath.

“Sumin?” called Ethan.

“Mm? It’s cold,” she replied. It was cold, but that wasn’t what Sumin really wanted.

“Do you want to try it?” Not answering, Sumin just gave a small nod, letting Ethan cheer in the day. “I’ll be slow; tell me if you want to stop. I’m not forcing you.”

Feeling he had permission, Ethan’s one hand that had been wrapped around her waist now began to boldly rub Sumin’s thigh and then slowly move her waist up and down, giving a gentle friction to their bodies. Ethan lowered his head to give light kisses on Sumin’s neck and shoulder, then down to her chest and boldly kissed the top of her breast, making Sumin bite her lip while squeezing Ethan’s shoulder. She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of Ethan’s tongue moving around her cold, hardened nipples, and soon sucked gently. A sigh escaped Sumin’s lips when Ethan did the same to her other nipple, but his suction became stronger there.

“Ethan.. ahhh.. mmm..” Sumin couldn’t hold back her sigh because what Ethan was doing to her body was too much for her; just the suction on the top of her chest was making her wet. Damn it, she cursed.

“May I put my dick in?” There was nothing sweeter than that question, and Sumin nodded slowly. And slowly, Ethan makes Sumin lie down while he is on top of her, making Sumin’s face red because now Ethan is looking at her, not like a starving person but with a smile and then a peck on the lips. Crazy, he looks pro in Sumin’s mind; it seems like it is not his first time, but what the hell, Sumin likes his sweet treatment.

Sumin held her breath as Ethan’s slowly entered her, really slowly, and many times Ethan looked at Sumin’s face to see if she was in pain or not. Finally, with a single jerk, Ethan’s entered, fully fitting Sumin’s pussy.

Moans were heard, but out of embarrassment, Sumin immediately hugged Ethan’s body and hid her face, still too embarrassed to be honest that Ethan really made her feel good.

For God’s sake, Sumin also saw the reddish tinge on Ethan’s face, and soon the man began to move his waist slowly, very slowly, as if it might hurt Sumin. “Does it hurt?" He asked softly. Sumin shook her head. “If it hurts, tell me.” After that sentence, Ethan’s waist movements got faster and faster, making his whole body as well as Sumin's warmer.

“A-ahh… Ethan… nghhh…” Sumin’s moans became more uncontrollable; all her shyness and logic were gone; the only thing left was pleasure because Ethan was now stomping on her right at Sumin’s weakest point until she moaned even more crazily.

“Sumin ahh.. mmhh..” Sumin squeezed Ethan’s back, leaving strokes from her nails.

“Ethan.. again.. anghh…” hearing that Ethan precisely stomped on her favorite spot many times, roughly making Sumin look up with both eyes closed.

The man felt impatient; his movements had begun to be less gentle than before but still did not hurt, so Sumin did not protest much, letting the man warm their bodies with this activity.

Sumin’s legs wrapped around Ethan’s waist until Ethan’s went deeper. Making her womanly walls twitch and massage Ethan’s firmly.

Ethan thrust into her again quickly and deeply, making her moan in pleasure even though her back was covered in scratches. In one last stroke, both of them reached their release simultaneously, accompanied by a groan of relief.

”Ethan..” Sumin whispered amidst her unsteady breathing.

”What’s wrong? Does it hurt?” Ethan asked while rubbing Sumin’s hair and then kissing her lips once. ”Uh.. sorry, I got carried away..”

Sumin smiled, then one hand tucked behind Ethan’s nape and pushed him closer. She could feel Ethan smiling between their kisses. Sweet. Maybe that’s why Sumin kept sucking Ethan’s lower lip as if it were her favorite candy. While Ethan was busy with Sumin’s upper lip, they deepened the kiss.

”I’ll count to 10 if you two don’t come out of the tent, and I’ll report that both of you are committing perversion on the mountain.”

Sumin and Ethan panicked as they both hurriedly picked up clothes that were not fully dry and put them back on, while in the front, Sieun’s voice was heard counting to five.

”Nine… ten. Come out, or I’ll break the tent.”

Ethan came out in a hurry while putting on his jacket and smiled at Sumin’s classmate.

”Your shirt is backwards, Ethan,” Sieun looking at her friend. Sumin and Ethan exchanged glances, and then both looked down in embarrassment over what had just happened.

247 notes · View notes

three-realms-archive · 2 months

Text

Checking In

“Remind me again, why Serenity Manor wasn’t an option…”

You ask this question for the fifth time that day, stumbling into Beel. The sixth-born Avatar of Gluttony motions for you to hand over the three luggage bags you were currently attempting to lug into the lobby of an extremely grand hotel. You watch, catching your breath, as Beel lifts the bags with much more ease; walking calmly over to the nearest human bellboy. You can’t help but find him so adorable, oblivious to the bellboy’s nervous surprise at the demon’s superhuman strength. The bellboy’s voice is, unluckily, the only sound that isn’t coming from your boisterous, troublemaking family.

You continue making your case to Lucifer as you turn away from Leviathan and Belphegor – who are stood behind you, enamoured with a fishtank built into the wall and some plush, velvet-lined sofas; respectively.

“Lucifer,” you start. “You know I love you guys… ”

Lucifer is at the reception desk and looking disapprovingly at Mammon and Asmodeus, who are ‘ooh-ing’ and ‘ah-ing’ at a fancy-looking vase, at the same time as he rifles through his waist bag for a booking he insisted on printing. Even though it was so much easier to just show the online confirmation.

“… But we’re, like, historically prone to making a scene.”

As if on cue, the sound of pottery shattering echoes throughout the hotel lobby… followed by stammering from Mammon and a high-pitched squeal from Asmo. The bellboy shrieks and scurries away with the trolley of your luggage as soon as Beel takes his eyes off him - looking instead at his older brothers disapprovingly. Shaking his head, Beel jogs over to where they’re standing and immediately crouches down to tidy the shattered, ceramic hazard off the floor. He has the sweetest of intentions - declaring simply that he’ll take care of the broken vase shards so no one cuts themselves on them - but you have your doubts about his methods when you hear the sound of crunching and see porcelain pieces sticking out of his mouth. Mammon and Asmo not-so-subtlely stand over their younger brother, hiding him from view.

The hotel receptionist gives Lucifer a look. With a wordless sigh, Lucifer hands over his credit card to pay for the damages.

“I had hoped,” the eldest brother strains that word, the two of you watching a very large price appear across the till screen, “that your presence here would at least be enough to tone down their childishness. I see now that wish was just folly.”

Next to him is Satan, who eyes the reading material on the coffee table next to the sofa Belphie had deemed comfy enough to nap on. The Avatar of Wrath huffs. “Folly isn’t exactly new with you, Lucifer. But you still haven’t answered MC’s question: why aren’t we at Serenity Manor?”

“Unfortunately, this time, I don’t have a clear answer, myself.” Lucifer explains. Satan lets out a snort, which the eldest ignores. “Diavolo requested specifically that we stay at a hotel. Something about… ‘human, brother-ly bonding traditions’. Those were the words.”

At this point, Belphie has begun to chew on one of the sofa’s pillows in his sleep, feathers all over his face. The receptionist - hand outstretched towards Lucifer with the intent to hand back the credit card - freezes at the sight. The Avatar of Pride sighs again, motioning to the receptionist to just charge damages to the card.

MC suddenly paled.

“… Ah.” They stated tentatively. The winced a little under the powerful, combined gaze of Satan and Lucifer. “Then this… may have been… my fault…?”

“Explain.” Lucifer frowned.

“Well, Prince Diavolo and I had tea about a week ago. He asked about human families after I said that the Manor and House of Lamentation were a lot bigger than normal human houses and I may… have mentioned…”

MC’s voice got quieter.

“That brothers sometimes… share a room.”

Lucifer and Satan froze.

“So. We’re a social experiment for His Highness, then. Wonderful.” Satan concludes bitterly, ignoring a brief glare from Lucifer. Though, it’s not as if the eldest wasn’t sharing some of the sentiment himself, now digging through his waist bag of Beel’s food receipts and strangers’ phone numbers (given to Asmo) with extreme fury. He mumbles bitterly under his breath about how ”Lord Diavolo hadn’t mentioned sharing rooms”.

Satan tries to look to the magazine he had seen earlier for something to salvage the day…

… But Levi had gotten to it first. Now it has a few pages torn out. Manga-style doodles are on each page, including Henry and the Lord of Shadows holding hands and eating from the same ice cream in crudely scribbled boxer shorts - right out of a beach episode.

Satan looks at you. You look at the receptionist. The receptionist looks at Lucifer.

Lucifer sighs for what will certainly not be the last time today.

“Just… charge whatever you require to that card.”

(i wanted to imagine these guys on a family vacation, causing a scene in the human realm. i like the idea of mc just saying things and diavolo is just like ‘yes i like this i shall now make my subjects do it and they shall find it fun’.)

127 notes · View notes

daechwitatamic · 6 months

Text

Of Ruin: Chapter 15 | KTH

(banner by @itaeewon)

Of Ruin (Masterpost)

Rating: NSFW - minors dni Genre: vampire!au magic!au royalty!au, s2l, slow burn, eventual smut, angst and fluff

Summary: Taehyung of House Rune, Prince of Infracticus has been cursed. You’re the human world’s leading curse-breaker. It should be simple. But unraveling the curse becomes the least of your problems in the face of a world on the brink of civil war… and the love you start to feel for the prince.

A/N: Thank you endlessly to @sailoryooons for betaing!!! 💕

Section Warnings: angst, kissing, not explicit penetrative sex wc: 5k

All of you need sleep. You and Namjoon had pulled an all-nighter in his grandfather’s office last night, writing the countercurse. Taehyung had spent the night, as he does every night, fighting to get out of his rooms, trying to hunt. Probably Jimin slept, but he’d also just fought off at least four Score soldiers.

Taehyung offers to let you sleep in his quarters, but you decline, wanting to practice the countercurse in private, work on the phrasing, and sit alone with your decision.

When his face falls, you step closer, pressing your palm to his cheek. He closes his eyes, exhausted, and leans into the touch.

“You should sleep,” you tell him gently. “Do you want my help?”

He shakes his head, and you lower your hand.

“No,” he says. “The cabinet is about to meet to discuss this morning’s attack. I imagine… Seokjin’s father will be arrested. Or, at least, an attempt will be made.”

“Have you heard from them?” you ask, meaning Seokjin and Jungkook.

Taehyung shakes his head. “I’ll find out soon enough - either they’ll be listed among the dead soldiers, or they’ll have gotten away. I don’t know anything yet.”

“Let me come back tonight?” you ask. “I want to know what’s happening.”

You’re not sure why you feel so tentative about it, after everything you’ve gone through together. You know by now that he wants you there. But it still feels, in your bones, like you’re stepping into a role that doesn’t belong to you, that you should not be allowed to claim.

“After supper?” he suggests. “Will that give you enough time?”

You shrug. “I would certainly hope so.”

You spend the rest of the day in your own rooms; Namjoon paces, anxious over Satuel.

“I think she’ll be okay,” you try to reassure him. “Taehyung’s a strong healer. Her speaking to us was a good sign.”

After a while, you rise and go to take a shower. You have dried vampire blood caked on your hands.

—

You go to Taehyung’s rooms earlier than planned. You meant to wait for him to summon you, but you are - like Namjoon - itching to find out if there’s news about Satuel, news about Seokjin, news about the attack. You’re itching to let the prince wrap his arms around you, to find comfort from the horrors you’d faced together only hours ago.

You’re surprised when Namjoon waves you off, surprised again when Dansoo agrees to escort you to the prince’s wing without an invitation.

Things are changing around here, you realize. People are starting to treat you like you belong in the prince’s rooms, like it’s natural for you to be there instead of in your own space.

When his personal guards open the door to let you in, you expect to find Taehyung on one of the couches, long legs stretched before him. Instead, his front room is empty. You continue on, calling his name, peering into the bedroom where you’d slept after your first night - and morning - together.

It’s empty as well.

You find him in what looks like an office, tall bookshelves flanking a floor-to-ceiling window that looks out over the sea. Taehyung stands with his back to you, head bowed, one hand played flat on the wood of the desk at the center of the room, his other hand buried in his hair.

“Taehyung?” you say quietly, taking a single step into the silent room.

He doesn’t turn. His shoulders shake. In the quiet, you can hear him take a shuddering breath.

“Tae?” you venture. You’re scared, suddenly. Did Satuel not make it? Seokjin, or Jungkook? Has Taehyung’s plan fallen apart before it could even begin?

When he turns, his eyes are red-rimmed and jet-black.

“What’s wrong?” you ask in a whisper. You’re so scared of the answer you can barely speak.

“I can’t do this,” he tells you, hoarse, almost sounding like his cursed self.

You step forward slowly, regarding him. “Which part?” you ask.

He shakes his head, chest jumping as he struggles to control his breathing. “Any of it. All of it. I’m not… I’m not smart enough for this, I’m not capable enough - I thought I could just wipe out hundreds of thousands of years of my people’s way of ruling and just… make my own?”

He starts pacing, and you watch him, worry starting to churn behind your belly button.

“Your plan is good,” you say firmly. “It’s good, Taehyung, and it’s important.”

“What if it fails?” he asks you, his voice breaking like shattered glass, littering the carpet between you. “What if I take power from my father, rip down tradition, and it just leads to more killing, more centuries of war? What if all I accomplish is the ruination of my house?”

“Then we try again,” you say, overcome by the urge to sweep up his fractured pieces and cup them in your bleeding hands. “If the first try fails, we step back and figure out a new way forward. That’s what you’re forgetting, Taehyung - you’re not alone. You’re not doing this on your own.”

He looks at you, unchanged, unconvinced.

“You want something better for everybody - something more fair, something that keeps your father’s actions from ever happening again. You’re willing to focus on what’s right, not what’s best for you… and people will see that. People will support you. If you’re forced to try another way, you’ll have the other houses behind you.”

“And if I succeed?” he counters, his expression hollow, his voice shaking. “I promised everyone justice. What if, for my father… justice means death?”

“You’ll be King by then,” you whisper. “Can’t you make sure that doesn’t happen?”

“That’s what I’m fighting against!” he shouts, a fist slamming the desk beside him before coming to cover his mouth. He bends around it, caving in with grief. Your hands itch to reach for him, to pull him close, to soothe his hurts. “If I am being fair, if I am being good, and right, and all that other bullshit you just told me I stand for - wouldn’t I let him face the justice he deserves?”

You don’t answer this. You don’t think you should.

He lowers his fist, meets your eyes again. Tears leak gently over his cheekbones, and you feel yourself welling up in response.

“I know what he did was terrible,” Taehyung whispers, still hoarse. “But he’s my father, and I love him. How can I be the one demanding he go to trial? Even if he lives, how could he ever forgive me?”

You close the space between you, unsure if he’ll allow you to comfort him. To your surprise, he lets you wrap yourself around him, leans his head into the crook of your neck and continues to cry silently, his hands coming around you to cup your shoulder blades.

You run a hand down his back slowly, again and again, and say nothing. When his breaths shudder less, you lean and press a kiss to the back of his head.

“You gave him the chance,” you point out. “He chose to continue. He knows he was wrong. He’ll know you’re trying to be a good king, even if it makes you an imperfect son.”

He lets out a watery laugh. “I’ve always been an imperfect son. I came to peace with that hundreds of years ago.”

“It’s your choice to make,” you tell him gently. “I’ll support you either way.”

His laugh turns a little bitter, but he removes himself from your neck and sits tall again, still leaning against his desk, you standing between his legs.

“Seokjin won’t,” he says darkly. “If I pardoned him, showed him any mercy at all, I’d lose all the Scores. Other families, too. There’s only one right move if I want support. It just happens to suck.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, reaching up to smooth down his hair, to brush tear-tracks away with your thumbs. His eyes are still as black as tar; he’s too distraught to worry about changing them. “I’m sorry everything happened this way.”

