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sprout-fics · 4 months

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Mayday Mayday Chapter Two: Effective Fire

(Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Medic "Fix" Reader)

Part Six of Snowblind

Rating: Mature Themes Wordcount: 4.8k Tags: Slow Burn, Whump, Blood and Injury, Active Combat Scenarios, Teammates to ??? to Lovers, Angst, Banter Warnings: Crashes, Descriptions of blood and injury A/N: Special thank you to @okaycoldplay @gazs-blue-hat , @laeilaps , and @vampirekilmerfic for the research and development of this installment! and thank you to everyone still reading despite the large gap in updates.

In the darkness of the desert, you engrave in your soul the names of the dying and the damned.

You set to work quickly, assessing the men injured in the crash laid down beside each other against the gritty earth. It’s slow, slogging work, working in near total darkness. Ghost had punched out the lone red blinking beacon from the helicopter lest it betray your position, and as a result you work only through the scant illumination of the flashlight held by the pale-faced private next to you. You try to refrain from snapping at him when his hand wavers and you pause your hands over the limp forms of his brothers.

There’s no way around it. It’s bad. It’s...really bad.

Aside from Ghost and his concussion, there’s four more soldiers wounded, not including the pilots. Fractures, contusions, and shrapnel laced wounds litter the debris-strewn space around you. Groans and scarcely stifled cries seem to be the only sound aside from the lonely, cold wind that travels through the valley.

You try your best to push aside any thoughts of impending attack, narrowing your focus down to the flesh and bone under your hands. The flashlight illuminates seeping pools of red under some of the bodies, and as fast as you work it doesn’t seem to stem the tide of crimson that you know will haunt you for days to come.

Both pilots are concussed, out cold, and you think it’s for the best. If they awoke to the state of themselves, it would be far more agonizing. The pilot has a broken right leg, the thing bent at a horribly awkward angle that had one of the other marines swear a sacrament at just the sight. Shrapnel litters down his waist to his calf, and somewhere between it all you think you feel a fractured rib that belays a tender, weakening heartbeat that flutters with every red ooze from his wounds.

You try your best to make him comfortable, and quietly attach a black tag to his jacket to signal his chances of survival. There’s only so much you can do, and silently you pray that if he does pass, that at least it’s without pain.

His co-pilot isn’t much better.

When you go to attach a black tag to him, the marine behind you shoots out to catch your wrist. In the sloping glow of the flashlight, his eyes are pleading.

“Please.” Is all he offers, quiet and forlorn. “He’s…my friend. Please.”

You regard him with sad eyes, but quietly nod and begin to work on the unconscious man who had saved your lives.

The shattered windshield sliced through his upper arm, where a tourniquet now cinches the vein tightly as you work to apply bloodstop to the worst of the gashes. There’s a piece of debris lodged in his stomach that you work desperately to treat, thanking whatever higher power that be that the object itself stops most of the blood flow. You use a good amount of your supplies on him, ensuring your assistant holds aloft your one and only fluid bag to try and ease the strain on his body despite the blood loss. He’s covered in your own jacket to try and keep him warm as he shivers, a tell-tale sign of shock. The cold that bites your skin is nothing compared to the silent dread that pools low and dark in your stomach. He's deathly pale, and you assign the marine to watch over him and the other pilot, to guard them if and when you should be found.

Down the line, your next man is unconscious, bleeding from his head and arm broken, but otherwise whole and in one piece. He’s a boyish sort, you think as you wipe the blood free and use butterfly stitches for the gash on his forehead. He still hasn’t shed a soft roundness of baby fat on his cheeks, and you can’t help but think how young he is to be out here, prone in the dark desert sand.

He rouses just as you finish working on him, startling and grasping at your sleeve in a sudden panic.

“Easy.” You soothe, laying a hand flat on his chest as he tries to raise his head. “Try not to move. You’re okay.”

You catch his eyes by the light of the flashlight. They look lost, but then they find you, blink, before he slips away again. His heart pulses steadily under your hand. You squeeze his hand just one, hoping he feels it before he goes still again.

Beside him is a corporal who seems to babble in delirium as you carefully inspect his pupils and wrap gauze around his head. His left arm has debris engraved into it, not nearly as bad as the pilots, but no doubt requiring a careful operation the second you land back at base.

If you land back at base.

You try not to think about that either.

The corporal talks in circles, no doubt severely concussed but at least halfway lucid. You catch him drifting more than once, shaking him awake and telling him to keep talking unless he falls asleep. He chokes back a sob when you wrap a tourniquet around his upper arms, biting his lip so hard it bleeds but offering no other complaint. When you tell him, breathless but firm nonetheless, that he’s going to be okay, you find him smiling at you through heavy eyes.

Your designated assistant, a flint-eyed man with dark hair who goes by ‘Smit’ bends to assist you with each man, each of you easily slashing the straps of the plate vests and discarding them to the side so you can inspect the unevenly rising chest of each man. A second holds the flashlight as you work, illuminating the scarlet slashed over their forms that you rapidly try to stem.

“Hang on for me, soldier. Keep breathing.” You murmur to the marine under your hands, and then to your new assistant: “Hold down on the gauze. Keep a steady pressure. Let me know the second his breathing changes. Understood?”

“Yes sir- er, ma’am.”

With each new wound, each new injury, you do inventory on your existing supplies- not nearly enough to deal with a situation of this caliber. Gunshot wounds, flash-bang concussions, these were routine for you. This, where the crash constitutes a disaster zone, you feel the weight of your quick decisions sink heavily into your shoulders.

The pilot is the first to go.

Martinez, the man designated to watch over him, quietly signals you over. You feel the pilot’s pulse flutter under your fingers, your other hand quietly holding him as he lets out several long, slow breaths and then goes forever still.

“He saved our lives.” The marine tells you solemnly as you cover his face. “I’ve never seen a pilot come back like that from a tailspin. We...”

He trails off. You know he doesn’t need to finish the thought.

We should all be dead.

A hollowness burrows deep and aching into your chest. You wish you had time to indulge it.

“Take his jacket.” You quietly offer. “See if you can warm up the co-pilot.”

“Yes ma’am.”

You rise to your feet and pace away for a moment, lingering between the soft perimeter of the crash and the injured men contained within it. It takes a few breaths to settle your heartbeat, and you wonder if you should feel more grief than you do- if it is a reflection on yourself that you learned to blunt your inward pain so long ago.

You look up to the sky. There’s still no stars.

In the darkness, you watch the massive, prowling shape of Ghost pace the perimeter like a wolf protecting the corpse of felled prey. Beneath him, lain flat against the sand, the marines keep a silent, steady watch for the smallest indication of enemy movement. You can barely make out the outline of your lieutenant, his figure blurring into shadow like a wraith. When he senses your eyes on him and turns, you can make out the shock of white from his mask.

“We lost one.” You tell him quietly as you approach, careful to keep your voice quiet from the nearby soldiers. Ghost seems to have expected this, for he nods, silent as he considers.

“Dust-off is on standby.” He relays back to you, voice dipping so low it feels like it vibrates the earth beneath your feet. “They’re waiting for the area to clear before they send another chopper.”

You grimace, mouth pressing into a line. Right. Of course the base is waiting to make sure there’s no more RPGs in the zone before they can send a team to your position. Knowing procedure, it could be up to a day before you see help.

Ghosts eyes watch you as you process this information, trying to run the numbers on the supplies in your field kit, trying to prioritize who’s wounded and who may not return home.

“Sorry.” You offer suddenly, and you sense Ghost still, tilt his head at you.

“I jinxed it, I think.” You offer, more to yourself than to him, and you wonder how much of the stress is getting to your head. “With it being a good night for a hunt and all.”

It takes Ghost a moment to digest this, but eventually he huffs and shifts away from you.

“Hunt’s not over yet, Fix.” He tells you simply, and you think in the darkness he somehow sounds bemused. You blink at that, always surprised by how Ghost can take a situation such as this and simply compartmentalize, offer a scant bit of humor with the confidence that he, at least, will survive.

You wonder, quietly in his shadow, if you’ll make it home despite all this.

You shake the thought as soon as it appears. There’s no time to entertain it, and as you snap your gloves off and slide on a fresh pair, returning to your makeshift triage.

A sound.

There’s a current that runs through the remaining members of the team around you as you all seem to catch it at the same time. Distant, a low thrum that sounds for just a moment before the desert goes silent once more.

Then again, louder.

You can’t discern where it is at first, ears straining to track whatever it was- another chopper, a truck, or...something else.

Then, to the east.

“3 o’clock.” Ghost states just loud enough for the circle of marines scattered around the site to hear, and there’s a flurry of movement as the team situates itself to face the oncoming threat. You can hear it now- the distant churning of an engine choked by sand as it draws closer. “NVGs on. Now.”

You follow the order automatically, hearing the whine of your goggles as they come to life and throw the world into a sickly green light.

“Fix.” Ghost snaps as you try and squint in the darkness to make out distant, blurry shapes of the oncoming forces. “On your weapon. Now.”

You don’t hesitate, quickly snatching your weapon from near the row of fallen men and murmuring a few quiet orders to your assistants there. It takes all of five seconds for you to reappear at Ghost’s side, lowering yourself to the ground alongside him as he flattens himself, opening his scope to peer into the horizon.

You see them now, in the distance. Two trucks together, and as they draw closer you see the forms of men with weapons held aloft as they rapidly close in on your position.

“What’s the call, Ghost?” One of the sergeants besides you asks, fingers tapping nervously on his weapon. You feel it, the frenetic, taut energy that courses like an electric current between you all. Holding its breath, starved of air, waiting until the moment the first bullet signals destruction.

“Not yet.” Ghost replies, eerily calm. “Wait until they’re in range. Conserve your ammo, there may be more.”

You shudder to think of that, already finding your stomach wind tighter every moment the trucks grow closer. You can already tell you’re outnumbered. There has to be twenty men at least, and as they near you hear them begin to raise their voices in the darkness in battle cries that pull taut at the low, cold coil of your gut.

You don’t allow yourself to think what may become of this- gazing into the scope of an enemy for a single heartbeat before everything goes dark.

Forever.

“Hold steady, lads.” Ghost murmurs, voice a deathly low roll in his chest.

The group draws closer, unloading from the truck, weapons out. They must not see you in the dark. Maybe they think you all died in the crash, bodies lying prone and scattered in the sand amidst the wreckage of the helicopter.