He sighs, as if to say, me too.

You hold each other for a while longer. Outside the large window, night falls in full, leaving you two standing in the dim light of one little desk lamp.

“What happened today?” you ask finally.

He untangles himself from you and leads you by the hand back to his main room. You settle on one of the couches there, and he rubs at his face, as if he can scrub away the exhaustion, the hurt, the uncertainty.

“My father sent an Officer to arrest Seokjin’s father. They couldn’t find him - he wasn’t there. I haven’t heard from Seokjin, but he’s supposed to meet with me in a few days to discuss my next steps.”

“They won’t arrest him?”

“He’s not his father,” Taehyung says darkly. “Just like I’m not mine.”

“So then… what is the next step?”

He shakes his head, hating every second of this. “In the morning,” he says, voice full of defeat, “you’ll help me blackmail my father.”

Your brow furrows. “I thought you said he’d agree to transfer power.”

Taehyung grimaces. “He wants what I’m offering. I think he’ll agree. But in case he gives us a hard time… you’re my secret weapon.”

You give him a look. He answers it with a wry smile that doesn’t meet his eyes.

“You’re going to tell him you won’t counter the curse unless he gives up the crown.”

“Taehyung!” you gasp. “I can’t do that! You want me to say that to him? The King?”

“I do,” Taehyung says seriously. “It might be the only bargaining chip we have.”

“I can’t,” you whine. But you know you will. You’d do anything Taehyung asked you - as if that wasn’t already clear by the way you’re willing to toss away your mortal existence for his life.

“We don’t have another choice,” he says grimly.

You sit in silence for a little. You’re thinking about the gravity of what you’re about to do - to back the king of Infracticus into a corner, to essentially blackmail him into giving up the crown. Then, helping Taehyung dismantle the monarchy.

God.

“There’s something else,” Taehyung says, pulling you from your thoughts, his voice tight.

“Oh?”

He’s shy, suddenly, avoiding your gaze. “One of the things I’m promising… in exchange for the crown. Part of Father’s motivation when he choreographed all those attacks was… he’s worried about the bloodline. He’s worried I won’t marry, won’t carry on our name. So, in exchange for him transferring the crown to me, I’m promising him that I’ll marry.”

Your heart doesn’t drop to your feet; rather, it dissipates into nothing, leaving you a shell full of unmoving blood. You stare at him, unable to make a peep.

He shifts. “I don’t want you to feel stuck, or trapped, or pressured,” he says, finally peeking up at you. “And it’s important to me that you know that I’d want this even if we removed everything - the curse, my plan for after, all of it. But… I’d really like to walk in there tomorrow and promise him that someday, soon… I’ll marry you.”

“Taehyung,” you whisper, but he doesn’t say anything else, just opens a small, velvet jewelry case that looks about as old as he really is.

“If something changes later, we’ll deal with it,” he says, reading your mind. “But I’ve been alive for six hundred years and never wanted someone at my side the way I do with you.”

The ring is silver, the jewel a deep blue - Rune house colors. You reach for it with shaking hands and then stop, looking up at him.

“I -” you stutter, “I can’t - I don’t deserve this. I’m -”

“If you say you’re nothing to me again, I swear -” he threatens, mouth pulling into a frown.

Your shaking fingertips trace the jewel. “Are you sure?” you ask him, hushed, afraid of his answer.

“If you aren’t with me,” he says seriously, “then I don’t even want to see the other side of this.”

“Okay,” you say, meeting his eyes, hands leaving the velvet box and reaching for his hands instead, needing to be closer, needing to feel him. You feel breathless, dizzy, out of body. It’s like someone else is pushing the words out of you when you breathe, “If you’re sure, then… yes. Yes.”

He kisses you, deep, a hand lingering near your jaw, reverent. “My love. My venefici,” he whispers, kissing you between each title. “My Queen.”

You shoot him a wry smile. “Not yet,” you say.

You spend the night in the prince’s bed. When the clock ticks into tomorrow and the beast curls its lip at you, you kiss him on the nose, call him by his name, and tell him, “Ask nicely.” When he’s done, tongue pressing against the tender wound he’d made on your throat, he wraps you in his arms to sleep.

—

King Sunjae seems to know that his son is up to something. As soon as he enters the room - the same small place you’d tried the previous, failing counter-curses - his eyes are narrowed on you and Taehyung, expression cloudy.

“You requested an audience?” he asks, mock-politely, a sneer all over the words.

“I did,” Taehyung says evenly, his palms pressed flat to the tabletop. You know he’s nervous, know he spent most of the morning practicing with you, rehearsing what he wanted to say. “I came to make a deal with you.”

“A deal,” the King repeats coldly. “I thought we already had a deal.”

“You broke it,” Taehyung says flatly, no room for argument. “I consider it null and void.”

The King lets out a sarcastic whiff of a laugh. “And yet you’ve come to make another.”

Taehyung shifts beside you, his own tone growing chillier. “Not without insurance.”

King Sunjae’s eyes narrow again. “Explain yourself,” he says, a command.

“I’m offering you the same promises I made last time,” Taehyung says, just like you’d practiced together. “A marriage - eventually, an heir.”

The King scoffs, coming very close to rolling his eyes. “You strung me along with that little lie for a year, Taehyung.”

“I’ll let you set the date,” Taehyung counters, and you thrill a little watching the King stiffen as he starts to put the pieces together. “We’ll wed as soon as you want us to.”

The King’s eyes flash to your hands, alighting on the deep blue jewel adorning your finger. You smile beatifically at him. He has no idea how much you’re about to piss him off.

The King’s eyes flash back to Taehyung. “And in exchange?” he bites, as if he already knows, can already intuit that this is a deal not in his favor.

“The crown,” Taehyung says coolly, and you’re filled with pride so strong you want to reach for him, but you clench your hands into fists at your side instead. “You’ll transfer power to me now, and my Queen and I will take over ruling - effective immediately.”

The King stares at him, incredulous, clearly calculating. You watch it all over his face as he tries to find the catch - it’s like offering a fish in exchange for a house. He knows Taehyung’s not stupid enough to walk in here with that bad of a suggestion without, as he’d said minutes ago, some kind of insurance - and he’s trying to figure out what it is.

“If you agree,” you say, trying to match Taehyung’s cold tone, the way you’d practiced in his rooms, ��then we’ll set a date for Prince Taehyung’s coronation and begin the preparations.”

King Sunjae sneers. “And if I don’t agree?”

You shrug. “Then I won’t counter his curse.” Insurance.

For a second, you think he’s going to attack you. Taehyung must, too, because he pulls you away from the table, just behind him.

King Sunjae manages to control himself, letting out a hissing breath between his teeth. Jaw still clenched, he manages, “Then I’ll hire someone else.”

“Good luck,” you say, though it’s harder to sound tough now that Taehyung’s tugged you behind him. “You might have trouble finding someone else willing to end their life to save his.”

The King isn’t stupid. He’s lived in the magical world for centuries longer than you have. He knows what you’re saying. He knows what it means.

His face darkens. The three of you are silent for a long time, Taehyung’s hand still protectively wrapped around your forearm, his eyes on his father’s.

The King must know he’s got no move. Taehyung has him in checkmate.

“Let me speak to your mother first,” he says. It’s a request, and a command, and, somehow, an admittance of defeat.

“I’m glad you’ve seen reason,” Taehyung says stonily.

The King stares at him, long and hard. Nervously, you shift behind Taehyung, the King’s glare coming in and out of view.

“And what will become of me after?” the King asks. “My spies tell me you’ve been running around using words like justice. Will I be facing justice, my son?”

The words land like knives. You remember Taehyung last night, mourning his father’s life, mourning their relationship.

“You will,” Taehyung says steadily. “And so will I.”

The King closes his eyes, just like Taehyung does when he has heard something he hates. Like father, like son. “Go,” he says, flapping a hand towards the door. “Go, you fool, and I don’t want to see you again until I call for you.”

—

When his father does send for him, Taehyung convinces you to stay behind.

He feels like a teenager again when he goes to his parents’ wing, ready to be scolded. He wishes he had brought you, despite the danger, just because having you at his side helps ground him, makes him braver.

They don’t speak to him when he arrives, just watch him with unblinking eyes and matching frowns.

“This would have happened eventually,” Taehyung says, by way of greeting. “It’s just sooner.”

Neither of them respond to this.

They sit around a large table, and stiffly, formally discuss the specifics. The coronation ceremony will take place in a week, to make time to prepare for celebrations. The King and Queen will send a joint statement tomorrow, announcing the news. To the public, this will be a planned and welcomed decision.

“When will she cure you?” the Queen asks, a bit of a bite on ‘she’.

“As soon as the crown is on my head,” Taehyung bites back.

“And the wedding?” The King asks, eyes narrowed.

Taehyung shrinks a little. “I’d like to give her time to… heal, and adjust, after turning. So… after?”

His parents look at each other, a silent conversation between partners of hundreds of years.

“As soon as she’s able, we’ll all meet together to discuss the timeline,” the Queen says finally.

Taehyung hates how much this feels like bargaining, how much it feels like asking permission.

Soon, though, he reminds himself, it won’t matter what they decide. Once the crown is his, he can do what he wants.

It’s not as comforting as he’d like.

“I want you to understand something,” Taehyung says, as it becomes clear that everything that needs to be decided now has been handled. His parents look back at him, disinterested.

Taehyung wonders if a day will ever come where they forgive him.

“When I asked you why, a year ago,” he says, pressing forward, looking at his father, “you said it was for us. For the Runes. I want you to understand that I’m doing this for our house, too.”

“Destroying it?” the King clarifies sarcastically.

“Stabilizing it,” Taehyung counters hotly. “Making it stand for something. Making sure all of us, all of Infracticus, don’t turn back into the thing we left behind.”

“So noble,” the King scoffs.

“We’ll be better for this,” Taehyung says. He hopes it’s a promise he can keep. “All of us.”

—

You go home.

This time, with permission. This time, with Namjoon.

This time, knowing you’ll be right back.

You have to go - you have things to handle: a job to quit, an apartment lease to break, belongings to sell or donate.

You work everything out with Taehyung the day before you go. While he’s helping his mother plan a coronation ceremony, you’ll be emptying years of belongings into garbage bags.

“Where will I stay when I come back?” you’d asked Taehyung, one sleepy morning, as you lay between his arms, your mind skipping ahead to plan your time above.

“Where do you want to stay?” he’d asked, his voice like honey, seeping over you just as slow and sweet.

“In a sea-side house with a turret,” you’d replied, and he’d giggled, pulling you close, remembering this joke of yours.

“Considering the ring…” he’d said, when he let you go again. “It would be appropriate to give you your own wing in the palace, for now.”

When you’d opened your mouth, he’d cut you off. “Don’t tell me you don’t deserve it. Maybe I just want my venefici close.”

You’ve gotten used to hearing the term as an honored position, and not a wound.

So now you’re here, in your old apartment, deciding what few things are worth bringing back to the palace. Namjoon, as far as you know, is just getting a few days off - time to see his family, his friends. He’ll return to Infracticus with you before the coronation.

You miss Infracticus the whole time you’re gone. You miss the ancient, mysterious palace corridors. You miss the roaring ocean and the amarisca. You miss the impossibly purple sky.

You miss Taehyung’s voice, his hands, his mouth. You miss his smile, his laugh, his heavy gaze.

You even miss Satuel and Dansoo.

You cave on the second night and ask Namjoon if he wants to get a beer.

“Sorry, with my family,” he sends you back. He follows it quickly with, “you’ll be back in no time”.

Not soon enough, you think.

—

Your return to Infracticus is a jarring experience, a stark opposite from the first time you’d passed through the Ostium.

Then, it had been in the dead of night, sneaking in under heavy cloaks.

This time, you and Namjoon are greeted warmly, brought into sparkling sunlight, where a coach waits.

“Welcome, sperasa,” the Ostium attendant says, and you look at Namjoon with wide eyes.

“What?” he asks, as you climb into the coach. “What’s wrong? What did she call you?”

“Betrothed,” you tell him, eyes still wide.

The coach takes you to the palace’s front entrance. You’ve never come in or out of the palace this way before, and it’s unnerving. You feel like a spectacle, but Taehyung greets you in the majestic, open atrium. He sweeps you into his arms, kisses your head, doesn’t seem to care that there are members of the court families milling about.

“I suppose I’m not a secret anymore,” you murmur.

“No, my love,” he says, smiling down at you. “You’re not the human here to break my curse. You’re the Highest, here to marry her hunter.”

“Cheesy,” you complain, but you’re smiling, your cheeks hot.

“And true,” he says, looking at you sideways.

He brings you to your wing - your wing - of the palace, eager to show it off. Namjoon tags along, smiling openly, out of curiosity.

“You might as well get used to them,” Taehyung points out as he leads you up the staircase towards your new set of golden doors. “After you turn, these are the rooms you’ll be recovering in.”

A shiver runs through you, equal parts thrill and terror.

—

Taehyung grew up knowing he’d be king someday. As a small boy, he’d been taught to conduct himself as a prince. As a young man, he’d been taught to think of the greater good, to be fair, to be wise.

Two out of three, he figured, wasn’t bad.

He’d imagined his coronation thousands of times. He’d imagined whose faces he’d see in the crowd, the music they’d play, what they’d eat, what he’d wear.

He’d never once imagined that he’d wake up, his final morning as Prince of Infracticus, to a smile on his lover’s face. Yet here you are, smiling at him, reaching up to cup his cheek as you kiss him gently.

“Maiesti,” you whisper reverently, a slight tremble to your voice. You say it again when he presses your knees wide, sinks himself deep inside you, rocks against the heat he finds there. Maiesti, you say, but it’s his name you gasp when you come around him, his name you breathe when he pierces the skin above your collarbone, watching the hollow space there fill with crimson.

He knew he’d have a team come make a fuss over his appearance - setting his hair just so, holding up top after top to his chest before pulling them away in search of another. He’d never imagined he’d spend that whole time wishing you were still in the room with him, giggling at the worst options, catching his eye in the mirror.

“Bring my sperasa to my rooms as soon as she’s ready,” he tells his staff. “I want her with me.”

When you appear in his doorway, it takes his breath away. How they’ve done you up, the gown they’ve draped you in - you could pass for Infracti. You could pass for a Queen.

He almost ruins the whole thing by throwing himself at you.

He’d imagined the crowd hundreds of times - all the court families in place. He’d never imagined how he’d heave in relief to see the Scores in attendance, Seokjin at the front, as he belongs. The throne room is full to the brim with Infracti from all the influential families dressed in finery.

His parents sit in their thrones at the front of the room, waiting for him to approach. He’d never imagined that on the day of his coronation their gazes on him as he approached them would feel chilling rather than proud. And yet.

He’d never imagined that the thing that calmed him might be a witch’s hand slipping into his as he walks to the front of the room.

You walk slowly, hand in hand, up the center of the room. Taehyung can feel your pulse slamming in your palm, can hear your heart screaming in fear, can smell your nerves. He gives your hand a squeeze. He’s not sure what’s scaring you most - the crowd of monsters, everyone’s attention on you, or what’s going to happen at the other end of the room. But he’s here- he’s here, and he won’t let anyone touch you.

They’d used you as a cover - to distract from the untraditional transfer of power, they’d announced the engagement. To the court families, it looked like Taehyung was taking power early in conjunction with his nuptials, accepting the crown early to start his rule with his new Queen. It was a good lie. Hardly a lie at all.

Taehyung had imagined his coronation hundreds of times. He’d always imagined this walk alone.

It’s so much better this way.

At the front of the room, he turns to face his people. You step to the side, and Satuel comes to flank you, as planned. Taehyung knows Jimin is nearby too, just in case.

One of the Elders runs the ceremony, standing at a podium to read ancient Infracti out of a book the size of a toy poodle, its yellowed pages flaking. Taehyung tunes it out, floating pleasantly as his eyes skim the crowd. He spies Jimin and Jungkook, and his eyes catch on many of his father’s cabinet members. He wonders absently if any of them will be in his cabinet, or if he should start from scratch.

Eventually, the crown is placed on a dais. He turns and places a hand on it, the cool metal spikes poking into the skin of his palm. His father rises and comes to face him, placing his own meaty hand on the crown.

His father’s black eyes bore into him, and Taehyung wants to wither.

I’m sorry, he wants to say.

You did this to yourself, he wants to point out.

I gave you the chance to stop.

I’m going to do a better job than you.

None of it matters. The Elder is saying the archaic words, Taehyung’s father hates him, and time ticks on.

The crown is lifted, placed carefully on Taehyung’s head. It’s cold and heavy and he can’t wait to take it off again, but he can’t think about that right now. The Elder is speaking, declaring, “Taehyung of Rune, King of Infracticus,” and it feels like the whole fucking room is holding its breath.

This is the moment. His people will either accept or reject him.

In the front row, Seokjin slides to his knees and bows.

The Scores follow. Then the Cleaves. Then, Taehyung’s own house, the Runes. The other houses fall one by one until the only eyes still on Taehyung are the Elder’s, his parents’, and yours.

You settle on your knees, that silver slip of a dress pooling around you, and you bow deeply.

“My King,” you say. “Maiesti.”

When everyone has risen, Taehyung faces his people. He takes one last, desperate look at you. He steels himself, and calls for the arrest of his father.

Then, he leaves his people to feast and revel, and leads you through a passageway behind the imposing thrones.

He will have no more nights as prince. He will have no more nights as a beast, either.

You’ll break his curse tonight.

Through the narrow, stone passageway, he leads you by the hand.

He leads you to your death. <- Prev |

thanks for reading :)

144 notes · View notes

drabblesandimagines · 1 year

Text

Bedside Manner

Cloud Strife x fem reader Word count: 2,531

You’re going to die here. You knew your line of work left you open to the threat of death more often than not, always the chance the next monster encounter would be your last… But you hadn’t expected it to end like this – sweaty from fever, a horrible chesty cough, every breath feeling a struggle and surrounded by used tissues on your sofa.

But the worst part of it all? You’re going to die without kissing Cloud Strife.

There were always ailments going around the slums – it was par for the course with so many people living in close quarters, sunlight obscured by a metal sky. There were rumours that this particular one had stemmed from Shinra HQ and thus it had become nicknamed the Shinra Flu, much to the company’s chagrin. It’d floored you from day one. There had been no build-up, no telltale sniffle or scratch in your throat, you’d just woken up feeling like death and that’s how you continued to feel the past four days. Tifa - bless her heart - was straight round the moment you’d not shown up for the Avalanche meeting. You think she must’ve knocked but she was in possession of a spare key and that’s where she’d found you, wheezing away in the bed. What had followed were clean sheets on your bed, water, soup and medicine.

She’d been round morning and evening since, going through the same routine. You’d never felt so pathetic in your life. Every night you’d drift off to sleep hoping you’d feel better in the morning but nothing seemed to be easing despite the numerous combinations of medicine you were taking and the hours of bedrest.

There’s a hesitant knock at the door. Tifa is going to be annoyed you’re on the couch, but you’d split your water in your bed in the night reaching for it after a coughing fit and didn’t have the strength to deal with the situation, so you’d decamped. At least it gave you a different view of the water-stained ceiling.

The key twists in the lock and the door opens and you brace yourself.

“Hi.”

You know you’re still burning up with fever, but that’s definitely not Tifa’s voice. You turn your head towards the door and Cloud Strife is standing there, minus his sword for a change, a paper bag in hand and looking incredibly awkward.

“Cloud?” You rasp out, which was a mistake. Speaking sets a coughing fit off and you sit upright awkwardly, the blankets spilling off your lap – you wished you were wearing nice pyjamas - trying to catch your breath. You hear the door close, footsteps, and the sound of running water. As the coughing subsides, Cloud is now crouched in front of you, holding a glass of water out.

“That sounds nasty.”

You nod, and regret it instantly because it makes you feel dizzy. You reach out to take the glass but your stupid hand is trembling. Could you stop being so pathetic for one moment? Cloud notices and supports the glass as you take it to your lips for tentative sips. This is not how you ever imagined the ex-Soldier being in your home.

“Thanks.” Your voice sounds tight. He nods.

“So,” he gets to his feet, “I guess you’re wondering why I’m here and not Tifa.”

“Hallucination?”

“Not quite.” Cloud smiles slightly, glad to see your particular sense of humour hasn’t been lost, but it isn’t long before he resumes his usual serious expression. “This virus is really contagious. Tifa’s lucky she’s not caught it from coming round here. I said I’d check on you instead.”

You frown at him, positive you’ve misheard. “You wanna get sick?”

“I can’t get sick - not like that anyway. Mako gives you quite the immune system.”

“Oh. Lucky.” You pull the blankets back over you from where they’d fell off in your coughing fit. You’re feeling cold now, though you’re painfully aware your forehead is covered in sweat in front of your crush.

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in your bed?” He looks at it pointedly - it’s only a few steps away in your studio apartment after all.

“It’s wet.” The blonde raises an eyebrow at that. “I spilled water on it.”

“Ah. I can help with that. Tifa wrote me a list. Starting with…” he produces the paper from his pocket, “..have you taken medicine recently?”

“Last night. Is it morning now?” Time has lost all meaning.

“Mm-mm, afternoon.” His hand is in the paper bag – you recognise the logo from Wall Market – and he withdraws a small vial holding a luminous green liquid.

“Oh.”

“Drink the whole thing. Apparently the latest in Shinra flu fighting technology, whatever that means.” He twists the lid off and hands it to you. It smells foul so it doesn’t bode well for the taste, but you down it in one with a slight grimace. You’d drink all manner of disgusting things if it made you feel a little better. “I could only get two – supply and demand.”

“Thanks.”

Cloud’s already looking at the next step on Tifa’s list. You can’t imagine how many instructions are on there. “Medicine, check. ‘Temperature – thermometer in bathroom cabinet.’ Okay…”

He’s striding over to your bathroom now, and you hear the bathroom cabinet open and close and he emerges as quickly as he left, thermometer in hand.

“Wait, you don’t have to do this, Clo-“ your sentence is cut off as he slides the device under your tongue and waits for the beep, before retrieving it and scrutinizing the number.

“Fever still - makes sense. And I do have to do this.”

“Just leave me the list, I can do it.”

He stares down at you, hands on his hips, crushing the list ever so slightly. “Uh-huh…” You know you look awful, you couldn’t even hold a glass of water earlier, you haven’t washed your hair in days, and you’d made the couch your bed. Trying to convince this man that you were capable of looking after yourself is an argument you weren’t going to win.

“Right. ‘Change bedsheets. Clean sheets in the basket, wash used sheets in communal washroom downstairs…’ ” He’s heading off towards the bed, still reading aloud. You sink back on the sofa and close your eyes, willing the medicine to kick in and make you feel normal for at least five minutes and save some face in front of him…

Cloud was used to making his bed during training, so it doesn’t take him long for him to strip yours and put clean sheets on, but apparently it was long enough for you to doze off.

This wasn’t on Tifa’s list. You’d be better off in bed – it must be more comfortable than the thing you call your couch. He crouches down besides you, debating if he should wake you up. You look so peaceful though and he hopes that means the medicine must’ve kicked in. It’s only a few metres between the couch and your bed and sleep is important in recovery, after all…

He slides an arm under your knees and another around your waist, picking you up off the sofa in one fluid motion, your head lolling back . You mumble and he freezes, but you nuzzle your cheek into him and your breathing remains in its steady rhythm. He takes a tentative step forward, then another before he makes it over to your bed and carefully places you down on your mattress and tucks the blanket over you. You unconsciously snuggle into the clean sheets and your hair falls over your eyes. Without thinking, he automatically reaches out and tucks it behind your ear, his touch lingering a moment too long.

“Cloud…” you mumble happily into the pillow, cuddling it.

His face goes red, but not from fever.

You awake to a cool hand on your forehead. Everything aches and you desperately want to return to the comfort of sleep, but you’re so hot and there’s a one-sided conversation going on.

“No, she’s still really feverish.”

Cloud’s on the phone – you can hear Tifa’s voice from the tinny phone speakers, though not well enough to hear her side of the conversation.

“No, not since just after I got here. She’s asleep at the moment, but her forehead feels hot.”

Another pause. The cooling hand is removed and you let out a whimper, missing it immediately.

“And that’s all I can do?”

A sigh. “No, don’t come here. I told you, you’re lucky you haven’t caught it. I’ll stay the night and ring you in the morning, okay? Thanks. Night.”

You drift off again in the silence for a few minutes before there’s a gentle shake of your shoulder. It feels a monumental effort to open your eyes but you manage it, though your breaths are feeling laboured again.

“Sorry,” Cloud whispers, looking apologetic. He has the thermometer in his hand. “I just need to check your temperature again, then you can go back to sleep, okay?”

“Mm-hm.” You open your mouth and the device is slipped under your tongue. It beeps moments later and he frowns at the results. “Higher than last time – damn.”

“Bad?” You mumble.

“No, you’ll be fine. You just need to take some medicine and have some water. Can you sit up for me?”

“Yeah…” He can’t help but smile as your eyes close again and you make no sign of even trying to sit up. It’s pathetically sweet.

“Here, let me help,” he slips an arm around your waist and lifts you up slightly, leaning you back against the pillows. “You good there?”

“Uh-huh.” You don’t even sound convincing to your own ears.

“Okay, let me grab some more water.” Cloud’s gone for what feels like no time at all when a glass of water is held up in your face. “Small sips.” You take the glass and he places his hand over yours, supporting it as you dutifully drink.

As you do so, you become more awake and you can see he’s tidied up your living space - the couch is clear of your blankets, the tissues, the glasses…

“You cleaned up.” You say.

“Er, yeah,” he shrugs. “Hope that’s okay. It didn’t take long.”

“That’s embarrassing.”

He looks confused. “Why?”

“Cos I’m pathetic. You’ll never want to go out with me now.” The words tumble out of your mouth with no reasoning behind them.

“I… wouldn’t?” He’s trying hard to hide the smile on his face.

“Who wants to go out with someone who can’t look after themselves?”

“You’re sick.”

“I know – who lives like this?”

“No.” Cloud says, gently, “I mean, you’re sick - ill, poorly, feverish. Besides, I don’t pick who I want to go out with by how clear their floor is of clutter.”

“You don’t?” You sound hopeful.

“Do you?”

“I don’t know – I haven’t seen your floor.”

He laughs. If you weren’t feverish you would’ve been astounded you’d got the stoic Cloud Strife to laugh, but the moment flies well and truly over your head.

“Well, it’s not cluttered, but I don’t have a lot of stuff.” He admits, before retrieving the second vial he got from Wall Market.

“You might just be saying that.”

“Tell you what, when you’re better you can come and take a look.”

“Is that a date?” You sound so hopeful.

“Let’s say it can be a part of it. Now,” he twists the cap off as before and hands it to you. “Drink this, then you can go back to sleep.”

“Okay, only cos you’re so cute.” You down it in one again.

“Well, I’ll need to remember that one.” He takes the empty vial from your hands and places his hand on your shoulder, encouraging you to lie back down. “Try and get some more sleep, okay?”

“Okay…” It isn’t long before you’re enveloped in sleep again.

Through the night, Cloud doesn’t leave your side. He sits on the floor besides your bed, keeping a watchful eye. The fever was proving persistent and you had been tossing and turning, throwing the blankets this way and that in an attempt to stabilise your temperature in a fitful sleep. He remembered his mother looking after him when he was sick as a child, pressing a cool washcloth to his forehead to try and soothe him. Luckily, he found one in the bathroom cabinet, soaked it in tepid water before he placed it on your forehead. At first you tried to shuffle away, but he held it in place, words coming out of his mouth before he can even think. “It’s all right, sweetheart.” He wasn’t sure if it was the words or the washcloth that soothed you more.

Through the night, he’d take it back and resoak it, and when he pressed it once more against your burning skin you’d let out a sigh of content.

“You’ll be okay,” he mumbled – aware he was saying it more to reassure himself. He always hid his emotions well, but he’d been shocked by how sick you were. Although the two of you hadn’t known each other long, he’d grown fond of you more than he’d been willing to admit to himself. Seeing how open and vulnerable you’d been had only endeared you to him more.

Towards the morning, when he’d checked your temperature to find that you finally felt cooler, you’d rolled closer to his touch, causing your hand to drop down from the bed. He grasped it, trying to gently tuck it back under the covers but you wouldn’t let go though, unconsciously linking your fingers with his in a fierce grip and mumbling something. He doesn’t fight it, only smiles and leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment.

When you next open your eyes, it’s to the relief that the horrible pressure that had been on your chest for days has finally alleviated, the fluctuating temperature stabilised. There’s a weight to your hand, and you look through bleary eyes to see Cloud’s head bowed as he’s leant against the wall, your fingers firmly intertwined.

You let go in embarrassment more than anything, not sure how it had occurred. The motion is enough to wake the blonde, who smiles seeing you’re awake.

“Morning,” his voice is husky with sleep, and you feel warm once more – though this time it’s not from sickness.

“Hi.”

He frowns, probably noticing the colour in your cheeks. “How are you feeling?”

“No, I feel better. So much better.”

“Good,” Cloud smiles, before getting to his feet and stretching his arms over his head, showing off his muscular forearms. “You must be hungry, right? I realised I never got you to eat anything yesterday. I’ll go grab something light from the store for us.”

“You don’t h-…”

“I know, I want to.” In a few steps he's already opening the front door before hesitating, turning back to you and grinning, slyly. “Besides, you need to eat so you can build your strength back up ahead of our date.”

“Our… date?” Are you having a fever dream?

“We’ll talk about it more when I get back. Won’t be long… cutie.”

-- Sorry this isn't Rei Suwa-centric as promised, I finished this one first so out it goes into the world x

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Ko-fi

Details for my event celebrating 200 followers.

#ghostdogwrites #cloud strife fluff #cloud strife x reader #cloud strife x you #ff7 imagines #ff7

949 notes · View notes

a-dauntless-daffodil · 2 months

Text

what if chaggie accidentally used Dazzle's body to make their new demon child while trying to resurrect him?

would that be too messed up??

Vaggie scooping up Dazzle's little body (reverted to plush toy mode when he died) from the hotel wreckage while the rebuilding gets started and she starts to bring him to Charlie but then hesitates, turns away, goes over to Lucifer instead to ask about the agreement with Heaven about the Exterminations because she's got this stupid, hopeful, tiny glimmer of an idea....

After borrowing Lucifer's coat to wrap Dazzle in she finds out that yes, the agreement to only wipe out people in the Pride Ring was meant as a way of targeting sinner souls specifically, yes all of Lucifer's immediate family should have had immunity from being killed- getting hurt or maimed is different, but death absolutely shouldn't happen-

so Vaggie asks, then, what Dazzle counted as. He was for sure a hellborn not a sinner, so while he wasn't meant to be targeted he also wasn't promised immunity inside the Pride Ring... but was he also Lucifer's family? If Charlie loved him enough to count Dazzle as HER family, would that be enough?

And if Dazzle was part of the Morningstar family, if he never should have been killed, then could heaven be compelled to help with maybe, possibly... fixing that??

Lucifer gives a tentative maybe, and Vaggie is striding over to Charlie before he can tell her how bad this idea is

She knows. Charlie does too. They spend a week thinking about it but already know what they're about to do the first time they find Razzle crying himself to sleep on his brother's memorial statue

One call to heaven later and Vaggie's slipping away to the Heaven Consulate with a small bundle in her arms. Charlie meets up with her shorter afterwards, having argued and begged her dad and finally gotten, if not his direct help- (he's sure this will fail. his heart can't take being part of that)- then at least a jewel bright with the golden light of creation, not something Charlie knows how to use but that's okay they already knew they'd need help with this.