“Not yet.” Ghost intones quietly as the men from the truck grow closer, cautiously approaching the edge of your perimeter. “Set your targets.”

You choose a man in the middle of the group, both hands on a soviet-era rifle as dust billows at his feet. He’s less than thirty paces away from you, and with each heartbeat he takes another step towards the crosshairs of your trigger.

He’ll kill you, given the chance.

Ghost is silent beside you, body taut, entirely still. He doesn’t even seem to breathe. if you didn’t know better, you’d think he was a corpse.

Twenty paces.

Fifteen.

You see it happen in just a moment. A man pauses at the edge of the group as he looks directly at you on the small rise towards the crash. He raises a shout.

He drops dead before he can finish.

Your eardrums ring as the men around you wordlessly unleash a hailstorm of bullets on the group. You watch five men go down in the first few seconds, unable to lift their weapons before they drop. The remaining open fire on your position blindly, bullets burying themselves into the dirt with puffs of dust. Gunfire explodes across your vision like fireworks as you open fire, tracking shapes in the shadows and deftly squeezing the trigger after them.

They’re trying to find you in the dark, and it’s difficult with your group spread apart as it is, perched on a low rise that offers a semblance of cover to shield you. There’s shouts that echo in the darkness, panicked, angry, offering orders that are cut short by the sound of a gunshot.

You watch as a man retreats to the cover of one of the trucks, and moments later the engine starts, and the vehicle begins to roll towards you with increasing speed.

“TAKE OUT THE TRUCK.” Ghost orders over the chaos at you, head not turning for even a moment as he focuses his sights.

You have a momentary pause as to why it isn’t Ghost trying to take the shot. He’s always been a better sniper than you, so how-

You watch him take aim at a man fleeing in the direction of the truck.

and miss.

“FIX!!” Ghost bellows, thunderous, and you lock on to the front wheel swerving in the dirt. You take a breath, and a split second later your shoulder jolts with the impact of your rifle, and you watch the rubber of the tire spin into shreds. Yet the truck continues, swerving erratically in your direction. It raises a burst of panic in the men around you, who open fire on the truck as it closes in, all while its passengers take aim at you all.

You watch a body down the line jolt, then go still.

“Anderson!!” One of the corporals hollers, and before you can scream at him to stay where he is, he foregos his weapon in favor of reaching for his teammate.

He screams as his body jerks, cries as he collapses onto his side.

You have no time to look, unleashing your ammo at the truck’s other front wheel in a desperate bid to slow it down before resorting to firing upon the driver. He jerks before slumping forwards, twisting the heel so the truck goes careening off course and away from your sight range.

“They’re flanking us!”

You don’t move unless it would give away your position, instead trying to track the targets in front of you before turning your attention to your side. That is, until you realize-

“Ghost-” You bark, voice cracking. “The injured-”

The truck disappeared towards the broken tail that shelters your comrades.

“Stay put.” Ghost snarls as a bullet pings off the dirt between you, making you flinch. “If you get up, you’re as good as dead.”

You try not to let your hands shake as you focus through your scope again, tracing the remaining five or six targets that flee back towards the other truck. In the chaos of trying to take down the vehicle headed towards you, they’ve gotten a head start, and rapidly begin to reach the edge of your firing range. You try to lock onto them, catching one by the shoulder as he stumbles, then goes down with your next shot. Yes his comrades manage to reach the truck ahead of him, piling in and backing up away from the range of your weapons.

“They’re retreating!” A voice rises beside you.

“They’re getting away.” Ghost growls back, ceaselessly firing upon the truck in an effort to slow it as it withdraws.

There’s gunfire to your right now, and at last you twist towards it, army-crawling in the direction of your wounded patients.

“They’re hidden behind the truck.” A voice tells you, shielded by the mangled helicopter tail. He ducks, crouching, as a bullet pings off the metal.

The wounded are on the other side.

Yet when you try and jolt forward, around, trying to reach for them, you’re hauled back by the straps of your tac vest.

“I said-” Ghost growls in your ear as you all but fall back into the heavy plane of his broad chest. “Stay. put.”

You didn’t realize you were shaking until you were in his arms. The adrenaline bites hard and sour on the underside of your tongue, chest heaving and brain working into overdrive as you force yourself to freeze, process his words.

“Think.” Ghost tells you, breathless enough that you think you might have imagined it.

You blink, trying to reroute the synapses of your thoughts to listen to him, to obey this order he’s given you. You remind yourself it’s Ghost’s voice that has guided you through darkness, through blood and sin, through your own undoings and towards the light of survival. Now, with souls of others cupped preciously in the palms of your hands, you will yourself once more to listen to his guiding clarion.

With you still sprawled back against him, Ghost reaches one massive arm around you to your front. You think he’s about to secure you, roll you out of the way, only for him to deftly pluck your one grenade from the front of your vest. With hardly any effort, Ghost uncaps it right before your eyes...

and hurls it in the direction of the truck.

There’s a pause as it clatters somewhere into the front seat, followed by a shout-

BOOM-!!

Debris erupts upwards, rains down on you. The world spins, rings around you for a moment, and you scrunch your eyes to try and grimace through it. Eventually it fades, and you feel a body pressed to yours shift, one arm looped around your front slowly retreating as you’re released.

He’s still holding you.

For a moment you feel your brain short-circuit, torn hopelessly between utter bafflement at Ghost’s proximity to you, and the reminder of your task at hand. Awkwardly, you cough and scramble to detangle yourself from Ghost, who eases slowly away from you, giving you space.

“All clear!” One of the marines nearby yells in the silence that follows. You glance back at Ghost, crouched as you are by the wrecked helicopter tail. The white of his skull mask flashes luminescent green under your night vision, shadows dancing from the fire of the truck. He nods at you in a silent affirmation- ensuring he’s covering you as you dart for the wounded.

You keep low as you crawl towards the forms of your fallen comrades, grabbing the first man you can and dragging him backwards until one of the other marines assists you. There’s smoking forms hidden behind the truck not far off, one of them moving and moaning wordlessly in pain.

You manage to get everyone behind cover from the truck, not yet looking to see if they’ve been further injured, focused instead on the perimeter, looking for future threats.

“Sergeant.” A marine quietly offers next to you, and you turn, look into his eyes.

The man you’re still holding- clutching onto his tac vest straps by a death grip. He’s dead.

“It’s Martinez.” He whispers solemnly. The one you’d left to defend his brothers. He’s still holding the IV bag.

It takes a few moments for the thing inside your chest to awaken- that dark beast that howls in anger and sorrow. It draws upwards, clawing viscous and sinister at your inside, and as you stare into the blank eyes of Martinez it growls in low tones words of grief and fury at you’d been unable to save him.

That you’d failed.

You release the body like you’ve been electrocuted- muscles a live wire as you try to control your shallow breathing. Blood rushes in your ears. The world dizzies you with shades of green.

“Fix.”

You turn, eyes wild, almost careening into Ghost behind you. He catches you by your elbow, steadies you silently. The warmth from his gloved hands bleeds through, and somehow you find your balance.

You almost want to shield the fallen soldier behind you, trying to hide the act of failure you’ve committed. Yet when you try, Ghost’s grip on your arm remains tight, as if somehow anticipating your movement.

“Think.” His voice echoes again in your mind.

Your throat is a hard, bitter scrape of air as you swallow, steady yourself.

“Who’s injured?” You ask the survivors gathered around you.

“Anderson is dead.” A voice intones, quiet and grieving. “Smit is gone too.”

Three men including the pilot. Three men you failed to save. Three souls to haunt you.

You stare up at Ghost, trying to make out his expression despite the night vision. You wonder if he still feels grief despite everything. You wonder if you respect him for that.

Over his shoulder, light in the distance.

He blinks, follows your gaze.

More trucks. Distant, but closing in. Hyenas come to pick off the wounded survivors.

“Dig in.” Ghost tells the team, releasing you so abruptly the world spins. “We’ve got enemy reinforcements inbound.”

Yet as you focus in on the convoy headed in your direction, you see just how many reinforcements Ghost speaks of.

Three cars. You’ll be overrun.

“Ghost, we need to retreat.” The marine sergeant tells him roughly. “We can’t hold this position.”

“Retreat to where?” Ghost snaps back, never taking his eyes off the convoy. “We hold here.”

“There’s buildings north of us, they look abandoned-”

“We won’t make it. Not with the trucks.”

He’s right. Even if you didn’t carry the wounded, in which Ghost would have to haul you to withdraw himself, there’s just no way you can make it to a cover without the trucks catching up and encircling you all, cutting off any escape- or chance at survival.

“Reload.” Ghost declares when the sergeant goes quiet of protests. “Inside the chopper, wounded first.”

The men echo a chorus of acknowledgments, moving around you. Yet you remain rooted to where you stand, gazing at Ghost, at the convoy, at the starless sky.

You’ve lost three men. Now more enemies come to reap the souls of those who have lived. You need to retreat, to fight, to protect the men you’ve been tasked with, to ensure your own survival.

Think, he said.

Think, Fix.

Think.

The answer comes before you can second guess yourself.

“We need to blow up the chopper.”

The men around you freeze, turn to look at you. The air feels stale in your lungs, heartbeat stuttering, but under their eyes you force yourself to repeat your words.

“We need to rig the chopper to explode- and retreat.”

Ghost stares at you wordlessly. You expect him to snarl at you, to reprimand you, but instead he simply watches, waits for you to speak.

Listening. Perhaps even trusting.

You swallow hard, settling yourself where you stand before speaking again.

“We have demolition charges for the bunker. We can set them on the chopper, wait until the trucks get close, withdraw and then set them to go off. It’ll give us time to take the wounded and hike to a better position.”

It’s quiet in the moments after you speak.

Then:

“That’s crazy.” The marine sergeant offers in utter disbelief. Then, quieter: “It could work.”

Ghost’s eyes haven’t strayed from you. You lock onto them, quiet. Pleading. Trusting.

“It would take a crack shot to explode the package at that distance in the dark.” Is the only thing he offers. Yet the silent message is clear.

Can you do it?

For a single, suffocating moment doubt threatens to choke the hope from your chest, obfuscating it in a noxious cloud of self loathing and hatred. Instead, you square your shoulders, look at Ghost’s eyes, pupils blown wide and dark under the starless sky.