A determined Emily meets them in the Cosulate. Heaven (mostly Emily) has agreed that Dazzle's death hadn't been righteous even current policy standards (which suck and need to change but whatever) so Emily's come down to try imbuing a spark of creation back into Dazzle's body.

Creation likes balance. Spheres within spheres within rings within rings. It likes irony and completion, and Emily hopes that Heaven being the reason Dazzle was killed can be balanced out by Heaven helping to give him life again.

But its complicated. She's talked with Lucifer- trying to just shove demonic energy into Dazzle would just turn his body into a puppet. Collecting his dispersed hellish essence would hurt any demon who's absorbed part of it and risk dragging bits of other demons or their imprints into Dazzle, changing who he was possibly for a worse. So Emily and Lucifer settled on the idea of using his body as a scaffolding and hoping the wear and tear of his life would be enough to guide the divine power Lucifer's gem supplied, letting it grow into the shape of more or less the person who Dazzle was by the time he died.

Technically Lute should be here to repent her murder of him and, as the one who ended his life, be part of restoring it to him- but she refused and heaven can't force her, it wouldn't count if they tried... so Vaggie, who was close by when Dazzle died, will have to stand in as the next best thing and be the one to invite Dazzle back.

And Charlie will have to give him some of her blood. It's the surest and oldest shorthand for claiming someone as family- key to the entire argument that Dazzle's death absolutely NEVER should have happened-

Lucifer isn't sure what it might do to Dazzle to have the blood of the princess of hell flowing through him. He's not sure anything will happen at all, but if it does, time and experience tells him Charlie and Vaggie won't be getting back everything they lost. And what they DO end up with they might regret asking for.

Charlie and Vaggie have already agreed through, whatever comes out of this they will NOT regret having tried to bring Dazzle back and they WILL be here to take care of whatever or whoever is given life as a result.

That's good enough for Emily. She holds the jewel, Vaggie holds tiny Dazzle's body, and Charlie uses her trident to open the skin of her palms and forehead so she can drip smear the blood over the dead goat demon, drip more on while she leans in to kiss his forehead, and finally presses her bleeding hands over the gaping hole Lute's sword left in him

And as golden light spins out to weave around Dazzle's body he does, slowly, begin to stir

and to change

it's not much but it's enough. the tiny child that blinks open it's eyes has a streak of blonde in it's red hair. it's eyes are gold instead of red, a little spark of floating fire has lit between it's horns, and the spade tip of it's tail has a red heart shape on it now.

Dazzle wasn't much of a talker but its clear pretty soon that the new bundle in Vaggie's shaky arms also has no idea what's being said to it. The name Dazzle gets no reaction at all.

Chaggie carry their new kid (literally a kid) back home to the hotel after asking Emily to do the honor of picking a name.

Emily picks the name Baphomel.

The hotel crew thinks it's a pun on the "baaa" sound goats can make and the word "phenomenal" and they feel that's pretty accurate considering how loud the new kid turns out to be when it starts bleating unhappily about the whole suddenly being alive thing.

(Razzle hears one single "baa" from it, rushes over, and when Charlie anxiously tries to explain that this isn't- it's not really Dazzle- Razzle waves her away impatiently. He knows. This is his new little sister, and he hurries off to collect the softest blanket he can find and some safe things to chew on and warm milk bc that's calming right and maybe just one donut just in case she likes those too, and-)

at this point Angel has given the kid the nick name Me-LOUD-y or maybe Mel-OW-dy depending on how close to the kid's painfully loud bleats you are, and for all that Vaggie hands over the kid to Charlie so she can go chase everyone else away, Charlie hums and sings and calms the kid down and thinks the name Melody is a good nickname after all

(Emily thinks so too when she's hears about it later) (she gave the name Baphomel so the new child would know it had always been seen as something worth praising, but being a song- being part of something bigger- sounds comforting too)

and that's the Bedazzled au

no the new kid does not end up liking donuts.

she likes toast with jam, usually toasted on the little flame over her head and the jam is usually not fruit based it's almost always coming from Cannibal Town

she was remade using Charlie's blood so it's the blood of other hellborn she craves (though variety is nice) and needs to keep her little flame thing burning.

if that goes out so does she- think the book version of the ghost of christmas past- but that spark of pure creation, when focused through the gem also used to remake her, lets her do a bit of creating and balancing out of her own.

healing becomes her thing. The thing she's obsessed with.

first bc of Vaggie's eye and how it WON'T heal, but then she gets told a bit about Dazzle once she's old enough to notice him in old pictures and ask about the giant golden statue in front of her home.

That's when she realizes the two white patches of fur chest and back are where a gaping sword wound used to be- and it's healed. Heavenly steel, supposedly permanent, but Dazzle's body was healed by the spark of creation and she's alive now in it.

which convinces her that SHE should be able to heal others like this too. No, not just heal non-lethal injuries from exorcists like Vaggie's eye, there HAS to be a way for her to bring back-

Healing's not a BAD thing right? Neither is figuring out a way to resurrect dead hellborn. Sinners get to pull themselves back together so why not hellborn too, why not find ways to let them their full lives or even longer. Nothing wrong with that. It's not dangerous.

No one in her family worries about her studying healing and resurrection. (heaven worries a little but heaven can go shove it)

Her family WOULD worry if they knew WHY she was doing it.

her giving herself the middle name Bedazzle was probably a pretty big hint.

or it would have been if she didn't add the name Bedlamb for the funnies bc, y'know, bed lamb... born from the body of a goat plushie... who likes toast... bedlam Bethlem Bethlahem house of bread... its funny she swears it's hilarious. Baphomel Odia Bedlamb Bedazzle Morningstar.

she also switches her nickname to the name Baffy, bc it sounds like her very cool aunt Niffty and she thinks that's cuter

and also yes teen her does end up a fan of a certain tv show about hell and demons who drink blood and her voicemail message is in fact "if the end of hell comes, beep me. Baa~"

#hazbin hotel #razzle dazzle hazbin hotel #charlie morningstar #vaggie #chaggie #emily hazbin hotel #bedazzled au #how many terrible or stupid ways can i think of for these two to have a kid

63 notes · View notes

stars-and-inkpots · 1 year

Note

Could you possibly write more soft Gale fics? He just deserves so much love and healing. I really liked how you wrote Reverence. Sorry I don’t have a more specific ask, I’m not very good when it comes to fic ideas.

Absolutely I can, I love writing for Gale so much, and he really does deserve the world. Thank you for the request and I hope you enjoy!

Late Night Book Club | Gale x Reader

No matter what you try, you just can't seem to sleep. Between nightmares and insomnia, you start to think you might never get a good night's rest again.

Gale seems to share the same issue.

While you might not be able to completely solve your problems, at least the two of you aren't alone in them anymore.

Pairing: Gale/Reader

Tags: Cuddling, Insomnia, Nightmares, Comfort, Fluff, First Kiss, Love Confessions (kinda)

Notes: choosing a name for this was the hardest part about writing it

Ao3 Link: Late Night Book Club

Word Count: 2,150

For whatever reason, you find yourself awake far later than everyone else. This shouldn’t be too much of a problem, if it wasn’t for the fact that this was the second night in a row where sleep eluded you to the point of exhaustion. The little amount of sleep you did manage to get was plagued with uncomfortable dreams that teetered on the edge of nightmares, making sure the rest was fitful. You knew you had to sleep; you couldn’t hope to lead the group if you were barely able to stand tomorrow. It’s frustrating. It isn’t like you aren’t trying to sleep either; you laid there for hours before finally giving up and leaving your tent to tend to the fire that has steadily burnt down to the last embers. It’s here where Gale finds you.

The look on your face only adds to his concern at seeing you up so late. You don’t notice his approach, another thing that makes Gale think something must be wrong.

“Is everything alright?” He asks softly, though the sudden noise still startles you. He watches you turn and immediately relax when you realise it’s only him.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry,” you apologise, but you aren’t exactly sure what you're apologising for. Perhaps it's for letting all of them down with your inability to sleep, knowing you’ll hold them back tomorrow. Then you notice that Gale looks just as tired.

“Is there anything I can do?” He asks.

You’re sure your exhaustion is evident enough, you can feel the weight under your eyes. A part of you hates feeling like you need to be taken care of. You don’t want to acknowledge that help would be both welcome and useful, but you know these feelings are simply a byproduct of the exhaustion that weighs on your shoulders. You can’t fault Gale for wanting to help.

“No, it’s alright. You need your own rest.” The day had been tough on all of you. Gale, though talented when it came to magic, was pushed to his own limits today.

“Very well. Would you at least allow me to sit with you for a few moments then?” Gale asks.

You only nod, and Gale sits beside you on the ground. You’ve managed to get the fire going a little stronger again, and the warmth is appreciated by both of you. You’re suddenly aware of just how close you are, knees almost touching. You blame the warmth in your cheeks on the fire.

“If there is something bothering you, I am more than happy to listen.” There is genuine care in his words. He is worried about you. As much as you don’t want to burden your companions with your troubles, he seems adamant that he wants to hear them.

“I can’t sleep is all,” you admit. “It’s nothing serious. Just can’t sleep, and then when I do my dreams end up waking me up again.” It feels childish to say that your dreams are the primary culprit of your lack of sleep. You’ve been through so much in the past weeks, but it’s nightmares of all things that finally get to you.

But Gale doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t tease you. Instead, he looks at you with only sympathy and understanding. He doesn’t pry any further, and you’re thankful.

“What about you? Why are you still up? If you want to share, of course,” you’re quick to add. You don’t want him to feel like he has to tell you his own troubles just because you told him yours.

“We have similar problems it seems,” is all Gale answers. You return his earlier kindness by not pressing him to elaborate either.

The two of you sit there in comfortable silence again.

“I understand if you wish to remain alone, but if you ever wish for company when you cannot sleep, you are always most welcome to visit me.” He says it so quietly, hesitantly, but not unsure. Knowing you don’t need to spend the nights awake alone, at least, is a comfort, and the thought of spending the time talking with Gale is pleasant; even if that time is simply spent sitting near to one another.

You smile. “I might take you up on that offer.”

Gale gives you a fond look. The golden light of the fire makes him look soft and at ease, though, maybe that’s only because he’s with you.

“I think I’ll try to sleep again. Thank you for this, Gale.” You stand, and he does the same.

“Anytime.”

Sleep still doesn’t come easy when you return to your tent, but eventually you’re able to get, at least, a little bit of dreamless sleep before you’re awoken again. The gaps between sleep and consciousness are still more frequent than you want, but it’s better than nothing.

---

The next day is rough. Gale doesn’t look like he had much luck with sleep either, and you’re almost thankful because he is more inclined to ask the group to slow down than you are. Maybe the others can tell that you’re also struggling, because no one complains when the steady pace is interrupted.

Perhaps some god out there is looking out for you, because the day’s travel is mercifully uneventful.

Setting up camp again is a chore. You do your best to help where you can, but you can barely stand as it is.

“Get some rest, soldier. We’ve got it from here,” Karlach says to you, voice quiet. You know she’s trying to be nice, but it feels like pity and you hate it. You swallow your pride and thank her before returning to your tent.

Even though your body aches and your head is starting to hurt, when you lay down, you only end up staring at the roof of the tent. You suddenly just aren’t tired. You know you’re tired, because your body feels tired, but at the same time you aren’t , and it’s only partly caused by fear of the dreams you know await you. It’s frustrating to no end.

After another few minutes of laying there with your eyes closed, you finally give in.

Only a few of the others are still awake, sitting and talking with each other around the fire. They don’t notice you skirting around the edge of camp towards Gale’s tent. It’s not that you feel like you need to keep this a secret, you just don’t think you have the energy to talk to anyone besides the wizard right now.

“Gale? Can I come in?” You ask softly outside the tent. You know he’s awake; you can see shadows that dance across the walls.

“Of course,” Gale answers. Before you can move to open the tent flap, he waves a hand and it opens for you.

“What a gentleman,” you tease, but even you can hear how tired you sound.

“Always for you,” he returns with a smile, but there’s a truth in his words that brings a warmth to your face.

You finally notice how cosy his tent is. There are several books, all of them stacked in piles that must be organised in a way you can’t discern. The ground is covered in plush blankets and pillows. Fluttering around the top of the tent are small, almost iridescent orbs of light, some purple and others blue. They give enough light for Gale to read, but keep the tent dim enough to be pleasant.

“Please, sit down, make yourself comfortable.”

You sit beside him; closer than you were last night, leaning against his side slightly. You peer over at the book in his hands, surprised to find it isn’t some arcane tome. As far as you can tell, it’s just a normal adventure novel.

“Don’t let me interrupt you, you can keep reading.” Even just sitting here beside him is enough of a comfort; the tension already starting to seep out of your shoulders. You don’t want to talk about anything yet, and you figure that Gale shares the same sentiment.

“Do you want me to read to you?” Gale asks, and though you almost think he’s joking, you realise he really means it.

“That would be nice.”

And it is. You’ve always enjoyed listening to him talk; Gale has a lovely voice. He picks up where he left off when you got there. He wasn’t too far into the book yet, but he still pauses occasionally to explain something. Eventually you close your eyes, focused only on his voice, the details of his words getting blurry.

“Can we lay down?” You mumble tiredly.

“That’s a good idea,” Gale says with a smile, having already noticed the way your head has begun to dip forward as sleep begins to pull at you.

It takes a bit of coordination, but eventually you’re both underneath the thick blanket that Gale pulls tighter around the two of you. You move closer to him, your head underneath his chin, and he wraps an arm around you. He’s warm, and you feel safer than you have in weeks. He starts reading again, fingers playing idly with your hair. Within another minute, your breathing has evened out and you’re fast asleep.

Gale folds the corner of the page to mark where you two left off and closes the book before he sets it aside with the countless others. Eventually, he manages to fall asleep too.

Both of you still wake up a few times in the middle of the night. You didn’t expect this to be some miracle cure for your sleep problems, but having Gale there holding you when you wake up makes getting back to sleep a little easier. The same can be said for Gale who wakes up several times, only to be calmed down once he feels your arms around him. The two of you are able to get a good rest, and when you wake up in the morning you don’t feel the same ache in your bones as you did the past few mornings.

It becomes a sort of routine between you. In the evenings, after everyone leaves for their tents, you follow Gale to his or he follows you to yours. Then he reads to you, and sometimes you read to him, and you both let sleep find you in each other's arms. The nightmares are getting more bearable, and even on the worst nights when neither of you can sleep no matter how much you try, at least you’re there together.

---

It’s been a week since you started this arrangement. The book is nearly finished. Gale had promised to let you pick out the next one.

He brushes through your hair with one hand, the book held open in the other. You listen while he starts reading the last few pages. The hero who’s story you’ve been following through the novel culminates in one final battle against evil. It’s cliché, you think to yourself, and then smile because isn’t this exactly your own life now? And what hero story is complete without a lover to kiss them at the end, which is precisely what happens. Good prevails, and the hero gets their true love.

Gale feels your smile against his neck and, for reasons he understands but doesn’t want to admit yet, feels a warmth flood his cheeks.

“The End,” he announces, snapping the book closed with a flourish, earning a laugh from you. “What did you think?”

“It was nice. It felt more like a romance novel at the end.”

Gale hums in agreement. “Yes, but I think that's what I enjoyed most.” He puts the book down then returns to hugging you close to him.

“I agree, it felt natural.” You hope Gale understands what you mean.

He does.

The two of you have been dancing around this for a while now, neither one of you ready to acknowledge it. But there’s something about tonight that feels different.

You lean back to look at Gale’s face, bringing a hand up to guide a strand of greying brown hair behind his ear. Your hand lingers on his cheek, thumb brushing gently across his skin. He puts his own hand over yours, moving it to kiss your palm. It’s a careful gesture, tender and nervous all at the same time.