“I can do it.”

Ghost holds your stare. The trucks in the distance grow closer.

“Pack up.” He barks, turning. “Wounded take priority. Take what you can, leave the rest. I want the charges on the nose of the chopper, and whatever ammunition is left after reloading. Wounded at the front, the rest of you watching our six. MOVE!!”

You fall in line, a flurry of activity as you rapidly check the wounded men, hauling those who can stand to their feet, taking the weapons of the men who carry those who can’t. You watch as the marine sergeant and two more secure charges to the front of the chopper near the fuel tank, working quickly as the rest of you pass them, headed up the rise.

You can hear the engines of the trucks now, roaring with sand choked valves as they close in.

“Move. Move!” You urge the men ahead of you, hanging towards the rear as Ghost takes up the tail of your group. You watch the lights of the trucks near the forms of their fallen comrades as you reach the top of the hill. They swiftly pass them, firing several shots into the sky as they near the crash site.

You plant yourself at the top of the rise, rock and dirt digging into your stomach as you focus through your scope, swinging your sights from the rapidly encroaching convoy towards the exposed charges. Ghost hovers at your back as the men hike past him, encouraged by their sergeant. You know if this doesn’t work, if you shoot too soon or too late, it will be an early grave for you all.

“Not yet.” Ghost tells you, observing as the trucks begin to eclipse the former perimeter where you’d been laying only minutes ago. You steady your breathing, forcing your heartbeat to slow, loosening your hands on your rifle and then slowly tightening it once more. You keep your finger off the trigger.

The trucks pass the perimeter.

Not yet.

The trucks creep up on the helicopter tail.

Not yet.

The trucks pass by the burning wreckage of the other truck.

Your finger lays on the trigger. You focus on the demolition charges.

Deep breath in.

Quietly, from behind you:

“Now.”

You squeeze the trigger just once, and at the exact moment that the trucks come up parallel to the nose of the bird, you watch as the charges explode. It takes a moment for the heat to burn a hole through the fuel tank, but then a second, larger explosion alights and deafens you with the sound of its ignition. The force of it momentarily rocks you backwards, and it's only Ghost that manages to keep you steady as the shockwave briefly rolls over you both.

When you open your eyes, you see the three trucks gone. Engulfed in the inferno.

Clear.

“Bloody fuckin hell.” Ghost breathes beside you, observing the carnage with an expression far from unimpressed. “Bloody good shot, sergeant.”

You’re so stunned by the blast you almost miss the praise, blinking even as Ghost grabs you by your arm and hauls you to your feet beside him.

“Thank you. Sir.” You manage at last, still gazing down at the flames. The rifle in your grip feels too heavy. Then: “Holy shit.”

“Keen observation.” Ghost remarks dryly, but there’s an undercurrent of something else to his voice. Something that sounds almost relieved. Pleased. “Let’s get moving.”

He turns, and you follow in his shadow. Behind you, the blaze of your destruction alights you in fiery warmth.

He hikes higher into the hills.

You follow him.

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#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost x reader #Simon ghost riley x oc #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x ofc #reader insert #cod x reader #fic: shadow and bone #oc: fix #fic: snowblind

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dmwrites · 7 months

Text

Here’s the thing. It wasn’t really Lizzie’s spine.

What was a man supposed to do? Lizzie had died in the end dimension, for goodness sake, walked off the edge. There is no bottom of the end, no body to collect. So Scar had to improvise.

His task had said to become the villain of the server. Scar had read it with a heavy heart, surrounded by his loneliness already. He’d been chased, stolen from, slashed at, left. And he’d tried so hard to be nice and friendly. By all means he should become the villain of the server. Grief, steal, make enemies. But he was so tired, so sick of the unfriendly silence that surrounded him all the time.

But Scar had tried, he really did. He burnt the heart foundation to the ground, watched that happy face melt off its oh-so-flammable head. He roasted anyone who passed, and their enchanting setups. He shot at anyone who made a pass at him. But it all felt stiff and cold, practiced movements of a wind-up doll that just did the same thing over and over again. There was no bloodthirsty joy in this, just that dreadful knowledge that his task was driving him further from people he wanted to love him.

Looking back, he wasn’t quite sure what exactly drove him to the idea of selling Lizzie’s spine to her grieving husband Joel. Maybe it was that desperation for anything that would make him feel alive again, or the pressure of the task looming over him telling him he hadn’t done enough. But no matter the origin, the ending was the same. Scar was standing in front of the simple gravestone of Jimmy Solidarity, shovel in hand.

The dirt was fresh still, easy to slide his shovel into. Lizzie and Jimmy and Mumbo had all died in rather quick succession only a few days ago, and it had been quite the convenience that a grave had already been dug for one of them. Lizzie would have been first choice, obviously, but the only thing left of her was her house. Mumbo had been lovingly taken away by the mounders and placed somewhere in their walls, so Jimmy was the obvious choice. No one would notice any change to the grave anyway- Jimmy had been dead in the eyes of most of the people here even before he’d been killed.

Scar worked with a single-minded focus, channeling all the terror and the loneliness he’d felt in this damn world into his frenzied digging. He didn’t hide what he was doing- at this point, no one would even come near him. He’d shoot them if they did.

His shovel hit wood, and he grinned. Something was beginning to stir within him, finally, finally. He’d tried so hard to be good and polite and fair. And where had it gotten him- well, to Jimmy’s grave, mostly.

He cracked the lid.

There was already some sag and rot to the peaceful face of Jimmy Solidarity. Physically, he’d been unharmed by the warden’s sonic blast that had ended his life for good- the harm was all to do with the brain and all that. Scar wasn’t a scientist, just a buzzard, and all he cared about was the spine.

It took a fair amount of grunting and strength to flip Jimmy’s body over, and he certainly wasn’t helping. Dead weight and all.

“Listen, Jimmy, it’s for the best, you know.” Scar said, taking out the dagger he’d crafted only a few hours ago. “You’re not doing anyone any good by just lying here, and I have profits to make. No hard feelings, bud.”

He sliced down, just kind of guessing at where he’d meet tissue and fat instead of ricocheting off of bone. It was messy, messy work, as Scar carved away at Jimmy’s back. But he got there eventually, the bright shine of bloody bone within the mound of meat. Scar had to hack at various connective tissue and bone to pry the spine free, and boy was he winded, but finally, finally, he felt the low heat of gritty joy as he held the bone structure in his hand.

“Thank you Jimmy.” Scar leaned down, pressed a kiss to what used to be Jimmy’s lower back. His face came away wet, and he licked his lips.

Scar kicked the dirt back onto the grave after he pulled himself out of it, messy and quick-like. No one would notice, no one would care. They’d all be dead soon anyway. Scar had only one thing on his mind now, and it was to profit from this endeavor. He wondered how many diamonds Joel would be willing to trade for this, how many riches he would get from the secret keeper for this task complete.

“Joel!” Scar called, waving as he made his way up the hill to Joel’s place- a fairground of sorts, a real nice place to get dizzy at.

“Hey fella- woah, what on earth happened to you?” Joel’s mouth fell open as he took in Scar’s appearance.

“Oh, have you not seen my outfit yet? Look at my butt, there’s sunflowers on it.” Scar said, turning slowly in place.

“No, I’ve seen that… Scar, you’re covered in blood! And dirt!” Joel exclaimed. “How- you’re not even red, surely you’re not-”

“Joel, my good friend, have I got a deal for you!” Scar interrupted, giving Joel a hearty slap on the back (he heard the tick of half a heart of damage taken). “I have Lizzie’s spine, and I was wondering what you would trade me for it?”

He pulled the spine from his bag, red and white glistening in the sunlight. It hung limply like a dead snake from his open palm. Joel’s eyes widened, and he took a step backwards.

“I don’t really want it.”

He knows, something whispered in Scar’s head.

“Oh, sure you do! A memory of your wife, so sadly taken from us, rest her soul.” Scar purred, putting a hand to his heart. He stepped closer after a moment of silence, the spine swinging in his hand. There was blood on his shoes.

“I- fine, just look in my chests, take whatever you want.” Joel rasped, a hand on the doorframe of his house. He kept stepping away from Scar, eyes darting from him to the bone in his hand. Joel was scared, deliciously so.

“Fantastic!” Scar said brightly, taking a few things from the chests and tossing the spine in Joel’s direction. “Thank you so much for doing business, Joel. Enjoy your wife! Or, a piece of her, anyway.”

He left, not waiting for any kind of response from Joel. His heart was pounding, and perhaps for the first time this whole season, he felt alive.

#tw gore #secret life smp #goodtimeswithscar

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adore-laur · 7 months

Text

DADRRY: PART TWO

— part one

——

The Styles household is missing a vital component this weekend. Harry isn't home, which is a rare occurrence, but duty is called at the most inconvenient moment. It had been a little after five in the morning when he received a blaring phone call from his boss. His snores had abruptly stopped as he fumbled around to answer the call before speaking groggily with a pinch to his eyebrows that would indeed induce a splitting headache.

You were still half asleep when it happened, and all you can remember seeing was Harry running his hands over his face after he hung up. He then slid out of bed with a quiet groan and took a shower. It didn't take long for you to realize that he had been called in to work. His pragmatic side refused to leave the restaurant severely understaffed, and you understood his decision.

Before he slipped out the door, a minty kiss was given to the corner of your lips, and he whispered, "Love you." You later awoke to a cold and empty bed, and it felt uncomfortable without his warm body pressed against you.

It's a quarter after eight now, and you assume Harry will be done working after lunchtime. Your daughter will undoubtedly be confused about why he isn't here to cook a breakfast buffet and carry her down to the beach for a morning swim like he does every weekend. You're dreading telling her because she could throw a toddler fit at any moment, especially when sleepy.

With a suppressed yawn, you reach for your phone on the nightstand and text Harry. You'll try to make his shift less chaotic.

I'm sorry you had to go in today. I hope it goes by quickly. We'll see you when you get home! I love you.

You hope you can ease some of his frustration. He becomes grouchy when work obligations are thrown at him at the last minute, and working on a Saturday could be extra stressful since he doesn't know the weekend menu and preparation like he used to. Despite that, he's a professional, so you can count on him to push through and adapt.