When you move to kiss him, he meets you halfway. It’s a soft kiss; a testament to these nights you’ve spent together. When you part, you rest your forehead against his. The way he looks at you makes your heart swell: like you mean everything to him.

He kisses you once more before you tuck your head into the crook of his neck. He holds you like he’s scared you’ll disappear, and you tighten your arms around him as if to answer: 'I could never.'

You both sleep the best you have in weeks, still there for each other each time you wake.

#baldurs gate x reader #x reader fic #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate gale #gale dekarios #gale x reader #gale x you #request

328 notes · View notes

carnivalcarriondiscarded · 8 months

Text

weee another fantasy au snippet <3 a little shorter than usual cause that's what the scene is <3 shorter <3

Something is wrong with Wally.

It’s not serious, or at least Barnaby doesn’t think it is. If he didn’t pay such close attention to his buddy, he’d never know that anything was amiss at all - Wally has an excellent straight face. But not so excellent that Barnaby can’t read him.

There’s a different curve to his smile these days. It’s sort of pinched, sort of sad. It matches a look in his eyes that puts Barnaby on edge, if only because that deep, dark pensiveness is so wildly out of place on Wally’s soft face.

It scares him. Something is off.

What is it?

Barnaby taps his claws on his middle as he stares at the tent roof, thin enough that firelight from outside bleeds through. Despite the late hour, his eyelids feel magicked open. The other side of the tent yawns empty, and that is precisely the source of Barnaby’s insomnia.

Everyone is asleep except for two - and Barnaby is only awake because of one.

With a deep sigh through the nose, Barnaby sits up and clambers out of the tent. He shivers as he stands up and crosses his arms, rubbing at his fur. The night sky is clear, but the breeze cuts him through to the bone. It isn’t even winter yet, sheesh…

The campfire casts a fuzzy outline of red-orange around Wally. He doesn’t turn away from the embers as Barnaby shuffles behind him, and Barnaby doesn’t have to look to know that he’s staring directly into the low flames. He tweaks Wally’s raised hood as he passes, just to make sure Wally knows he isn’t alone anymore. He spaces out, sometimes.

“Can’t sleep?” Barnaby asks as he takes the log next to Wally’s rock of choice. Wally just hums, and Barnaby frowns.

There’s that look again.

With how Wally is perched, his legs drawn up and arms folded on his knees, his smile is hidden. It’s unsettling. Barnaby scans Wally from the corner of his eye, taking in the tension in his shoulders and the nearly invisible pinch of his nonexistent brows.

“Yeah, me neither,” Barnaby says. Another breeze, another shudder, and a quick glare at the stars.

Should he press? The obvious answer is absolutely not, but… Barnaby isn’t sure how much of this - thisness he can take. He has no idea what to call it. A mood? It’s too serious to be considered a mood. All Barnaby knows is that when Wally is like this, something itches under his skin.

Tonight would be a perfect opportunity to ask. Everyone else is fast asleep. Wally isn’t putting up the fronts he usually does. The knowledge that this Wally, the Wally all covered up and curled in on himself, is as vulnerable as anyone will never see - it makes Barnaby want to reach.

“Hey,” he murmurs, nudging his knee against Wally’s boot, “I’m starting to worry for the fire with how you’re glarin’ at the thing. What, did it emberass ya? Give ya the coal shoulder?”

Wally doesn't laugh, but his gaze softens. Barnaby curses himself.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with glarin' - I’m sure the fire deserves it,” Barnaby is quick to add. “But really… is everything alright, kid?”

“Yes,” Wally says, but it rings like an untruth. It's just something he’s saying because it’s what he always says. Everything is always fine with Wally.

“You know you don’t gotta pretend with me. There’s somethin’ bothering you, I can tell.” Too far, too much, Barnaby is sure. He shouldn’t be so pushy.

But instead of clamming up, Wally’s eyes flicker down and away, guilty. The bloodhound in Barnaby perks up its ears. It’s all he can do not to point and shout AHA!, because that would assure that Wally would put up the same masks around him that he does with everything else. Vindication wars with his concern, as if he thought he might have been imagining the funks Wally has been slipping into.

Those too-long periods of silence that no one notices because Wally isn’t much of a talker. Moments of utter stillness that no one notices because Wally is always so stationary. The way he doesn’t drink in every new thing with a hunger like he usually does, as if Wally has been starving his whole life.

Those passing glances where his pupils seem too big, the blackness of them infinitely deep as if someone could fall into them. Maybe Wally is. Barnaby doesn’t want him to.

“You don’t gotta say a word,” Barnaby says, wishing the campfire log was just a smidge closer to the rock. “I just want ya to know that I see you, and I’m here. Whatever’s goin’ on in that pretty head ‘a yours, I’ll be right there for whatever you need. I got your back, Walls.”

Wally’s smile peeks over his arms for a moment - he always has liked being called pretty, or handsome, you name it. Barnaby preens over being able to coax him even the slightest bit out of the pit he’s slowly spiraling into. He’s winning big at the whole ‘best friend’ thing, Barnaby thinks - a complete natural.

For a long while, Barnaby doesn’t care to keep track, they sit in companionable silence. The fire cracks and pops when Barnaby adds a chunk of wood to it, coaxing it into a flame that actually takes the bite out of the breeze. Crickets chirp in the forest around them - something howls far away.

The tension doesn’t leave Wally. In fact the longer they sit, the worse it gets. Barnaby keeps his mouth shut and eyes on the fire, the woods, the stars - anywhere except Wally. It’s the kind of tension that makes him suspect that Wally is gearing up to speak. Sometimes it feels like there’s a sinkhole of silence that opens up whenever Wally has something of his own to say.

Reviving the fire was either a smart move, or a dumb one. It depends on how quickly Wally thinks of how to share. Without the brisk chill of night keeping Barnaby fresh-faced, sleep is finally starting to sink into him with the fire’s warmth. He briefly considers sneaking into Howdy and Sally’s tent to sneak an energy potion from Howdy’s pack. Pros, he’ll certainly be awake for Wally. Cons, he’ll be awake long past Wally’s spiel, Howdy will have a fit over missing an item, and Sally will have a bigger fit over Barnaby sneaking into her tent when he inevitably comes clean. Also, the potions don’t taste great. Or maybe he should fetch his pipe-

“I think. I don’t…”

For a second, Barnaby misses that Wally spoke at all. He double-takes when the half sentence registers, casting a quick look to Wally. Okay, no, don’t do that. Focus on the fire. Be casual - give him space. Barnaby nonchalantly pokes the coals with the fire stick.

Wally sighs - such a small sound that the crickets almost drown it out. But Barnaby has big ears, and they perk up. When does Wally ever sound frustrated? Curse him, but Barnaby finds it novel. Wally shifts on the rock, curling up impossibly tighter and turning his head away. Barnaby watches the back of his hood.

“I don’t think I’m a good person,” Wally admits in the smallest, deadest voice Barnaby has ever heard.

“What?” Barnaby says, or he means to. The air in his throat doesn’t quite form sound. He turns to Wally and clenches his paws on his knees to keep from reaching, floundering for words.

How could he - why would he - who told him that he -

“What do you mean?” Barnaby says, a disbelieving chuckle slipping out. “Wally, kid - you’re the best guy I know. You’re my best guy. Out of all the ways I could describe you, a bad person isn’t one of ‘em.”

Wally whips his head around, his eyes flashing - Barnaby tenses his entire body to keep from recoiling, though he can’t keep his eyes from widening.

For a second there he thought… he thought he saw… it must have been the firelight reflecting in Wally’s dark eyes.

Wally’s intense gaze pierces straight into Barnaby’s soul. He feels flayed raw and seen in a way that makes him want to run. But there’s something else. Something scared. Wally is searching for something, and Barnaby doesn’t know what or how to give it to him. His claws splinter bark.

As soon as it appeared, the look fades. Barnaby can take deep breaths again, and he lets go of the log. Wally blinks slowly and lets his sleepy gaze slide back to the fire. “I don’t know… maybe.”

Barnaby carefully lays a paw on Wally’s back. “You’re a good person, Wally. I don’t know who told you otherwise, but don’t listen to ‘em. You’re a fantastic friend, an even better best friend, and I gotta say - you make a pretty bang-up wizard. You’re the most.”

“I’m the most?” Wally murmurs, sounding surprised. He makes a sound that might be a laugh, might be a scoff. “No… you’re the most.”

“Tell ya what- we’re both the most.”

Wally casts him a sideways look, but doesn’t protest further. He hums.

“C’mon, lil’ wizard,” Barnaby says with a pat to his back, “let’s give the fire a break and turn in for the night.”

Just as he was starting to relax, Wally shies away from his touch, curling up like one of those shelled bugs Frank likes so much. “I think I’ll stay up a little longer.”

Barnaby swallows down the hurt and pulls away. “Alrighty. Don’t stay up too late - we got a day tomorrow.”

“Ha. I know.”

With that, Barnaby stands. He gently squeezes Wally’s nape through the hood as he passes, and breathes a silent sigh of relief at how Wally leans into the touch.

All’s forgiven. Though he isn’t sure what for… whatever Barnaby said or did wrong, he’s just glad Wally doesn't mind.

Barnaby clambers into the tent and another shiver ripples through his fur. All the darn heat leeched out of it... He wraps himself in his thin, too-small blanket and shivers as hard as he can manage to generate some kind of warmth. It’ll heat up soon, he just has to wait. Wally usually casts a little sun spell on cold nights, but Barnaby can do without. Even if the tent gets comfortably warm, Barnaby isn’t sure if he’ll sleep.

Wally didn’t believe him.

And Barnaby doesn’t know how to make him believe.

How could he think that he isn’t a good person? Barnaby meant what he said - Wally is the best person he knows. Wally is kind, patient, and just - just - him. There isn’t a single bad thing about him. Barnaby is so proud to call him his best friend.

There has to be something that started this. A moment that made Wally doubt himself. Did someone say something? Not anyone in the Neighborhood, they all love Wally to pieces. He’s their wizard! He’s saved their lives and countless others, and their group simply wouldn’t be complete without him. He rounds them off with an artsy flourish.

So. There’s no reason that Wally should be feeling like this. But that look in his eyes… the guilt… there’s something else going on. Something deeper than just ‘I’m scared I’m a bad person.’

Something is wrong.

Firelight flickers outside the tent, and Barnaby watches it until it goes dark.

#just a lil nighttime conversation...#in my mind wally let the fire die and then Immediately ran off into the forest for home time™️#this au is so fun bc i really get to have fun with giving wally Extreme Guilt For Existing #and also to play around with him being Unintentionally Sinister on occasion #i hope its obvious that this is pre everyone-knows-about-home era <3 #snippets from the bog #wh fantasy au #one of these days ill write a snippet centered on someone else...#i do have one in mind for frank & julie...#well. Multiple in mind for frank & julie #them <3<3<3<3

72 notes · View notes

pricegouge · 2 months

Text

WIP Wednesday for accountability 🎉two for one special 🎉

From Haul:

Cutesy, fluffy socks in place, you continue your exploration of the sparingly furnished room. Aside from the bed and the little desk, there's an empty bookshelf and a bucket in the corner which makes you shudder just to think about. As if in warning, your tummy gurgles but you cross your legs defiantly where you stand. Instead, you head toward the desk and begin inspecting it, pulling out each drawer in turn only to be greeted by dust, more dust, and a ratty looking deck of cards - benevolent of them - but no pens or pencils, or anything really that could have been used as a makeshift weapon.

You bite back a groan of frustration, determination winning out as you begin to inspect the desk itself. It's a flatpack unit of some sort, solid metal legs and a laminated MDF top. Surprisingly sturdy, and anchored to the wall as you find out when you give it an experimental shove and it bites into your hip rather aggressively. No barricading, then, although it wouldn't do you much good anyway if you couldn't find another exit. Or at least a way to pick them off as they came through the door. Your eyes rove your limited options, landing on the small metal stool tucked under the desk. You tilt your head in consideration, giving it an experimental heft as you imagine beating the large men down with something so unwieldy. It would make you laugh, if it didn't make your bad shoulder hurt so much.

Movement beyond your door has you stashing your stool away quickly, scrambling back to the bed so you could hide yourself under the blankets like some frightened child.

Your boogeymen don't bother with theatrics beyond the sounds of the locks disengaging. It's Kyle who appears first, pretty eyes scanning the room as if in search of threat before stepping to the side and allowing the captain to come through. It strikes you again how very big they are. In this tiny room, with its low slung, claustrophobia-inducing rafters and clos- pitched walls, they stand taller than the bookcase, seem to loom near as broad as your bed. Kyle shuts the door behind them but it's almost unnecessary as you know in your bones there would be no slipping past them even if you weren't laid up sorer than a pussy in a pricker patch.

"Good morning doll," John beams and you nod at him absently. Morning. At least you got a decent night's sleep.

"When the captain wishes you a good morning, you return the favor," Gaz warns and you nod again, swallowing.

"Good morning, John. Good morning, Gaz," you tack on when John raises a brow at you.

"A clever one, then. Good. That'll make this next bit easier." John's smile is almost warm when he comes to sit on the edge of the bed. Pleased, he nearly looks amiable and you can almost see how he's managed to bring this group of men to heel, though the notion makes you want to clobber yourself with your stool as soon as you think it.

And from a new piece I'm tentatively calling Get Her a Dog which centers around Soap x reader, Price x reader, and eventual Price soap x reader - heavily changed since the last time I mentioned it due to some illuminating discussions with Kai @/dwarvenales

It's raining in York again, the soft tatting upon the windows your only indication. It's evening, but you've still got the blinds pulled because you couldn't be arsed to draw them. In the apartment next door, a baby cries its head off and you sigh, turning up the volume on your b-movie romcom. It cries a lot. You don't immediately reach for your phone when it buzzes against the coffee table because you can't think of any pressing reasons someone would be contacting you tonight, but it goes off twice more in as many minutes so you relent. You unlock it without really looking, thumbing through to your messages where your husband's contact photo beams back at you, top of the list. You pause, lip twitching slightly. Johnny's supposed to be halfway across the world, his phone inaccessible to him. It should be a good thing that he's texting you - returning from a mission early could go one of two ways, but if he was well enough to text then surely you should be excited for him. Except you're not, because you know what his message will read before you even open it. Used to be, Johnny would stumble through the door after a deployment all battered and bruised, laughing when you yelped because you weren't expecting him - wandering the house in lazy day clothes because you thought he was supposed to be away another week. He always rushed home the second he could, never wasted enough time for so much as an 'I lived' text because he couldn't bear to be away from you one more unnecessary moment. Used to be, you two missed each other when he was away. >having the boys over for dinner <you're back in town? >got in yesterday yea >can u make that pasta dish gaz likes? owe him my life

You sigh, torn between being more annoyed by Johnny's presumption, the fact he hadn't even let you know he was alive let alone at base, and the fact that you know you should be worried after a comment like that.

Mostly, you're just too tired.

#wip wednesday

22 notes · View notes

7-wonders · 1 year

Text

Past the Point of No Return

Michael Langdon x Reader (Mad Love Act II, Chapter X)

Summary: What's meant to be you trying to get Michael out of the funk he's been in since your return from New Orleans quickly goes south. What happens when things are said that can't be taken back?

Word Count: 2.6k

Author's Note: So, here we go. It's about to get really dark for the next few chapters because Michael and Reader are about to go through hell. Regardless, I hope you stick around and continue to read, because I'm excited for what I'm going to be cooking up for you.

Mad Love Masterlist

Your fun Fall Break trip was cut shorter than you would have liked. The plans that you and Michael had tentatively made with Mallory that night before you summoned Papa Legba had been destroyed by the gatekeeper’s bold ask and the revelation that parts of the infernal leagues weren’t on Satan’s side. Michael claimed that he had found the information that he needed to banish Cordelia and that there was no reason to continue to stay in New Orleans—a lie, you were sure. When you bid farewell to your best friend, both of you shared a silent worry about what was to come. A worry that, in your opinion, was warranted.

Michael…hadn’t been the same, since that night at Dinah’s studio. You knew this from almost the moment that you left, when you tried to tempt him into joining the mile-high club with you (Don’t judge, okay? You have a super hot husband, how could you not be tempted to proposition him?) and he had turned you down in favor of staring in perturbation out the plane window for the entirety of the ride home. It didn’t stop there, though you wish it would have.

Ever since you returned home, he’s become quieter and more brooding than normal. He spends far more time in his office or at Kineros than he does with you, constantly planning for—well, you know what he’s planning for, and you don’t want to even think about it. Whether it was the experience with Cordelia or what he learned from Papa Legba, a fire had been lit under Michael, and he was now determined to continue his plans for the apocalypse.

Regardless of the reasons, he’s distant, more distant than you’ve ever known him to be. Your normally loving, almost-overbearing husband is gone, at least for the time being.

It frightens you, if you’re being completely honest with yourself. You used to be able to read him and his emotions so easily, but now he’s completely closed off to you. You don’t know what’s going on in his head anymore, but you know that it’s nothing good. You want so badly to relieve him of the dark thoughts that are plaguing his mind, but you’re also worried that it might be too late.

Though you’re willing to give him his space–you’ve never wanted to be clingy–it’s now been two days since you’ve seen him; even at night, he chooses to sleep in his bed (you’re not sure if he sleeps at all) instead of with you. You miss him, even though he’s in the same house as you. Fed up, you find yourself standing in front of his office door and silently debating with yourself on whether you want to bother disturbing him or not.

Before you can decide, Michael’s voice comes through the door. “I know you’re out there. You can come in.”

Beating back the embarrassment over being caught, you open the door.

There he is, sitting behind his paper-scattered desk and looking over something on his computer. The sunlight streams in through the windows, making his blond curls glow golden. It’s beautiful and familiar, and your heart aches at the thought that he’s trying to become a stranger to you.

“Hi,” you say softly, suddenly shy in a room that you once used to enter with all the confidence in the world. “Are you busy?”

He sighs. “Yes, but I’ll always make time for you.”

Michael pushes his chair away from his desk as you make your way across the room and towards him, allowing you to settle yourself onto his lap. After you do, you kiss him softly and sweetly, both of you just enjoying getting to be in the other’s embrace for a short moment.

“I miss you,” you admit, laying your head on his shoulder.

“What do you mean? I’m right here.”

“I know that. Physically, you are. But you’re always working now. I don’t ever get to see you anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” he says honestly and guiltily. “I don’t mean to.”

“You don’t have to apologize. You just need to make sure that you’re taking care of yourself. Or that you let me take care of you.” You look up at him. “Y’know, even Brennan mentioned that you’ve been dodging his texts.”

The two had actually become friends after that night during Homecoming, and they usually got together to play video games at least once a week. That Michael had abandoned this plan gave you yet another reason to worry about him.

“It’s not on purpose. I’m just…” Michael trails off, knowing that he’s about to sound like a broken record.

“Busy. I know.”

You think that it kind of is on purpose; he’s withdrawing from everyone that cares about him, and you assume this is his attempt to try and make going full Antichrist easier. You refuse to let that happen; you can’t lose him to Satan. This leads you into your careful segue, your true reason for visiting here in the first place.

“Hey, speaking of taking care of yourself: How would you feel about going on a double date?”

“A double date?”

You nod. “Yeah! It could be a good stress reliever and a way for you to get out of the house for a night.”

“What is a double date?”

“Where we go on a date, but with another couple. Specifically Kate and Brennan?” Michael looks at you in bewilderment, and you backtrack when you realize what his line of thought is. “Not like that! We’re hanging out as friends, but you and I are in a relationship and Kate and Brennan are in one of their own.”

“Is there a plan in mind for this double date?”

You shrug, feeling thrilled that he’s even pondering the idea. This conversation has felt so normal that it starts to get a little seed of hope blooming within you. Already, you’re imagining a night of fun, one that will finally have your relationship going back to the way that it was. “Bowling was discussed as an option, but nothing’s really set in stone yet. Maybe we go to an arcade?”

“That sounds fun,” Michael agrees. “But I don’t think I can make it work right now.”

You sigh in disappointment. Really, you should have expected this. That doesn’t make it sting less. “Michael,” you groan.

“I know,” he sympathizes. “But I have to get this done.”

“What are you working on?”

“What am I always working on?” he retorts.

Though it’s meant to be teasing, when you realize what he means, panic begins to thud in your chest. Michael, of course, picks up on this immediately. He shifts you in his lap so that your body is facing him now, leaving you no choice but to look at him unless you want to make it obvious that you’re ignoring him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you say, quickly and in a tone that doesn’t reassure him at all.

“Please don’t lie to me.”

“Fine. I’m worried.”

“About what?”

“About you. You haven’t been the same since we got back from New Orleans.”

“I mean, I won’t argue with that. Our trip was enlightening to me. Papa Legba showed me that I’ve been neglecting my duties. I have to get serious about my purpose, or else other beings will continue to question me, my father, and my power.”

Oh god, here it comes. You know what you have to say next, but you don’t know if you’re going to be able to do so. The moment that you’ve been dreading for months now is upon you. Up until now, you’ve been able to toe the line and subtly suggest that the apocalypse might not actually be a good idea. Now, there’s no skirting around it. You’re on a figurative precipice, and there’s nothing you can do but jump.

“Michael…” you start. “You can’t end the world.”

It’s as though some omnipotent being has hit slow-motion on their remote, stretching the scene that is your life out. You can almost see Michael processing what you’ve just said to him and the way that it clicks in his mind. When it does, shock begins to grow in his eyes, making them large and betrayed. You feel like a spectator to your own life, and it almost makes you want to take back what you said.

Then, a button on the remote is pressed again, and life goes back to normal speed.

“What?” He stands in surprise, nearly toppling you off of his lap. You stumble to your own feet, standing opposite him as he turns around to face you. “What are you talking about?”

Though you want to cower in the face of his rising anger, you stand tall. “I don’t want you to bring about the apocalypse. You can’t. It’s cruel and unjust and–and senseless!”

A shadow crosses his face. “It is my destiny to bring about the end of days. I was born and raised to do this, I can’t just…shun that.”

“Yes, you can.” You grab his hands. “Michael, think about it. You have The Cooperative in the palms of your hands. Surely you can convince them that there are better ways to achieve world domination, ways that don’t involve ending the world?”

You can think of multiple ways off the top of your head. Maybe Michael could become President or a diplomat. Maybe he incites uprisings to topple other governments. Maybe he becomes an influential figure and gets the entire world to stand with him. You’re not sure how it would be accomplished, but again, Michael has the richest and most powerful people in the world at his beck and call. If anybody can make it happen, it’s him.

Even still, Michael shakes his head. “No. It is prophesied that I am to bring about the end of days, and that’s what’s going to happen.”

“By dropping nuclear bombs on billions of innocent people?” you say incredulously, hoping that he’ll hear just how ridiculous it sounds. “Okay, what about our plans? Of me going to graduate school, of us moving somewhere new? Getting to explore the world together, and getting to be us? They’re just gone now because you’ve decided that listening to your father is better than a life with your wife?”

“It was foolish to make those in the first place. I’m just delaying the inevitable.”

You know that this isn’t really what he wants. That he’s acting on his father’s orders because Cordelia and Papa Legba both scared him into thinking about the potential consequences of disobeying him. Disobeying Satan has never scared Michael before though, which means that there must have been something between the lines that you hadn’t been able to read.

“Michael, please. I’m begging you. Think about all of the people that you’re going to kill! Kate and Mallory and Brennan? My–” your voice breaks. “My parents, who have done nothing but love and accept you as their own?”

“Their deaths fulfill a purpose,” he says simply and robotically.

You release his hands, the thought of continuing to touch him making you sick. “What is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you? You’re supposed to stand by my side during this! Why are you not supporting me?”

“You want me to support you blowing up the entire planet? You want my support as you end the world?” you ask in disbelief.

“Yes!”

“How would you ever think that I could support you during this?”

“Because you’re my wife!” he yells.

“Yes, I am. But that does not mean I’ll support you when you’re making the most colossal mistake anybody could ever make.”

The electricity in the room begins to flicker and the ground under you rumbles as Michael grows more angry. Shadows begin to grow and warp behind him, and his face switches back and forth between the face that you know and love and that of the demon that lives within him. Still, you refuse to stand down.

“If you do this, Michael, do not expect me to stand by you. Physically, you can force me to play the part of your dutiful little wife. Otherwise? You’ll lose me for good. I will never be able to love a monster like you.”

Instead of saying anything in defense, Michael stalks to the door and throws it open, apparently deciding that if you won’t leave, he’ll leave instead. He knows where you stand on this matter now, and he knows that it’s the complete opposite of where he is. You’re so full of rage and hurt, though, that you can’t resist the last barb that’s been on your mind since your conversation turned into an argument.

“Y’know, ending the world isn’t gonna make your father love you like you want him to,” you call out to his retreating form.

He freezes in the doorframe for only a moment before saying over his shoulder, “The world will end, my love. And you will be right there with me when it does.”

This is not a threat, you know. It’s a promise.

When the door slams shut behind him, you fall to the floor with a sob as your resolve leaves your body all at once. You truly can’t believe that it’s come to this, you think as you shakily grab your phone out of your pocket and call the first person that you can think of.

“Hey, I was just about to call you!” Mallory answers her phone cheerfully. “I think I finally found a banishing spell that’ll work for you and Michael.”

She trails off when she hears the sounds of you trying to stop your crying over the line.

“What’s wrong?”

“Mallory, Michael’s going to end the world, and soon.”

“He told you this?” she asks seriously, all traces of her earlier lightheartedness gone.

“We just got into a fight. I asked him not to go through with the apocalypse, and he–” You cut yourself off with a sobbing hiccup, “he was so angry that I even suggested it. I don’t even know what happened; one minute everything was fine, and the next we were yelling at each other. I told him that, emotionally, he’d lose me as his wife if he did it. He told me that it was happening and that I’d be right there with him as it did.”

“Oh no.”

“What do we do?” You’re sure that you sound as hopeless as you feel.

“I…” Mallory falls silent on the other end of the line. “I’m not sure. Let me think for a bit, okay?”

You have no clue if she can actually come up with something, or if she’s just saying this to try and provide you with a bit of comfort. Either way, it works enough that you can stop sobbing and whimper out an, “Okay.”

“Hey. We’re going to figure this out. Everything will be okay.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I know. But I believe me. Can that be enough for you right now?” It sounds oddly reminiscent of the conversation that you had with her back in New Orleans, only now, the roles have been reversed.

You nod before remembering that she can’t actually see you through the phone. “Yeah.”

You don’t even realize that you’ve said bye to her until you hear the beeping in your ear that signifies the call’s been ended, your world having been completely tipped off of its axis. Everything that you’ve worked so hard to try and hide is now out in the open, and you’re terrified about the potential ramifications.

How could this have gone so wrong, and so quickly?

///

Tag List: @thatonehumanbeing05 @michaellangdon @xavierplympton @hecohansen31 @blakescoven @wroteclassicaly @we-did-it-joe @codycrazy @love-on-the-murder-scene @michaellangdonswhore @nsainmoonchild @langdonsjoyy @aftertheglitterfades @ferndolan @iamlivingforturner @moonlike333 @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @angiestopit @littleangel4996 @xo-angel-ox

#michael langdon #michael langdon imagine #michael langdon x reader #american horror story #ahs imagine #american horror story imagine #ahs #michael langdon imagines #ahs apocalypse #mad love musings

90 notes · View notes

adelaidedrubman · 8 months

Text

What if the strap could prematurely ejaculate? (Or, Jestiny gets knocked down a peg.) read on ao3.

notes: if i ever accidentally posted something good enough to trick you into following this account, i truly apologize. anyways here’s part two of the john/jestiny failstrap series. set hl&s adjacent and spiritual sequel to mine’s bigger. also new year’s eve themed, i meant to get it posted then but ironically didn’t finish in time. wordcount: 3.8k warnings: explicit sexual content, toxic relationships, emotional manipulation. (neg ’em and peg ’em, the jestiny rook method.) i feel like secondhand embarrassment and cringe dialogue is something of an implicit blanket warning for all my stuff, but. i feel the need to explicitly flag it in this one. that should tell you something. (please also see ao3 end notes or post tags for disclaimers.)

As with all holidays, Jestiny would ideally prefer to spend her New Year’s Eve outdoors.

She would gladly take her midnight kisses whilst guzzling craft beer and watching fish leap from the water over sipping champagne and watching pixelated footage of a ball dropping — if only the temperatures of December bleeding into January in Montana would agree with her preferences.

And sure, a sharp chisel and thick jacket could guarantee she would still be taking home her share of trout from a frozen solid pond. A good set of crampons strapped to her favorite hiking boots was all she needed to scale the highest mountain peaks, even covered in ice. A durable tent and well-insulated sleeping bag meant she could still feel wind-nipped cheeks warmed by the flames of a real campfire no matter the season, instead of settling for the store-bought logs currently crackling in the hearth behind her.

But even a rugged outdoorswoman the likes of Jestiny had to admit the blistering, unforgiving cold of Big Sky Country winter required some activities be strictly indoor-only until the first wildflowers of spring poked up from the hard, frozen earth.

And even with all the proper equipment packed, when it came to the activities that required removing clothing…

“God, I’ve needed this so fucking bad,” John whined against her jaw, pulling her along by the arm as his other hand impatiently finished her work of centering her strap-on properly in its harness. “I want you to fuck me all night long, right into the New Year. I want you to fuck me in every room of this house, until I can’t look anywhere without thinking of you.”

What Jessie didn’t have to admit — at least not out loud — was that the spacious yet cozy faux rustic interior of Seed Ranch, with its pervasive scent of leather, pine, and woodsmoke wafting from the fireplace; the vista of sprawling snow covered mountains offered up by its grand far-stretching windows; the lurking presence of hoards of taxidermy animals around every corner, made it the best substitute she could imagine for the thrill of fucking outdoors.

Yes, it was all blatantly, dreadfully fake — but fake was better than nothing.

“I want you to take me right here on my dining room table,” John continued to lustfully monologue to himself as his thighs hit the edge of the table on his path backward with Jessie in tow, turning from their embrace just long enough to sweep an arm along its length and knock all the stray clutter atop it to the floor. “Don’t hold back. Be rough enough to break it. Just give it to me and don’t stop.” He hopped atop the table to sit, then wrapped legs around Jestiny’s waist to pull her into place. “Then I want you to lay me down in front of the fireplace. Hold me close and take your time with me, give it to me slow until I’m fucking begging. Then drag me upstairs and bend me over the railing. Pound me until I can’t stand, until I cry. Then I want you to carry me into the model plane room and…”

“Yeah, yeah,” she shushed as she pushed him back to his elbows, popping the top off of the bottle of lube clenched in her fist. “I’ll fuck you on every tacky ass piece of furniture in this ugly fucking house.” She forced an extra grumble of irritation to hide the tremor of desire threatening to slip into her words from the sight of him laid back for her with legs spread, brow slick with sweat and the dew of melting snowflakes still clinging to his eyelashes. “I assume you want me to lube it up first, though…”

“Let me,” he cooed, grabbing the bottle from her just as it had begun to drip onto sleek silicone. “I want to do it…”

She shrugged in disinterested agreement, placing her hands behind her head and jutting her hips forward as he poured along the length, palm cradling its underside and sliding along to catch the excess.

“Fuck,” he cursed, biting down on his lip as he began to pump his hand faster along the attachment. “Already so fucking hard for me.”

She crinkled her nose and cocked her head to the side. “What the fuck are you talking about?” she questioned. “It’s a fucking dildo, John — it’s always hard.”