Eventually, you start your day by walking to the balcony overlooking the coast. Your daughter will wake soon, so you bask in the soothing moment alone. Below the balcony is where all the beach toys live—floaties, buckets for building sandcastles, and even a foldable lounge chair Harry spoiled your daughter with on her last birthday. It's your family's subtle mark on the world, and it ignites a strong feeling in your chest. You built this life with Harry, from every little toy on the sand to the oceanside memories the three of you will always cherish.

Your reminiscing ends as the brisk morning breeze ripples goosebumps over your arms and legs. Your mind naturally drifts to the thought of Harry and how tomorrow will be his only day off before he has to pound out five straight days of work again. He's dedicated to his career and tries desperately to leave his stress at work instead of bringing it home, but you have a feeling he'll be spent today.

You hear soft footsteps padding down the hallway as you think of something you could do to cheer him up. You smile and walk back inside, meeting your baby girl's puffy eyes and lost expression. Your heart immediately crumbles. Harry is always the one to wake her up on the weekends. After waking up, you'll often see them already at the kitchen table, either sharing a slice of buttered toast or creating faces on their pancakes using an assortment of fruit.

Kneeling to her height, you brush tangled curls out of her eyes. "Good morning, sleepyhead. I know Dad was supposed to wake you up, but he had to go to work. He'll be home in a few hours, okay?"

Her lips pout. She's currently in a clingy phase, so not seeing her dad when she usually does has her understandably upset.

You gently shush her to try to stop any forthcoming tears. "I know, sweetheart. Let's eat some breakfast, and then we can think of something to do for him before he comes home," you say, not wanting to deal with a meltdown this early.

She nods and sulks toward the kitchen, with you closely behind. You make frozen chocolate chip waffles with a lousy side of green grapes. It's nothing compared to what Harry would make, but it'll have to suffice. You sit next to her and cautiously watch her eat so she doesn't shove big bites into her tiny mouth. She still looks visibly upset.

The vacant chair across the table mocks you. It feels bizarre not to have him here talking about the day's plans or what's for dinner. You can't remember the last time he had to work during the weekend. The restaurant's management has always been top-notch, and the employees are usually punctual, but there must have been someone sick or an unforeseen scheduling issue.

"Can you think of something to do for him?" you ask your daughter.

She silently mopes and picks at her waffle. You'll have to think for both of you.

You could have lunch made for him when he gets home, but you're not sure if he'd be hungry from being around food all morning. On top of that, he'll be exhausted and will most definitely want to take a nap. A better idea would be to visit him at work at the end of his shift. He'd appreciate it.

"Would you want to go and see him at the restaurant?" you suggest, stealing one of her grapes.

That gets her. Her eyes focus on you as she excitedly bobs her head. You grin and kiss her temple before cleaning up the remnants of breakfast.

"I'm going to shower, and then I'll help you get ready," you tell her while lifting her out of the highchair. She gallops to her room without another word, clearly in a much happier mood than before.

You pull out your phone and ask Harry what time he works until. Since you want to surprise him, you send a vague text. You're not worried about getting a response soon, so you check on your daughter and find her playing with her toys, then head to the bedroom to take a quick shower.

After that, you're met with a new text message.

Harry: 1:30 or 2. Everyone is in a bad mood. The breakfast rush was a disaster. Someone called in because they were hungover. How are you guys doing? Sorry if she's cranky because of me.

You: That sucks. Only five more hours, though. And she's fine, just a little mopey. Have a good rest of your shift, baby.

Three dots immediately pop up.

Harry: Tell her I miss and love her. I'll call you during my lunch break if it's not swamped.

You:Will do.

You shut your phone off and find things to do around the house to make time pass faster—cleaning, playing with dolls, and even baking brownies. When it finally hits one o'clock, you pick out an outfit. It's not too hot outside, so you wear a long sundress that flows prettily. You then dry your hair and let it loose, knowing Harry likes it that way.

Entering your daughter's bedroom, you find her still playing with dolls on the plush carpet. A yellow gingham dress and white Mary Janes lay on her bed. You grab them, help her into the cute outfit, and then brush through her wild curls.

Once you both are ready, you grab your keys and head out the front door. You strap your daughter in the Volvo's car seat before settling behind the wheel. It takes fifteen minutes to get to the restaurant, so you put on a Disney playlist for her to listen to on the way there.

When you eventually pull into the parking lot, it appears to be busy. You couldn't imagine working at a restaurant on a Saturday during the summer. Once parked, you unbuckle your daughter and hike her up on your hip before walking around the back. There's an employee door that leads to the kitchen without having to walk through the entire building. You've visited Harry on his lunch breaks before, even before you got married. When you first started dating him, you remember how he would wait outside in his chef coat, standing against the brick wall. When he'd spot you, he'd meet you halfway and trap you in his arms, kissing and hugging you until he had to clock back in.

Now, you walk through the door with a mini version of you and him clinging to your side.

The kitchen is bustling, and the smell of sizzling meats and vegetables instantly invades your senses. Dishes clang in the sink, so you assume they must have just finished serving lunch. Everyone recognizes you by now, and they offer a friendly smile or wave before resuming their respective duties.

You scan the room for Harry but can't find him anywhere.

"He's in the employee bathroom," says a man you've seen before as he passes you. "He needed a break. The lunch rush was a nightmare."

If the breakfast rush was a disaster and the lunch rush was a nightmare...

"Oh no," you mumble. It must have been bad for everyone today. "I'll go check on him."

You wander toward the bathroom door and knock twice. The familiar clearing of Harry's throat is muffled on the other side.

"Yeah?" he says hoarsely. His nose sounds plugged up. Has he been crying?

"It's me, honey. Can I come in?"

It's silent for a few seconds before you hear the lock turn. You crack the door open and step inside before turning and locking it again. When you meet Harry's gaze, your heart sinks. His eyes are slightly bloodshot, his chef coat is unbuttoned, and his curls fall over his forehead. He looks so worn out.

Yet it all goes away momentarily when he sees who you have on your hip. He gives the slightest smile before sniffling and taking her from you, hugging her tightly while her arms throw themselves around his shoulders. His eyes stay trained on yours, offering a nod as if to convince you he's okay.

You close the short distance and run your hand through his tousled hair. Your thumb then grazes the faint wetness under his eyes before you squeeze the apple of his cheek and give him a sympathetic smile. He leans forward and plants a tender kiss on your lips. It tastes like bell peppers.

"Are you okay?" you murmur with concern.

Harry sighs and says, "Not really. It was six hours of nonstop orders and running around. We're so understaffed, baby. Everyone kept pissing each other off." He sniffles. "I just want to go home."

"Are you done for the day? I can help clean up or something."

"I have to take the meatballs out for dinner service. They're almost done, then we can go."

"Do you want to help him take the meatballs out?" you ask your daughter. Her head snaps up with lightning speed, making you and Harry laugh.

"Yes, please," answers her soft voice.

Harry sets her down and takes her tiny hand before leading her out of the bathroom and toward the ovens. Sure enough, a large sheet of seasoned meatballs is cooking in one of them. "Four more minutes, and then we can take them out," he tells her.

She kneels in front of the oven, watching them closely. Harry smiles fondly and grabs a spare chef's hat from under a nearby counter. He places it on her head and crouches next to her.

After admiring them for a while, you stand behind Harry and massage his shoulders. His head rolls back as he looks at you upside down, dazzling you with his handsome face.

Once the timer beeps, Harry carefully opens the oven and grabs two mitts, putting one on his hand and one on your daughters'. He slides the baking sheet out so he can grip the edge while he maneuvers her hand to grip the other side. With slow and cautious movements, they successfully set it on the stovetop. Harry quietly cheers and high-fives her, then takes their mitts off. She looks so proud of herself.

"I was thinking we could go to the supermarket and get ingredients for date night tomorrow," you say as Harry washes his hands.

"Yeah, we should do that," he replies, hanging up his chef coat. "I have some recipes saved on my phone."

His outfit is somewhat wrinkled—a cream-colored button-up untucked from gray trousers. After he removes his work shoes and slips on white loafers, he wipes a clean rag over his face to get rid of the buildup of sweat and grease.

"Do you want to ride with him?" you ask your daughter. "We're stopping at the store on our way home."

She nods and raises her arms for him. He picks her up and clocks himself out before escorting you to the parking lot. Harry buckles his girl in the Bentley while you get in the Volvo. He then saunters to the open driver's side window and casually rests his arms on it.

"Are my eyes still red?" he asks, rubbing them with his knuckles.

"Don't rub them; it'll make it worse," you say. "But they're not too bad. I'm sorry today was stressful, Harry."

"It's fine. Hopefully, management gets their shit together so I won't have to come in on my days off. They know my weekends are important." Harry stares into the distance and mumbles, "It's that idiot's fault for getting wasted the night before his opening shift."

"Hey, stop dwelling on it. The hard part is over. Now, you get to go home and take a nap. Plus, you have off all day tomorrow."

"You're right." He readjusts his footing and focuses intently on you. "By the way, I like your pretty little outfit."

"Thank you. Your clothes are so wrinkly."

He scoffs lightheartedly. "Wow. What a nice compliment."

"No, you look great," you say, backtracking. "It's just such a dad outfit."

"I guess that's better than when you say I dress like a grandpa."

"A cute grandpa." Before he can reply, you say, "Let's get out of here."

"'Kay," he says, rhythmically tapping his fingers on the car. "Bye, my love. Please drive safely."

You start the engine and crank up the air conditioner. "The store is literally a street away, and you'll be following me. I think I'll be okay."

Harry rolls his eyes. "Let me worry about you, yeah? Traffic was awful this morning."

"I know, I know. You, however, need to drive even more safely. You've got a baby on board."

"She's not a baby anymore."

"Don't say that. I'll start crying."

He laughs. "Please don't. Crying while driving isn't safe."

"I'm kidding. Sort of. Okay, we're wasting time. Begone." You wave him off and roll up the window, but Harry knocks on it offendedly.

You groan and roll it back down. "What do you want?"

"Uh, a kiss goodbye? Am I chopped liver to you?"

"You're so dramatic."

Harry leans in until half of his torso is through the open window. He puckers his lips, and you give him a searing kiss. He hums, satisfied, and then gives you a peck on the cheek before retreating.

He always gets his way.

——

Shopping started wonderfully. It truly did.

Now, not so much. Your daughter is throwing a tantrum in the beverage aisle with wails and crocodile tears galore, all because you won't buy chocolate milk for her. You keep reiterating that there's a jug at home, but according to her, it's not the same. Harry is on the opposite side of the store, finding a specific type of rice needed for the date night recipe he picked out, so you're left trying to diffuse her outburst alone. You hope he'll heroically come down the aisle any minute.

Your skin feels hot and prickly as you attempt to calm her down, but she's stubborn like her dad. Usually, she'll listen, but there are rare times when she unleashes her full power. It's absolute torture to endure them while simultaneously trying to subside them.

No one really talks about the humiliating parts of raising a child. The most common example is dealing with tantrums in public places where everyone stares at you with subtle judgment.

It's almost comical how she plopped herself on the cold, hard tiles as she cried to no one in particular. An impulsive thought made you want to tell her that she was just embarrassing herself, but you resisted. There was no need to make her cry even harder.

Just in time, Harry comes speeding down the aisle with a frazzled look and a bag of rice in his hand. He takes in your defeated expression, then glances at the cause of it. He huffs—relieved that it's not an emergency—and crouches to her height.

"I told her I wouldn't buy chocolate milk because we already have some at home," you explain, trying to blink back frustrated tears. "They're different brands, and I guess that's a massive problem."

Harry sighs while looking at your daughter sternly. He'll often take a soft approach, but you know this tantrum is worse than others. She rarely gets temperamental in public.

"That's enough," he scolds firmly. "We have some at home that you can drink, okay? You listen to your mother when she tells you no."

Her sobs weaken, yet her tears still fall. She sniffles and stares at you with those devastating eyes before choking out another raspy sob. She starts to run away, but Harry's paternal instincts have him standing with a displeased groan and catching up to her. He scoops her up using one arm and secures her over his shoulder so she can't escape. She begins squirming and screaming, causing you to tiredly run your hands down your face.

"All right, let's go," he says, his body practically a punching bag for her little fists and feet. "You're being a brat."

Harry roughly passes the rice to you and then takes her to the car. You release the breath you were holding and decide to just buy the chocolate milk anyway, so you don't have to deal with whatever that was again. You also find the other ingredients before heading to the checkout area to pay. The monotone beeping of the scanning gun keeps you from crying in front of the cashier.

Being a parent is draining. People warned you, but it's ten times harder than they make it out to be. Sometimes, you feel like a bad parent for not being able to control your child. You've had conversations with Harry about how he feels the same way. You know it's completely normal to feel guilt, shame, and insecurity, but it doesn't make those thoughts any less heartbreaking to conquer.

It's just one difficult day. You always get through it.

Once you leave the store, you spot Harry setting up a movie to play for your daughter on the small screen that's hooked to the back of his headrest. You don't hear any crying, so you assume he successfully calmed her down.

Harry eventually sees you in his peripheral and gives you the tiniest wave. You almost fall apart at his gentleness as you walk to your car. Your daughter probably doesn't want to see you right now, plus you don't want to set her off again, so you just get in the driver's seat and bite down on your bottom lip to keep the tears at bay.

After a few moments, you hear Harry's car door shut and footsteps walk closer. It's enough to make the first sob escape. Harry's attentive and caring nature can always break the dam if you're sensitive enough.

He opens the door on your side and immediately brings you in for a warm, consoling embrace. You let out soft cries in his arms, his hand cradling the back of your head as he shushes and sways you. His presence alone is enough to patch the holes today brought.

"She's good now," he murmurs, his cheek nuzzling the side of your head. "It's okay. We'll talk about it later. Let's go home first."

You nod, just wanting to be in the comfort of your own home. Harry reaches over your legs and opens the center console to pull out a small package of tissues he knows you keep in there. He takes one out and dries your tears while gently cupping your cheek.

"Today's been weird with you being gone. It's not your fault, but I guess we're not used to it. Sorry for crying."

"Hey, stop that," he replies quietly. "I cried, too. It's good to cry. What do we always say to each other? Parenting isn't easy, and we're learning every day. We're in this together, right?"

This time, you start crying at his loving words, and you can't help but start laughing at both of your messy states. He cradles the back of your head and kisses your forehead several times. "Are you good to drive?" he asks, his hands gripping the top of the car as his foot plants itself by your seat.

"Yeah, I'll be fine." You nod your head toward the grocery bags in the backseat. "I bought the milk so she doesn't hate me forever. Is she still mad at me?"

"I had a little talk with her. I told her to give you a big hug when we get home, so be prepared."

"Thank you for handling her. I love you."

"I love you more," he says. "I'm sorry for throwing the rice in your hands, by the way."

You wave him off. "Doesn't matter."

"Okay." The door begins to shut. "Drive safe."

"Excuse me, am I chopped liver to you?" you repeat what he said earlier. "Leaving me without a kiss?"

Harry runs his tongue across his teeth. "You've got snot in your nose, so I think I'll pass," he teases as he walks away.

"Hey! I kissed you in the gross restaurant bathroom after you were crying."

He just shrugs smugly. You grin and start driving.

——

After you arrived home, Harry took a short nap and later made a seafood dinner. Your daughter also gave you a bone-crushing hug, as promised, but you're sure it was only because she saw you bought the chocolate milk she wanted.

Now, you are all at the house's private beach area to get some fresh air. Harry puts swim floaties on your daughter's arms while you bring out her plastic sandcastle-building tools. The sky is a dull blue, and the coastal breeze is pleasantly warm.

Even when it's gloomy, your family feels like sunshine.

Once her floaties are secure, she runs into the ocean to splash around—she knows not to let the water rise past her waist. You set her tools by the shore and look at Harry with your hands on your hips, waiting for him to start the activity he came up with. He suggested that the both of you pass a football around for some reason, and you couldn't think of anything else to do, so you agreed. He's changed into yellow swim trunks, a blue tie-dye shirt, and black sunglasses on his face. His feet are bare, and he's holding a football. You don't remember ever owning one, so you have no idea where he grabbed it.

"Ready?" he calls out over the wind.

"Sure!" you call back, showing him your palms so you can catch it. "Please don't throw it too hard!"

"You act like I'm an NFL player. Stop stroking my ego, love."

"Just throw the ball, Harry."

He peers at you over his sunglasses as if to tell you to get ready, then brings his arm back over his head and throws it. It goes left and doesn't even reach you.

"Nice throw," you say sarcastically as you pick it up. "You're really giving Aaron Rodgers a run for his money."

Harry briefly scowls at your comment, and you glance back to see him jogging toward you. You try to run away from him, but he quickly lurches forward and lifts you. You squeal as he spins you around before setting you down and stealing the ball.

After twenty minutes of Harry's horrible football skills, the both of you decide to lie on the hammock close to the water. You and Harry can fit on it together, so you curl into his side as he throws one arm around your shoulder to keep you near. Lightly swaying in the wind, you enjoy the peaceful serenity of where you live. Your daughter is still in view, collecting shells along the shore. The waves rush forward and then retreat. The clouds hang low in a sheath of gray. It's a sight to behold.

Harry kisses your cheek softly before murmuring, "Wanna talk about earlier?"

"We probably should," you reply, propping yourself up with your elbow.

"Talk to me about how you felt," he says, taking off his sunglasses. "Lay it all on me."

You shift your gaze to your daughter. "I just... I know we've dealt with her tantrums before. But that one in the store was the worst one, you know? I've dealt with them alone when you're at work, and I know you deal with them when I'm gone, too. She's usually so well-behaved in public, and I kind of froze when she threw a fit. She wouldn't listen to me no matter what."

Harry nods, paying full attention as you continue, "And I was embarrassed because people stared at me and probably wondered why I couldn't control my child. She's such a sweet girl, but it's those stubborn moods she gets into that frustrate me. I don't want to yell at her either, because that will upset her more. Then I almost started crying at the checkout because I felt so ashamed that you had to step in to help. And I know we're a team, but I felt useless." You finish with watery eyes while watching your sweet baby girl pick up a seashell and place it in her little self-made pile of others.

Harry brings you closer and kisses your temple before responding in a voice that's just above a whisper. "Everything you just said, I understand entirely. I feel the same way sometimes. Remember when you were out with your friends and I was home alone when she was just a baby? I called you, bawling my eyes out, because she wouldn't let me hold her. She kept wailing, and I tried everything, but absolutely nothing worked. And I felt so shitty because my entire job as a dad is to take care of her, yet I couldn't even do that. I was so scared that she was done with me. But like I told you today: we're learning. We're in this together until she moves out and gets sick of—"

You kiss him mid-sentence. "Don't say that, please. She's not even three yet. I don't want to think about her moving out."

Harry squeezes your shoulder and says, "Sorry. But you get the point, yeah?" He slides his hand up your neck and through your hair. "You're the best mom." I'm so grateful you can come to me and talk through these insecurities. We're never too old to talk about it."

The sun peeks from the clouds, and you take in Harry's features, now basking in golden light. "You're the best dad and husband I could ever want. Thank you for being my shoulder to cry on and for always listening to me no matter how big or small the problem is."

"I love you," he whispers, thumbing along your cheekbone. Did my sweet-talk give you flutters?"

"Oh, it's fluttering. For sure."

"I've still got the moves," he says, pumping his fist.

As you snuggle into his arms, your daughter prances over with a sand dollar in her palm. She clumsily clambers on top of Harry and holds it up to his face. His head retracts to look at it, and he smiles widely at her discovery, even though she already has about seven sand dollars in her bedroom.

"For me?" he asks with exaggerated surprise.

She nods. "Because you had work."

Your heart melts at her sweetness. Harry looks over at you and raises his eyebrows before looking back at her. "Yeah? Thank you, baby. And where's mommy's present for getting you chocolate milk?"

Her face drops, and she quickly climbs off before returning to her seashell pile. You laugh and hide your face on Harry's shoulder. Even through the hardships, you feel like the luckiest person on the planet every single day.

Once the sun sets, you all walk to the house and settle in the backyard. It's a spacious area with two reclined chairs and trees surrounding them, with string lights strung across their branches. It's one of your favorite spaces. It's where you and Harry snag some alone time after your daughter goes to bed, or where slow dances and conversations about the future happen.

Slow dancing still happens, but a certain little girl likes to join this time.

You venture inside momentarily and grab your music speaker, then head to your bedroom to steal one of Harry's old shirts for your daughter to wear as pajamas. It'll fit more like a dress on her, but she sleeps better with his scent engulfing her. Truthfully, you can't blame her.