“It’s — It’s a turn of phrase,” he huffed, tightening his grip and jerking towards him so that she near-stumbled into him. “Are you not familiar with the concept of dirty talk? Not everything has to be so damn literal. Use some imagina —”

“And why the hell are you jerking it off?” she demanded, thrusting a hand against his collarbone. “You know I can’t feel that, right?”

“Well, I’ll try to be more realistic, then,” he snapped as he leaned forward and shoved a hand between her legs.

Fingers spring-loaded with lingering fury moved to roughly pull her harness to the side, barely stilling or softening their touch before sliding inside her. His other hand remained stubbornly wrapped around silicone to pump it at a now comically harsh pace, as if to prove just how aware he was there was no delicate flesh and blood to be concerned with suffering beneath his vice grip — beginning the spectacle with a rough shove forward of its base to press against her with a pressure that did incidentally send a rewarding flicker of pleasure through hungry nerve endings.

“Fuck,” he ground out in repetitive correction, his tone wilting midway from a sarcastic hiss to a reverent whimper as he curled his fingers. “Already so fucking wet for me.”

Well, it wasn’t her fault he looked so good flushed and panting, even through the ridiculous theatrics.

“Like you got room to fuckin’ talk,” she scoffed as she reached to quickly coat her fingers with lube, sliding inside him and finding right where they needed to be with a practiced ease that made her cheeks warm with satisfied pride at her own expertise. Her thumb traced a line up his cock to find and leisurely smear the precum dewing at his tip. “Fuckin’ dripping the second I get my fingers in you.”

The surrender in his next whimper was complete, paired with a bucking of his hips to beg for more as he mirrored her steady pumping in the pace of his own fingers, thumb tucking itself beneath her harness to find and stroke her clit properly — all while still uselessly jerking off the dildo resting atop it, of course.

Well. Maybe it was useless, but she had to admit — privately — his hands did look nice doing that.

Even if the curve of his spine restyled itself into a distinctly unnatural, exaggerated arch as he regrettably regained the faculty for words. “God, yes, do you — ah, do you like how it feels inside me?”

Another stupid question. Reaching past the contrived, polished exterior to find the depths at which he was all warm silk fluttering to the touch? Delving inside him to feel the promise of all the power to reduce him to a stuttering, pleading mess pulse beneath a single fingertip?

How could she not be positively intoxicated by it? How could the rush of adrenaline it stirred be contained to anything less than electricity prickling along every inch of skin until the air itself felt charged with the intensity of her desire?

“It feels like an asshole, John,” she deadpanned, dragging her finger to tease shallowly. “Felt one, you’ve pretty much felt them all — and until science finds a way to implant a g-spot in the human finger, I’ll be getting just as little out of it every time.”

She gave a swift upward thrust for one last prod of his prostate in punctuation before she slipped fingers out entirely in the same fluid motion of her shoulders shrugging. “I’m more interested in finally getting to fuck you so good you can’t even talk to ask dumbass questions like that.”

She used the hand sticky with lube to smear a last glob onto the head of her strap as the other cradled his face, smoothing a thumb over his pouting lip as she added, “Just as soon as you ask nice.”

His pout deepened. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb now, baby. You know the drill.” She pushed him to lay with back flat on the table. “Beg me for it.”

“No,” he said testily, lifting his chin to give her a look of pure defiance. “You beg me.”

Her breath caught, for a moment — as if his words sank to snag in her chest before her mind even processed them, lunging back up as sharp barks of laughter the moment it did.

“Alright,” she sighed, breathless, as she dropped her head to rest against his collarbone and reached down to line up her attachment. “That was funny enough I’ll let you get by without the begging, this time.”

Her hips barely canted a single centimeter forward before they were stopped by a rough fist grabbing at the base of her dildo to hold her in place.

“It wasn’t a joke,” John hissed, eyes icing cold with determination, like a pond freezing over. “You’re going to beg to fuck me, or you won’t fuck me at all.”

She allowed her confused blinks to pick up pace into a sarcastic batting of her eyelashes paired with a sweet, dimple framed smile. “John, darling. My most cherished love. Light of my life, fire of my silicone sporting loins. Could you, kindly —” she scrunched her face into a scowl, “tell me what the fuck it is you’re talking about?”

“You’ve done nothing all night but mock and belittle me, and act as if you’re somehow begrudgingly doing me a favor,” he snapped. “Now you’re going to admit you want it as badly as I do,” he said, allowing his tone to melt and soften as he circled a finger around delicate, rosy skin. “If you want this, you have to beg for it.”

Oh, he was serious.

Heat flared in the pit of her stomach at how serious he was.

All the better. She loved a challenge.

“Now is not the fucking time to be a brat, John,” she growled, threading fingers in his hair and tugging in the way that pulled a needy moan to the surface to tremble in his adam’s apple. “Now is the time to be a good boy and spread your legs.”

“Oh, and I will,” he moaned, craning his neck so the pull of his hair was tautened — a dare, a meet and raise of a bet. “I’ll be so good for you, as soon as I hear that magic word.”

This time, the hand around her strap stayed still as he reached down to wrap one around his own cock.

“Say ‘please’ for me, Jessie,” John begged with wide eyes as he began to stroke himself. “I’m already so close — don’t make me cum from touching myself alone. I want you to fuck it from me. I need your strap.”

That bastard. But two could play that game.

“Are you begging me to beg you?” she scoffed as she began rolling her hips in steady rhythm, the tip of her strap just barely bumping against him as she fucked the grip of his hand in a promise of what she could do. “Why would I beg for something I won’t even feel?”

“Because you want to take me, don’t you, Jessie? Don’t you want this ass to be yours?” Fuck, he did not play fair — spreading his legs wider and pushing forward to rub the head against slickened, puckered skin, make it look so easy to slide home and fuck the attitude out of him. The sight alone made the friction of grinding against a held still strap-on swell to an unexpected thrum of ecstasy trickling through her veins. “God, I want it. I want to feel the way you move inside me. I want to belong to you, every part of me. I want to cum for you, only for my Jessie.”

Christ, when did the cheesy, unnatural porn lines start working on her?

“Must not want it t-too bad,” she grunted with a particularly harsh snap of her hips. The electricity in the air had heavied, absolutely saturated it. It fizzled with that strange feeling of being up high during a thunderstorm, everything so strongly charged that hair stood on end. “Since you won’t just let me —”

“Oh, I will, Jessie,” he panted, training his eyes on her impotent thrusts as he stroked himself faster. “I’ll let you do anything you want, as soon as you’re ready to —”

“Just —” She glared, thrust harder as if she could break right through his grip and end the standoff, only managing to increase pressure. “Move your fucking hand, and I’ll —”

“You’ll what?” he teased, squeezing the thighs wrapped around her waist. “Please tell me, won’t you? At least talk me off the way I like, since you’re not going to —”

“You’re not going to get off at all, until I —” Fuck, how was this happening? How could she feel every fiber of authority she possessed suddenly unraveling to slip from her fingers? “Say you’re fucking allowed —”

“I’m so close,” he gasped, tossing his head back and arching towards her — the tip of her strap just barely disappearing as he did. “But feel so empty. Oh, Jessie, won’t you —”

“Can you just —” Her cheeks were scalding as she fumbled to grab his hips and grumbled, “For the — the fucking love of god, could you please just —”

She found herself falling forward before she’d even realized the damned word had fallen from her lips, his hand pulling away the second it was spoken and his legs flexing to pull her in, sliding inside him as her knees smacked against the table.

And every volt of electricity hanging overhead came suddenly crashing down with her as she buried to the hilt as the coaxing of his eager rocking hips — as if lightning finally crackled through the air to ripple down her spine and spread through her body. Spread so forcefully she could taste it in her mouth, feel it tingle along her tongue and shoot down her jaw as the current seemed to hone on the place the base of the strap pressed just right against her clit — suddenly overloading from the sensation, short-circuiting into blissful oblivion.

And it felt as if she really had been struck by lightning — the way her flesh crawled with searing heat, the way her insides turned and convulsed, the way every muscle twitched and trembled in pure surrender to its force.

“Did you, um —” he shifted beneath her, pausing and clearing his throat as if for once in his life he realized what a ridiculous thing he was about to say and managed to think twice before saying it, “did you finish?”

“Did I —” she coughed weakly against his collarbone, wishing it had come out closer to a scoff than it did. “I’m genuinely fuckin’ curious — do you even bother to try to make the shit that comes out of your mouth make sense? Or do you just start flapping your jaws and see what happens?”

She did not wait for an answer before summoning her remaining wisps of strength to wind her hips back, forcing wobbly legs pleading to collapse beneath her to instead power a proper thrust forward.

She yelped, a jolt of pain shooting up through sensitive, overstimulated nerves as the base of the strap pressed against her clit at the full extension of her stroke.

John craned his neck, eyes scanning far too knowingly along the flush of pink sprawling along her cheeks and chest. “We can stop, if it’s —”

“I’m fuckin’ fine!” she barked. “I just —” She coughed, reaching down to slip a thumb beneath rubber ring and wedge under the dildo to put space between its base and her sore clit. “Gotta adjust a bit — you put this thing in at the wrong fuckin’ angle, fucked everything up.” She wriggled her hips back with a final grumble of, “Why you should never trust a man to do a woman’s job.”

She began rocking forward with hand still in place to lighten pressure against nerves pleading for rest — she could do this, she just needed to fake it through a few minutes of recovery period. She just needed to —

“Shit!” she cursed, jittery thumb pressing too hard against the base to push it free from the ring with a taunting pop, staying lodged stubbornly inside her lover as she reeled back. She lurched forward, hurrying to retake her place, looking down to gauge position and hopefully reattach herself before he noticed. “Goddamn…”

“Seriously, are you alright?” John questioned as he pushed himself up to his elbows. “Would you like ten minutes and a glass of orange —”

He was interrupted by a thud as he rose to sit fully upright and meet her face to face, Jestiny’s eyes barely catching to follow the shiny black blur that shot from between his legs to land heavy at her feet.

“Fuck.”

Her clumsy rush (since when was she clumsy? first saying ‘please’ and now this?) to turn and reach for the fallen dildo (was her sleight of hand good enough to reattach it without him noticing? what skills did she still have?) resulted in her kicking it with the heft of her combat boot (was it not a good idea to wear them during sex? who even was she?) before she’d even managed to bend down.

She whipped around, finding hardwood bare save for a slight glistening streak. When she lifted her head to follow the snail trail of lube, she found the strap-on had rolled itself across the greater length of floor — losing little momentum as wood broke into granite.

The slight rise of the granite platform barely impeded it at all, in fact, as it rolled right past the wrought-iron guard that had been haphazardly left ajar by Jestiny as she built the fire, tenderly welcomed into the roaring inferno of the fireplace.

“Wha — ! Aah,” A confused, devastated noise caught in the back of Jestiny’s throat, withering there to die at the first crackle of silicone as her prized strap-on went up in flames before her eyes.

The world swirled around her, buffeting at her senses like the cruelest of snowstorms.

The dead lump of a scream in her throat seemed to creep down to spread its decay, making her insides shrivel into brittle rot. As the stench of burning plastic filled the air, her eyes began to water from the sting of chemical smoke. She wondered if she might actually cry for the first time in her adult life.

Past the whistle and crackle of flame devouring silicone and the whoosh of her own pulse in her ears, Jestiny heard the muffled garble of a television set she hadn’t realized was on blare suddenly loud from the recesses of the ranch, cheers of ‘Happy New Year!‘ over discordant symphony of paper horns blown in celebration conjuring images of ceremonial ball reaching the denouement of its annual journey to the base of its pole into her mind unbidden.

On cue, somewhere in the background, a grandfather clock solemnly chimed to announce the turn of the hour.

And there stood teary-eyed, gaping mouthed Jestiny — some bizarre sex toy Cinderella whose impressive phallus turned back into a puddle of cheap plastic polymer at the stroke of midnight.

“Well,” John’s bemused hum pierced through the cacophony rattling around inside Jessie’s brain as he peered past her to the spectacle of silicone bubbling down to black ooze in his fireplace. “I guess it isn’t always hard.”

“Fuck!” Her shout crumpled back into a weak whimper as plain splintered through her knuckles before she even realized she’d swung to strike the table.

She kept fist loosely clenched and eyes glued to the grain of the table as John turned back towards her.

She caught in her periphery the falling of his sly smile. His brow pinched inward as he looked back and forth between Jessie’s flushed, scrunched face and the empty rubber ring at the front of her crotch, his eyes softening with the most genuine look of sympathy she thought she’d ever seen him wear, a level of earnest compassion she would have thought him incapable of even faking properly.

The kind of condescending pity that made her stomach curdle, made her blood boil hot as a melting strap-on. That she would normally lash out to reject, were she not already so thoroughly defeated and stripped of pride.

“It’s alright,” John whispered softly, reaching over to give a few comforting pats to Jessie’s curled fist before bringing his hand up to cup her jaw and lift her chin, guiding her to look into gentle blue eyes. “It happens to everyone, sometimes.”

“That —” she jabbed a thumb over her shoulder in gesture to the strap-on cremation still blazing strong behind her, drawing in a ragged breath, “has literally never happened to anyone before.”

“Well, it was... innovative,” John innovated the world’s first performatively horny purr that doubled as bland diplomacy to reply in, throwing his arms around her neck in embrace.

“We —” Her voice sounded so uncharacteristically small to her own ears as she stumbled over her words. “We can do other stuff. I can still finish you —”

“That’s alright. It was enough just to feel close to you,” John shushed, nuzzling against her neck. “All I want now is for you to carry me to the fireside and hold me.”

God, it was such obvious, manipulative fawning; such a poorly disguised consolation prize. She should storm out in offense.

In no position to refuse consolation prizes, Jessie slid an arm beneath the bend of his knees, wrapping the other around his middle. She gave a slight grunt as she hoisted his weight, at this point truly just grateful she managed not to drop him on the short walk over to the bearskin rug she lowered him to sprawl atop.

“You always look so beautiful, bathed in firelight,” John sighed, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

“You —” The impulse to counter with a comment that the firelight made him look much older from the shadows cast into the creases of his face extinguished itself as quickly as it sparked. “You would look even prettier by the light of a real campfire,” she muttered as she fell limp, allowing John to tangle their limbs as he saw fit. “That’s what we should do next New Year’s Eve. I hate being cooped up inside.”

“And do you envision our rugged adventures would begin with a first-class flight to the southern hemisphere?” he asked with a soft laugh, a hand smoothing along her sides. “I don’t have your outdoorsy expertise, of course, but I’d say it’s hardly pleasant camping weather around here.”

“It’s not so bad, actually,” she sighed pleasantly. “Pitching a tent in the dead of winter,” she continued, absentmindedly threading fingers through his hair. “So long as you —”

She coughed, clearing her throat and hiding her face and its burning cheeks against his chest as she finished the statement. “So long as you have the right equipment.”

She definitely should have just gone fishing.

#nsft #otp: stop bothering these nice folks #oc: deputy jestiny ellen #writies and wordies #hey at least i did manage to post it before january ended. still kinda the new year #i think maybe. they are good for each other #plot twist: SHE gets brat tamed. mostly by her own hubris but still. john dom moments they said i couldn’t do it.#also: jenna would reprimand me if i did not mention pure silicone will not melt like that.#assume jestiny is wearing a cheap blend regardless of how she refers to it #i also took some liberties with ranchsion redesign for this #in the actual game the platform of the hearth is raised and the guard does not have doors so this could not have happened #these are the only unrealistic parts of the fic.#failstrap series

23 notes · View notes

vittoriaisfuckingpathetic · 10 months

Text

fic: take my hand (don't fear the reaper) chapter I

rated M | read it on ao3 | next chapter

“You alright?” Arthur asked uneasily. They mostly didn’t talk about when John would get like this, because it was just easier to not. There were a lot of things they didn’t talk about. John’s hands shook as he tried to light the match once, twice, three times. “I’m fine,” he said with the unlit cigarette between his lips. Finally, the match lit. “You ain’t,” “...I ain’t,” John agreed. He took that first inhale of his cigarette, a slow, easy drag. It felt like heaven. “But neither are you,” A character study taking place before, during, and after Ch 6's final mission from John's perspective. inspired by this tumblr post

John woke uneasily the night before everything fell apart. Sleep had always been difficult to come by for the man, but it seemed to have gotten worse as of late.