Outside, Harry is letting your daughter look through his phone for a song to play. He helps her scroll through a playlist he created for sleep troubles. You unzip her dress and take it off as Harry helps maneuver her so you can pull the shirt over her head. She practically drowns in it.

Once she chooses a song, you turn the speaker on so his phone can connect. The flute that begins playing is familiar—"Constant as the Stars Above" from Barbie as Rapunzel. Harry sometimes hums it to her when he tucks her in at night.

He sets her down and lets her stand on top of his feet with her Mary Janes. They dance under the moonlight, with Harry holding her hands above her head as he twirls her. She tiredly giggles, and you check your phone to see that it's way past her bedtime. You can't bring yourself to disrupt the moment, so you admire their special bond for the next few minutes.

When her eyes start drooping, you carry her inside and lay her in bed before calling it a night. Getting to wake up with your family tomorrow puts a dreamy smile on your face as you fall asleep to the sound of distant ocean waves.

——

Sunday mornings are medicine for the soul.

A delicious assortment of food is on the counters as Harry gracefully travels around the kitchen to flip pancakes on the griddle or crack eggs into the pan. He's entirely in his element, with tortoiseshell glasses over his sleepy eyes and a white robe tied around his body. Your daughter sits in her highchair at the kitchen table, her curls sticking up every which way. She's in her own world, eating Cheerios.

Whenever Harry passes by her to set plates or cups down, he ruffles her hair and kisses her cheek, sometimes even stealing a piece of cereal from her. She turns around with a pout before smiling because Harry playfully looks around the room and whistles nonchalantly, like he didn't do it.

Once all of you are sitting down with plates full of Harry's five-star breakfast, you discuss plans for the day. Your daughter is spending the night with Harry's mother since it's date night for you and him. She's leaving right before dinnertime, so she'll still be spending a good portion of the day with the both of you.

Harry plans to cook Chinese food tonight, and you plan on getting him to watch The Bachelorette with you. He told you he was absolutely not doing that, yet you know that once it's on, he'll become engrossed with the drama. He'll pretend he doesn't like it but then bombard you with questions about who hates who.

It hits five in the evening fairly quickly, and your daughter just left with no fuss. You hope she doesn't have another one of her temper tantrums.

Harry has changed out of his pajamas and into a white T-shirt with a baseball hat turned backward. He also has a bit of scruff from not shaving for the past week.

There are days when you look at his outfit and think he looks more like a dad than usual. Today is one of those days. He has a black apron tied around his waist as he boils water for the rice. You'll never get tired of watching him cook. He's so focused and delicate with his hands, whether chopping vegetables or sprinkling seasoning.

You sit on the counter and watch him. While he waits for the water to heat, his hands place themselves on either side of your legs. You smile as he slides his warm hand under your sweatshirt and strokes his thumb against your stomach. There are permanent stretch marks indented on your skin from being pregnant. You tried to get rid of them by using expensive creams and exercising. After a while, you gave up and slowly but surely accepted that your body helped grow and bring a child into the world, and there would forever be proof of it. Harry had helped tremendously with seeking acceptance. He never forced you to love the physical changes. He was the one helping you put on beauty cream and looking for workouts to do with you. He never pushed you.

His thumb continues stroking your soft skin, and his eyes are zoned out on the floor. You wonder what he's thinking about.

"The water's boiling," you whisper to snap him out of his trance.

Harry stands straight and clears his throat. He pours the rice in, and your hand raises to scratch the stubble along his jaw. He tilts his head and kisses your palm.

Once dinner is done—two savory Chinese chicken and fried rice bowls—the two of you sit across from each other and dig in. As Harry chews, you notice he's off in his own world again. You nudge your foot against his.

"Where's your mind tonight?"

He blinks quickly. "Sorry. Were you saying something?"

"No, I'm just observing you," you say with a soft smile. "You were daydreaming when you were making dinner, too. Just making sure you're okay."

"Yeah, I'm good. I just… I wanted to talk to you about something before we go to bed. Nothing bad, I promise."

"We can talk after we watch The Bachelorette. That's more important."

He rolls his eyes and replies, "I guess I'll watch it with you."

The both of you clean up after finishing your meals, then head to the couch and tune in to the show. You've been recording episodes after they premiere since you're usually too tired after work to stay up and watch them in full. You're about halfway through the season, and this is the first episode you've been able to watch with Harry. Or, well, force him to watch. He hates all the crying and stupid fights. Not to mention how you always talk about how cute the guys are.

Your favorite contestant appears on screen, and you gasp. "That's Greg! Isn't he adorable? I want him to win."

"He looks like he finishes too fast," Harry comments flatly.

You scoff. "Looks like you guys have something in common, then."

"I will shut this off and delete the recording," he threatens under his breath.

"I'd divorce you. I'm not kidding."

"And leave me for Greg? You wouldn't."

You just huff and continue watching Greg get some action in a hot tub with the bachelorette. When there's a commercial break, you lay your head on Harry's lap.

"If you were the bachelorette and I was a contestant, would you pick me?" he asks after a few moments.

"No."

He pinches your side. "Liar."

"It's true," you admit honestly. "You'd try too hard. You wouldn't kiss me the first night to seem like a gentleman. And then another guy would steal your time away from me, but you'd be too nice to say anything about it."

"I would not," he argues weakly.

"You're getting pretty defensive. I beg to differ."

"Whatever," he replies, scratching along your arm. "I'd sweep you off your feet, and then we'd get married. The whole nation would love us."

"Greg could do that as well," you tease, loving how he's getting jealous.

"Well, good thing we're already married and have a kid together. Unless you're planning on leaving me for him."

"Thinking about it," you mumble as the show comes back on.

When the episode ends, it's around nine. You still have dishes to wash, so you get up and fill the sink with soapy water. Harry is beside you in seconds to help, and you suddenly remember what he mentioned earlier during dinner.

"So, what'd you want to talk about?" you ask, beginning to wash cups.

"Oh, um, this is just something I've been thinking about lately. And I wanted to bring it up because it concerns both of us—you, mostly."

He's nervously spewing words, so you shut the water off and grant him your full attention. "Talk to me," you encourage, bumping your hip with his.

Harry exhales somewhat shakily. "When you were on the counter and my hand was under your sweatshirt, my mind immediately went back to when you were pregnant." He avoids eye contact as he scrubs a plate. "How much I loved it. The whole progression."

You know where this conversation is going. You've thought about it before. Dreamed, even.

"It's been on my mind for a while, you know?" he continues. "She's almost three, and I think having another one would be nice. Again, it's completely up to you. Pregnancy isn't easy, so it's just an idea."

"But you've been thinking about it for a while?" you reiterate for clarity. Harry nods shyly, drying the clean plate with a towel. "I've been thinking about it, too," you add.

Harry's head whips toward you. "What?"

"I feel ready to do it a second time. To be pregnant again."

He sets the towel down. "Seriously? For real?"

"It's a perfect time. We've got the money and space. I'm all in if it's what you want. I think she would love to have a sibling."

Harry inhales heavily and darts his gaze between both of your eyes. He then breaks out into a beautiful smile, rubbing his hand along his mouth. "Okay," he says. "Yeah, I want another baby more than anything. We can start trying whenever you're ready."

You grin while washing your hands. The dishes can wait until tomorrow. "We can start tonight. We're home alone, and the outfit you're wearing is making me hot."

"Yeah?" he says, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "Sweet. Wait, right now? Are we doing this?"

"Yes, right now," you reply as you walk toward the bedroom. "C'mon, let's brush our teeth and get a head start."

Harry takes off his hat and catches up to you. When you glance back, he's nervously wringing his hands in front of him like a schoolboy, and it almost makes you laugh. After seven years together and experiencing the awkward stages of dating and then pushing out an entire child with him in the room, he still gets nervous about these things.

It reminds you of the time you told him you were pregnant.

——

You pushed the gift bag toward Harry, and he gave you a suspicious look paired with a smirk.

"Did I miss our anniversary or something?" he murmured as he opened the bag and pulled out something wrapped in tissue paper.

You shook your head and braced for his reaction. You'd been trying for a few months, and you finally got the answer that both of you wanted. The positive pregnancy test hidden behind your back felt like a ticking bomb.

Harry carefully unwrapped the present. His eyebrows furrowed as he unfolded an apron in front of him. His eyes ran over it, and then his jaw went slack. Written on the fabric was 'Daddy Duty,' and three pockets were sewn into the bottom to hold baby supplies while he cooked.

He stared at you with wide, tear-filled eyes. You just nodded your head and presented the stick from behind your back. He slowly stood, setting the apron on the coffee table, and walked over to you with his hands reaching out. He took the stick with a shaky hand, his other covering his mouth.

Staring up at the ceiling, Harry choked out something between a relieved breath and a sob. His arms instantly wrapped around your shoulders, bringing you into his warm embrace. He was trying hard to keep it together, but you heard his shaky inhales and sniffles. You were crying, too. You'd both wanted this for so long.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he whispered against your neck. "I can't believe this. How far along are you?"

"I'll know at my first appointment next Thursday. I'll text you all the information."

"No, screw that. I'll take off work. I have to be there."

"Okay, we'll go together," you told him, secretly hoping he would say that. "Are you happy? I was so nervous. I didn't know how to tell you."

"Of course, I'm happy." He breathed exasperatedly, like he couldn't believe what you had just revealed. We're going to be parents. We're going to have a baby."

The two of you laughed at each other in disbelief. It was surreal, and it was all happening at the perfect time.

——

The thought of giving him another baby to cradle in his arms and to get up with at crazy hours in the morning leaves you yearning for it more than ever.

After brushing your teeth, you take your clothes off and don't waste any time taking Harry's off. You push him to make him lay back on the silk sheets before straddling his thighs, his tattoo peeking out from underneath his boxers. You grind against his cock, noticing he's hard already. Your hands spread on his firm chest as you continue rolling your hips.

Your underwear dampens, and Harry's hands grip your waist. He lifts his hips to relieve some pressure, his neck straining as he whimpers after every movement of yours.

You stop straddling him and slide his boxers off, his cock resting against his abdomen. You then take your underwear off and hike your legs over his thighs to hover over them again. This is the first time he's gone without a condom since you were pregnant, so you're nervous about the raw feeling.

"Are you with me, baby?" Harry asks breathily. "We're doing this?"

"I'm just going to go slow so it doesn't burn," you say, lining yourself up.

He nods encouragingly. "We'll take our time. Let's make this good."

You exhale and slowly sink yourself into his cock. The stretch burns, but it still feels heavenly without a barrier. Harry groans as your hands grip his tense shoulders. His fingers flex on your hips when you take him all the way and begin rocking back and forth. He moans in response, his hips meeting the motion of yours.

You've missed this. You can feel every inch of his skin, and the contact is a pleasure like no other.

Harry decides to quickly flip you over so he can be on top. His forearms prop himself up as he starts thrusting at a faster pace. So much for going slow. His face is buried in your neck, and he places nipping kisses on it every so often, leaving love bites. You wrap your trembling legs around his body as he hits the deeper spots that have you arching your back against the mattress.

"Feel good?" he asks, his cheek resting against yours.

"So, so good. Don't stop."

The pit of your stomach forms a tight knot as he continues. He lowers one hand and stimulates your clit with his thumb as he roughly snaps his hips against yours, letting out salacious groans and whimpers into your ear. His body is warm like a personal furnace—it's burning against yours, and the closeness of your two bodies always leads to eruption.

"I'm almost there," you say, heat striking your back. "Keep going. Please don't stop."

"I'm close—God, I'm close. I'm with you, honey. Just tell me when you're ready."

You clench around him, and he pulls out and quickly gets behind you, pushing you to lay on your side. He thrusts back in, his chest pressing right against your back. One hand moves to grope your breast, and his other arm places itself above your head on the pillow to move some strands of hair off your forehead. The two sensations have you leaning your neck back against his shoulder and moaning loudly.

Your orgasm hits before you can warn him, and you cry out as his hips slow, riding it out before stilling and shuddering out his release. Broken groans are muffled into your neck as he asks, "Gonna make me a dad again?" You nod fervently at his question. "Yeah?"

You keep nodding until he's physically spent. He keeps his cock inside you, his body relaxing against yours. The both of you are breathing heavily, and you feel his cock soften, the feeling bringing you a strange sense of comfort.

"Think that did it?" he asks.

"I hope so," you answer. Harry repositions himself, his cock nudging inside of you. "God, you feel so perfect all the time."

Harry begins stroking his hand across your stomach, every so often giving you a gentle thrust that has you softly clenching around him. You're sensitive, but it's a natural response. When his hand starts rubbing circles around your stomach to ease the remaining pressure there, you smile giddily and think about getting to experience pregnancy all over again.

Harry eventually pulls out and kneels before you, hooking your knees over his shoulders. This is precisely what he did the last time you were trying for a baby years ago. Apparently, the position is supposed to help get one to stick, for lack of better words.

Harry begins whistling nonchalantly, and you start laughing hard because he's acting like he does this every day. He tries to give you a look as if to say what he's doing is incredibly serious business, but he eventually sputters a laugh. Now, both of you are giggling like maniacs.

After about five minutes in the position, Harry sets your legs down to put his boxers back on and then leaves. He comes back and provides you with aftercare—a warm, damp cloth, a clean pair of underwear, and one of the brownies you baked earlier today.

You eat your dessert while the ocean waves crash outside the open window. You get comfortable on his lap, and he circles his arms around your waist.

Tomorrow will mark the start of a new week. Your daughter will come home, and you all will make new memories together.

After tonight, it will hopefully be the start of another chapter.

——

#harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #harry styles fluff #dadrry #dad!harry #dilfrry #harry styles #adore-laur

304 notes · View notes

morinuu · 6 months

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LISTWN TO ME I JUST READ YOUR TAMAKI ANGST AND YOU KNOW WHAT WOULD BE SO FICKING GOOD??

A she falls but he falls harder

Reader finally gets over it and stops coming, moving on and focusing on herself, and he notices and starts realizing how he took her for granted

And then its him that's loosing his mind and shit like that. Dude. Dude. I'm loosing my MIND you write so well

first of all ty for the compliment >< so glad u liked it im blushing and giggling!! secondly im not sure abt the reader completely abandoning tamaki's side (i love being delulu), but i do have smth else in mind that's kinda similiar n i hope its satisfactory :3 i changed only a minor part from the og :P i wanna make this a small series..... maybe like 3-4 parts.. anw this is pt 1

☀︎｜tamaki x female reader. almost 4k words. continuation of this. ure sick, yamada hinata & aoko r just some ppl i made up for the plot, tamaki's pretty stupid n emotionally unintelligent, lots of feelings and background information, y'all r childhood friends, there's like one 4th wall break but i thought it was kinda funny so i kept it

you weren't a fan of february.

allergy season was your absolute worst, the wheezing and coughing sucking the life out of you as you struggled to change out of your clothes to get the day started. you didn't sleep much, interrupted constantly by your sore throat aching and squeezing.

sure, it's just hay fever to everyone else, but for a young woman who carried around an inhaler, it's hell. well, almost hell.

what was truly hellish wasn't the fatigue or the sneezing, but your mum dragging you back in the house and forbidding you from going to school until you're well enough to study again. how were you supposed to keep up with chemistry class if you skip?

not that your parents cared for your grades; they knew you could just enter whatever field you wanted with the connections your family held, but it felt nice to be awarded for working hard.

after your personal maid let out a small "pardon me, miss" and carried you back to bed, you realised that the feeling your soft quilt hugging your cold limbs would never be beaten by the jacket you desperately clung on to warm yourself in p.e - which just so happened to be your first period that day and you were dreading it.

"i'll be making you some tea, miss. would you like to breakfast now?" your maid's quiet voice addressed you, hoping you'd just sleep the illness off as you usually did so she could rest too.

to be fair, you weren't a very easy master to please, so could you blame her?

"i'll breakfast la-" a cough and some wheezing "-i'll breakfast later, bring some english breakfast with a slice of lemon." you said nothing else, instead focusing on calming your throat that seemed to intensify in soreness. "a pastille too."

"understood my lady, i'll be right back." she bowed and excused herself from your room, ignoring your groans of annoyance as you buried your face into the pillow.

"damn it." you muttered and extended your hand to grab your phone from your bedside table. unlocking it with the passcode (because you weren't in the mood to lift your head and let your phone scan your face) you squinted as the light mode of a social media app hit your eyes harshly, forcing you to use muscle memory to lower the brightness to its minimum.

you scrolled through, liking your friends' private posts and decided to message one of them.

yn.spam: gm dude, i cant come to school today cus im sick. can u do me a favour n tell aoko to give me her notes? she never looks at her messages.

with your phone back on the table to wait for a response, you lied back comfortably and closed your eyes, because as much as you wanted to watch something on netflix or play a video game, you didn't want to make things worse for yourself.

you grew impatient for the cup of tea your maid was brewing, rotating between wheezing, checking your phone and staring at the ceiling. it seemed like the seconds weren't passing by at all.

soon enough, your maid comes back with some fancy tray carrying a kettle, your favourite mug (the one your daddy drank from when you were a little girl before your parents divorced), a tiny plate with some lemon slices and a small box of pastilles as throat medicine.

you didn't thank the woman when she helped you sit up, nor when she stayed by your side to make sure you didn't choke between coughs and burnt yourself with the hot liquid. just as you took your first sip, your phone lit up to show your friend's response.

thatguyhinata: Ayooo gppd morning. Sry to hear tht. Sure if I see her I'll telm her.

the irises in your eyes rolled upwards at the boy's typos that irked you every time, completely ignoring how he didn't wish for your recovery.

yn.spam: thanks yamada

you never used any of your circle's first names, which your mum always found weird.

'you sure these are your friends, darling?' she would ask often, and your response would always be the same:

'yeah mum. leave me be.'

only tamaki had ever felt close enough to be called by his first name.

after swallowing your medicine, you dismissed the older woman standing over you and pulled your quilt over your quivering form again.

"gods, please let this be over soon."

...

well.

...turns out, you gotta be much more specific with what you ask of gods, because they might not have the same understanding of the word 'soon'.

here you are, three days later, with your allergy having been combined with a virus that'd been going around, intensifying your asthma symptoms and raising a high fever, making your mother and doctor ban you from walking into ouran.

halfway throughout the day, you realise what had been completely slipping your mind while your lungs were occupied inhaling abnormally.

"i have an appointment today!" you exclaimed with wide eyes, raising from the bed like lazarus from his grave.

"...?" the new maid next to you didn't say anything, she was clearly concerned. after some seconds of you overthinking something, she spoke up. "you have no other doctor's appointment today, my lady. he just left 10 minutes ago."

you shook your head quickly, ignoring the dizziness brought by your fever "bring me my phone," the girl was puzzled "now!"

bowing a quick apology, she rushed to your desk and handed you your phone with both hands, not daring to look up. you disliked new maids; they were inexperienced and annoying, but scolding her would have to wait.

"damn it, damn it, damn it!" you murmured under your breath and tapped furiously on your phone, trying to find where the hell you'd written kyouya's business e-mail address.

you had it saved as every other client of the host club had, but you had never actually used it, not once.

you never missed an appointment, and always booked the next one tete-a-tete with the black-haired manager. if you became a no-show without prior notice, wouldn't that look bad? would it annoy kyouya and he wouldn't accept you in the club again?

well no, but you had the habit of overthinki-

'would it annoy tamaki?'

you groaned and murmured to yourself - had you deleted it? maybe it was in your notes app and you erased it? was it on your old phone from a month ago?

"find an e-mail for me." you ordered the maid who looked up at you perplexed, but carried out the order nonetheless.

the girl was embarrassed when she found out her master was asking for a host's email, wanting the earth to swallow her when she dialed the ouran academy's number. 'the stuff i do for money..' she thought and prayed her family never found out.

it wasn't a long process to retrieve the address, but what was, was the rant hitting the maid's ears when your overthinking about what to write left your mouth at incredible speeds.

"should i say i'm sick? but he already knows that- he's in my class! maybe tell him to give my time to another girl? no wait, he would do that anyway... or after i apologise, i'll say that, like, something came up- but that's not believable enough... ugh!" you buried your face in your pillow and, unbeknownst to you, your new maid's eye was twitching in annoyance.

she understood now why your personal maid took the week off just when you got sick - not that she understood how and why your mum allowed it though.

(it's because you can be insufferable and she gets it.)