The first thing he noticed upon waking was that Abigail was no longer in his cot. The two had been sharing ever since he’d gotten back from Sisika — it was a bit of an awkward fit, but he preferred it that way. It was nice, too, though, being able to hold Abigail in his arms and feel her warmth against his body.

“It’s just… it’s warmer like this,” Abigail had defended (quietly so as to not wake Jack), curled up to his side.

“Seems to me like you jus’ can’t stand bein’ apart from me,” He’d teased in reply, earning himself a playful swat on the chest.

“You be quiet, or else Jack’ll want to climb in, too.”

The second thing John noticed was that in lieu of Abigail in bed with him, Jack was occupying the space that she once had been in, his breath even and indicative that he was sleeping soundly. He couldn’t blame the boy, considering how chilly it was getting day by day. It was November, after all.

But if Jack had A) stolen Abigail’s spot and B) had been there long enough to fall asleep, how long had Abigail been gone?

He elected to give her a few more minutes before he checked on her.

Or, at least, he tried to. His restless mind wouldn’t let him relax, and he anxiously needed to make sure Abigail was alright.

He shifted his weight, testing to see how much he could move without Jack noticing. After swinging half of his body off the cot, Jack had barely moved.

John wondered if Jack inherited being a heavy sleeper from him (or rather, a heavy sleeper before life had happened to him, before the bad things had happened).

He managed to get out of bed without waking Jack.

The little boy’s nose wrinkled, his features scrunching for a moment at the disruption. After a few terse seconds, he cuddled the pillow closer, his face relaxing. John fixed the blanket on top of the boy, making sure he was tucked in safely.

Such a parental action came to him strangely naturally, he realized.

He groped around in the dark tent for his jeans, eventually finding them after a few moments of fumbling. As silently as he could manage (which was quite silent; he had managed to learn when he was young how to move and shadow people without making so much as a peep), he put them on, followed by his boots, and stumbled outside.

The soundscape was familiar, and yet it wasn’t at the same time. He could hear Arthur wheeze rather than snore in his sleep, and he saw figures at the campfire (talking about God knows what , maybe mutiny or killing folk for sport, or some other kind of dumbassery) but they weren’t family, instead foes. It wasn’t exactly what he was used to, but nothing seemed particularly out of place for this new normal.

Like a lightbulb being lit, he realized where Abigail likely was; the slope southwest from his tent. She had often slipped there in more tense moments.

He skulked along the darkest edge of the camp, remaining unseen by all until he reached the unlit scout campfire.

Sure enough, there Abigail was. Away from the warmth and light of the campfire, far from anyone’s prying eyes or ears.

Upon closer inspection, he realized she was shivering.

“You alright? You didn’t come back and I was…” he trailed off. He was worried, he realized. Worried about all of this shit; worried that one day, Micah, or even Dutch, would snap and get them all killed.

John was worried, he realized, because he loved her.

“I needed to clear my head. I’m… I’m scared, John. I’m real scared.” She looked so young, so different like this — hair cascading down her back, wide-eyed, shivering. She looked vulnerable.

John wanted to take that fear from her — but how could he? He felt so helpless. It felt like he was lying in wait for them all to get killed.

What the hell was he waiting for? So many people had already cut and run; Uncle, Karen, Trelawny, Mary-Beth, and Swanson had all disappeared as the days went on. Pearson had left earlier that day whilst John was on guard duty.

“You leavin’, Pearson?” he’d asked, seeing how Pearson’s horse was carrying much more than one would take on a simple trip.

“I… ah, yeah. Just needed to clear my head.” Pearson replied, not looking John in the eye.

“You ain’t comin’ back, are you,” John replied, stating it as more of a fact than a question. Frankly, he couldn’t blame the man. If he was in his shoes, he would be leaving, too. After all, Pearson could slip away much easier than John could hope to.

Pearson’s avoidant gaze finally landed on John. “…Maybe. Probably not. No. I think it’s about time to cut and run,”

“Ain’t that the truth,” John muttered more to himself than directly to Pearson. “You take care of yourself, Mister Pearson.”

“You too, John.” Pearson glanced worriedly behind him, then to John. “You should get Abigail and your boy out of here. Save yourselves,” he added, speaking a little quieter.

“I will,”

“Well. I hope everything works out, Mister Marston. I’ll be seeing you,”

John said nothing else, waving him off.

The plan was ‘Get Out When The Time Comes’ — but when? What if it happened too late? What if they all died trying? What if he got Arthur killed — weak as the man was rapidly becoming?

He huffed out a breath, the cold air making it visible for the briefest of moments. Wrapped an arm around her waist, half expecting her to bat him away or give him a look.

But she didn’t. Instead, she leaned into his touch.

“I am too,” he admitted. “I’m gonna get us outta here.” he wondered if his words sounded as empty to her as they did to him. Getting out was the plan — but beyond that…?

He was a fucking idiot. And Abigail knew it, too, so why she didn’t take Jack and run was beyond him.

“We ain’t exactly got a lot of time left, John. The government is comin’ down on us fast.” She shifted closer to him, likely seeking the warmth that he brought. The skin of her bare arms was cool to the touch. “I don’t want Jack to be made an orphan.” She added softly, shaking her head as if willing the thought away.

“He won’t be, Abigail. We ain’t lettin’ anythin’ happen to that boy.” He left the word again unsaid. Because he’d failed almost as spectacularly as his own father, only realizing how much he’d cared for Jack after the boy was (briefly) kidnapped. Though he hadn’t been harmed, those few days will haunt John for the rest of his life.

“Micah… that— that slime, that scum.” Abigail started, her voice trembling with anger. “He’s been… talkin’ to Jack. Sayin’ odd things, tellin’ him he’d take him fishing. I told the boy t’stay away from him, but if that scum does anything to Jack, I…”

“He won’t, Abigail. I won’t let him, long as I live.”

“I almost lost you once, John Marston. Weren’t for Arthur, you’d be six feet under by now.” She retorted. She sighed and turned to face him, her features softening. She was quiet for a moment, brow knit as her hand went to his scarred cheek. It was rare for her to touch him; rarer for her to initiate it, so he simply stayed still. “I can’t lose you for real this time,”

The air around them stilled, no sounds to be heard except their own synchronized breathing and the far-off hooting of a distant owl.

The forest was eerily beautiful at this time of night.

“You ain’t gotta worry about that.”

“I mean it, John. You’re my… I…” she was interrupted by disruptive yelling coming from camp — a common occurrence as of late.

“I should go see what that is,” he stated, partially because with every passing day, he wondered if some sort of Mexican standoff was bound to erupt.

She slipped her hand in his, another unexpected move. “I’ll go with you,”

He gave her hand a little squeeze. This was different, too. Rarely did they hold hands, or have much physical contact in general, really. Abigail had never been a physical type of person, and John simply didn’t have opportunities to seek it out.

It was nice, having her close.

“—How nice of you to join us, John! I’m sure he’ll give us his wise input now!” Micah spat, circling the campfire like a predator stalking its prey. He had a smug expression on his face. Meanwhile, Bill, Javier, Joe, and Cleet were eyeing the couple dangerously.

“The hell’s goin’ on?” John asked, trying to channel in that intimidating energy that Arthur usually had.

“We was jus’ havin’ a lively conversation, Scarface. ‘S all.” Micah chuckled, shaking his head. He had his arms outstretched affably. “Why don’t you and your… well, we’ll call her a lady — I suppose that’s the polite term, sit down by the fire with us?” Micah’s little comment earned raucous laughter from Bill and more sensible laughter from Cleet and Joe. Javier, meanwhile, was staring at the fire, expression hard to read.

“Watch what you say about my wife,” He’s not sure why exactly he called her his wife, but it felt right. Maybe in a different life, they’d be married for real.

Neither of them had ever really cared about marriage; despite that, they were generally viewed as a married couple, even if neither of them had ever confirmed it aloud.

Still, wife had an extra oomph to it that seemed to get his point across well. Abigail seemed a bit surprised by his statement but said nothing to dispute it.

“Oh! Suddenly she’s your wife now. Marston’s gone soft, ain’t it?” Micah taunted.

Bill — the fucking idiot he was — was still laughing obnoxiously. “I get it! Cause he wifed up a whore!”

Whatever John was about to retort died on his tongue with the interruption of Arthur. His hands were on his hips, making him seem a little bigger and a little less sickly. “The hell you boys screamin’ for? It’s three in the damn morning. You tryin’ to wake the whole goddamn camp?” His words were punctuated with a particularly wet-sounding cough. Abigail looked at John worriedly.

Micah smirked. “You’re right, Blacklung. You need your beauty rest. Maybe we should turn in for the night, huh, boys?” he asked tauntingly.

Arthur coughed yet again, the action wracking his degraded frame. “Shut the—“ Another cough. “—hell up. Don’t disturb the entire camp with your nonsense.”

“Easy now, cowpoke. Don’t exert yourself yellin’ at little ol’ me. We’re quieting down, ain’t we, fellers?” In response, Micah earned some unenthusiastic, mumbled replies.

John swallowed hard. He wanted to do nothing more than curl up next to Abigail, pull her close, wrap himself around her until morning arrived.

But that would have to wait until later.

With one last disdainful glare at Micah, Arthur turned his heel and headed back towards his tent, sighing angrily.

“I need to say something to Arthur,” John said in a hushed tone. He left details unsaid, knowing there were prying ears nearby.

Her eyes lit up with understanding. She nodded. “Night,” Abigail whispered. Her fingertips ghosted over his skin one last time.

“Night,” he replied, leaning down to brush a kiss against her forehead. It was yet another uncommon gesture for him; hell, he half expected Abigail to dodge it.

But she didn’t. Instead, she gave him an unreadable expression before walking off.

He made sure she got back to his tent before walking off the trees behind Arthur’s lean-to, where he knew the elder man would be.

“I’m fine,” Arthur spoke before John even had a chance to open his mouth. He flicked his cigarette on the ground, stubbing it out with his boot.

“Don’t lie. You look terrible, Arthur.” He leaned against the tree next to him. “…I hate seein’ you like this.”

Silence greeted that comment. He hated that Arthur refused to tell him what was wrong with him beyond his vague answer of being sick (and even that had taken much poking and prodding). Hated that Arthur wouldn’t allow anyone else to help him.

It hurt, watching him suffer. It made John feel helpless, useless, angry. All those emotions swirled together in his gut, churning with each other

When Arthur finally broke the silence, he sounded exhausted. “I’m gonna make sure you get outta here. That’s what I’m worried about.”

His voice cracked, and John hated that, too.

John glanced at Arthur, whose shoulders heaved, fighting a coughing fit.

Yet another silence grew between them, broken only by the chirping of crickets. The moonlight shone softly, casting shadows onto Arthur’s weary figure.

“Listen. If somethin’ happens, I know a safe place.” Arthur said carefully. He put his hand on John’s shoulder, a once-familiar gesture. When they had grown apart following his year of absence, that brotherly familiarity had stopped.

The distance and resentment that had grown between the two had only been an insult to injury following John’s return.

But while Arthur had merely been cold to him, Dutch’s welcome was… different.

“John, son, can I talk to you for a moment?” Dutch had asked, his voice sounding as jubilant as ever. Without waiting for a reply, he had wrapped an arm around John’s shoulder, bringing the younger man uncomfortably close as he led him away from the campfire.

“Listen, Dutch, I’m sorr—”

Dutch’s eyes darkened. “I know you are, boy.” any trace of geniality in the elder man’s voice was gone. “Don’t you ever dare to do that to me again.” his grip had turned into iron; it was a warning sign.

“I won’t, I pr—”

“I mean it, John. I won’t put up with it.”

And for the first time in his life, John had truly feared Dutch for a moment.

The cold look in Dutch’s eyes was gone within a flash. He gave John a winning smile, smoothing the latter’s vest where it had wrinkled under his grip. “Now. Shall we get back to the celebration? We’ve all missed you so much.”

John swallowed past the lump in his throat. God, he needed a cigarette. He let himself slide down, union suit briefly catching and snagging on the rough bark. The ground was cold and likely a little muddy beneath him, but he found himself not quite caring. “Where’s the safe place?”

“Copperhead Landing, northeast of the marsh. It ain’t much— just a dilapidated shack, but ain’t nobody goes out there. If things go south sometime soon, I’ll meet you there, you hear?”

“Okay,” John whispered, his mind going a mile a minute.

Arthur coughed yet again, the action making his whole body shake.

(Every time Arthur coughed, John felt his sense of dread increase a little more.)

“When the time comes, John…” Arthur started, then trailed off as yet another coughing fit started.

“I know,” he responded, barely audible over the former’s coughs. He felt as though he was hardly absorbing the information, too many thoughts concurrently buzzing in his head.

How was he supposed to do this? It was clearly time to get out, but he didn’t know how or what to do on his own. He had to provide for Abigail and Jack and keep them safe and alive and out of danger and what if Dutch came to find them, would he have to kill Dutch to save his family? Would Dutch try to kill them? —

A cigarette was what he needed. It’d clear his mind. The more the thought lingered, the more he craved the sweet relaxation it would give him.

He patted his pockets down anxiously, the rhythmic, repeating motion quickening with every second. Where the fuck were they? He just had them in his jeans pocket earlier.

Arthur was coughing again, the sound echoing in his head like a ticking time bomb — because Arthur was, frankly, a ticking time bomb. God, where the fuck were his cigarettes? They weren’t in his pockets.

“Do you have— have a— a smoke? I need, fuck, I just—” He was still palming uselessly at his jeans pockets because he needed a fucking smoke and he didn’t have one and why didn't he have one yet?

Whatever Arthur might’ve responded with went unheard because John couldn’t hear him over the ringing in his ears and his own layered, panicked thoughts.

Time was running out, the law was getting closer, and every minute he spent in this Hell-on-Earth, their so-called camp was just a stinging reminder to John that his family, Abigail and Arthur and Jack and Tilly and Grimshaw and everyone else was all going to die and it would be entirely his fault.

He needed a fucking cigarette.

Hosea had already died. Lenny and Mac and Davey and Jenny and Sean and Kieran—

“John,” Arthur said firmly, shaking him on the shoulder and saving him from drowning amongst the sea of his own terrible thoughts. He was holding a pack of cigarettes in his free hand. John grabbed them like a lifeline, relief already flooding his veins just at the sight.

He exhaled (and his head spun— had he been holding his breath by accident?). “You, uh— you got a match?”

Said matches were tossed on the ground in front of John, falling with a thwap. His hands scrambled to grab them.

“You alright?” Arthur asked uneasily, the effect compounded by his voice tinged with illness. They mostly didn’t talk about when John would get like this, because it was just easier to not.

There were a lot of things they didn’t talk about.

John’s hands shook as he tried to light the match once, twice, three times. “I’m fine,” he said with the unlit cigarette between his lips. Finally, the match lit.

“You ain’t,”

“...I ain’t,” John agreed. He took that first inhale of his cigarette, a slow, easy drag. It felt like heaven. “But neither are you,”

Arthur said nothing in reply.

#red dead redemption fanfic #rdr fanfic #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr #johnigail #john marston x abigail roberts #john marston #john marston fanfic #arthur morgan #abigail roberts marston #abigail roberts #abigail marston #jack marston #red dead redemption fanfiction #writers on tumblr #fanfiction #vittoria.doc #take my hand (don’t fear the reaper)

34 notes · View notes