"my lady, may i help?" the girl let out, clearing her throat when you lifted your head from the pillow. "i can write the e-mail myself, please focus on resting."

after some convincing, you gave in.

and so 10 minutes later, back at ouran, kyouya's phone let out a ting! with your full name on the notification. he'd already guessed you wouldn't show up to your appointment considering you hadn't come to school in three days, and already had someone to fill your place but left it for the last moment in case you did show up.

why? well you were ln yn, and it was painfully obvious you were smitten with his best friend, though he could say it was a bit different from the rest of the clientele.

probably due to the fact that you'd known tamaki for much longer than kyouya had. and yet tamaki didn't seem to have the same fascination with you.

he remembers when he first met you, when he'd heard that you were spoiled rotten and weren't even planning to enroll in ouran until tamaki did. you simply transferred to be with the boy.

literally everyone knew of ln yn's almost freakish obsession with suoh tamaki, except for the victim himself.

so imagine his surprise at the strictly professional e-mail he'd received from you, where not a single mention of your host was included. weird.

after glancing at the french boy in the seat next to him eating his bowl of some-sort-of-commoner-convenience-store lunch, kyouya quickly typed a response and informed the next girl in line that a spot was open 'for tamaki's hosting services at 15:35'.

"one of your appointments cancelled due to a personal issue. we'll have someone else fill it." kyouya told tamaki, just as stated in the e-mail, even though it was pretty clear you were sick, and he couldn't figure out why you'd lie.

"hm? oh, okay!" the brunet smiled and went back to devouring his meal, not thinking much of kyouya's words.

kyouya pondered if he should tell him the client was his loyal friend yn, who would never skip out on seeing tamaki, but he stopped himself, curious as to how it would all play out.

eh, if the twins could have fun, so could he.

"oh! haruhii! daddy's here!"

the hours passed so slow you were almost convinced time was frozen when you weren't glancing at the clock on your laptop.

the drama you'd been watching started to lose its interest after presenting the third plot twist in a row, annoying you with all the plot holes it left gaping.

sipping on your green tea (you'd been drinking tamaki's recommendation, pomegranate, only to throw all of it in the trash when you heard he gave the same advice to haruhi), you paused the show and sighed in absolute, tyrannical boredom.

by now you'd normally have finished your classes and walked to music room #3, your favourite among them all.

you'd be welcomed by a host and walked to a sofa to wait for your appointment, ignoring any other girl in the waiting area trying to pick a conversation with the middle child of the ln family.

and soon enough you'd be approached by your one and only taking your hand in his and kissing it to greet you, with his blue eyes staring up at you innocently like a man in love; a look he gave to any woman nowadays, it was second nature to him.

you got lost in them so often, he sometimes dared to ask you if you didn't enjoy his company and that's why you spaced out so much.

preposterous.

you? disliking tamaki? how could he think that after all these years you spent playing together, with you transferring to his school for his sake, swallowing your pride and becoming the client of a host for him?

truly an absurd notion.

currently, however, you weren't in the host club. you were just a girl with a bunch of germs crawling everywhere around her room, unable to go out and see the man of her dreams kiss her cheek and tell her to 'get well soon'.

speaking of, your mum grew increasingly concerned when she noticed the lack of communication between you and tamaki. you were always attached to his hip like some sort of koala, and the fact that you hadn't reached out to him to inform him of your illness personally so he could visit you made her worry.

but it was only natural that you'd suspect you were being an annoyance to tamaki once you began to notice his eyes shift from you to the newest host a couple of months prior. he'd been a petit brunet boy. a first year who was friendly and of lowly origin. you didn't think much of it.

at least not until the day hikaru asked if you could fetch something he forgot in the back room, completely ignorant to the fact that haruhi had come to the club early that day to ask for another uniform because she'd been accidentally thrown water at by two classmates of hers being stupid.

so when you opened the curtain and saw a small-sized girl with only her panties on desperately trying to hide herself from you, it didn't take more than a couple of seconds to put two and two together.

tamaki wasn't fascinated by the commoner errand 'boy' turnt host.

he wanted her.

you closed the curtain, giving the girl her privacy back and muttering an curt apology, "sorry." before deciding that hikaru would have to get his things himself.

neither haruhi nor you spoke about it again, and she never snitched to the host club about your discovery of her sex.

you liked to pretend it never happened, and that it never changed anything. but just like with tamaki, pretending doesn't go anywhere. the hints were there. his furiously blushed face when he stared at her, his protection of her when the twins teased her, his demands for kyouya to do things for haruhi because she'd like it, not even because she'd asked - well, the stage of denial didn't last long.

shortly after came anger. pure, unexplainable rage and envy. the fourth of the deadly sins was soon rushing through your veins like a drug you couldn't get clean from. 'why her?' you would ask in your rampages.

you couldn't figure it out, and you couldn't ask anyone either, because as infuriated as you were, hurting haruhi by revealing her identity wasn't on your to-do list.

not because you were a good person, god no.

rather, if tamaki knew you hurt his precious daughter - you barfed - like that, who knows if you'd see him again?

and so came the bargaining stage, with your rage never leaving your blood stream, of course. being petty was always one of your main personality traits, one that tamaki would often point out.

what did fujioka haruhi have that ln yn didn't?

'nothing.' you muttered to yourself.

nothing.

nothing?

could you be absolutely sure?

you didn't see her much outside of the club, and there were a couple of times you'd heard the hosts hung out together.

maybe they had a moment? or two, three?

perhaps it was high time you stopped bothering him. perhaps then he'd realise you were the one.

that's why your texts to him had much lessened, coming to a complete stop after roughly two months of your self-doubt and insecurities getting the best of you. so did your occasional visits to his house for studying. you'd even stopped wearing the perfume he got you as a birthday present last year, even though you couldn't find another scent that fit your tastes the same way.

despite your attempts at catching his attention, the bubbling fury in your chest rose once again when you realised that maybe tamaki didn't care about you at all.

he texted you as much as you texted him, he hung out with you only when you asked, and when he came closer to you and noticed the change in your scent, he went: "different perfume, princess?"

and while normally you'd be ecstatic at him noticing, your happiness was immediately destroyed when "the other one was a little old fashioned, good thing you moved to something more fresh."

why couldn't he say what he would have said had he been in an otome game, something among the lines of: 'did you wish to match mine?' or something cheesy like that? ...was your scent not to his tastes?

'did he forget his skills from hosting or what?' you whined.

consequently, now that you were sitting around doing nothing to reach out to tamaki or any of your 'friends', your mum couldn't help but take her phone in her hands to call her friend hitachiin yuzuha.

back in the pink room that is the host club, today's rendezvouses seemed to be going by awfully quickly for tamaki.

in the couple of minutes of break he had between the end of this rendezvous and next the one to come, he quickly found his phone from his back pocket and went over his schedule sent by kyouya.

your name had been crossed out and replaced with another one he recognised, another regular guest of his. he raised his eyebrow at that.

he lifted his head and looked for the shadow king.

"hey, kyouya?"

"hm?" kyouya didn't bother to look up from his laptop, furiously typing god-knows-what.

"why's yn's time gone?" he asked innocently in a curious voice that had you heard, you'd be swooning over.

"i told you, she cancelled due to personal business," his answer was straight-forward "although it's probably because she's ill."

ah, that makes sense, you were the one that cancelled.

wait, huh?

"what do you mean she's ill?" his eyebrows furrow a bit and he cocks his head to the side like a cute dog who doesn't understand anything its owner says.

"what do you mean, 'what do i mean'? she's been absent since monday because she's not feeling well, and she won't come today either. pretty simple." kyouya finally looked up at tamaki with a strange expression on his face. "has she not told you?"

tamaki shook his head a bit, "uhm.. no, not really." and tapped his phone again to check his messages on multiple social media apps to make sure he wasn't missing anything. his emails were empty too, only some spam from a newsletter page that he never bothered to cancel his subscription from.

"how do you know?" he questioned kyouya, but before he could answer, "no wait, don't answer that, you creep. of course you know." he sighed.

after some seconds of quiet thinking, "why didn't you tell me?" tamaki continued his questioning.

"everyone already knows, my lord." an awfully familiar voice butt in making the french boy turn his head around, resting his hand on his waist.

the voice belonged to kaoru, who had his arm wrapped around his twin's shoulders. seems like they also just finished with an appointment.

"what does that mean? who's 'everyone' and why am i not included?" tamaki crossed his arms, feeling kind of left out.

"that guy hayato or whatever who hangs out with yn and her friends was telling someone and we overheard." hikaru shrugged in unison with his doppelganger.

honey's soft voice entered the chat. "you mean hinata-kun? yn-chan's friend? yeah, he told me when i asked where yn-chan is because i thought she forgot to bring the candy she promised." he quickly grabbed a piece of cake from the fridge near where kyouya had been sitting and left the room swiftly.

huh, how convenient for him to enter for the plot.

"and why's it that you two evil bastards didn't bother to tell me?" tamaki exclaimed in disbelief, pointing a finger at the both of them. how could they? his precious childhood friend was sick at home and he didn't know?!

"sorry milord-" kaoru announced with his shoulders still raised, "-but you're always talking to yn-" hikaru joined, "-how were we supposed to know you're not asking her about her well-being?" they delivered the finishing blow together.

what were these lame jerks insinuating? 'not asking about her well-being'? what did they know? just as he went to respond with his usual barking, he stopped himself to instead text you on his own for the first time in a while. not that he noticed.

the twins looked at their king with a confused and weirded-out expression on both their faces, before glancing at each other and shrugging again, already disinterested. kyouya had long gone back to his work and so the twins walked to an empty sofa in an almost isolated area of the club, lying on top of one another to give a nice view to whichever client was into it.

about six minutes of pure silence passed between the two before kaoru's phone buzzed; a text from his mum.

the twins read the text simultaneously, with hikaru raising an eyebrow at its contents. they looked back at the slender boy texting you on his phone at the other end of the club, confused about his behaviour.

"seriously...?" hikaru quietly asked kaoru, referring to the text, only to be met with the other's puzzled expression.

as for the half-and-half boy, his fingers were anxiously tapping kyouya's table and awaiting your response to his message.

tamakiii ♥♥♥♥: Hey darling! Is everything alright? I heard you didn't come to school because you're sick. I thought you just didn't feel like coming. Why didn't you tell me?

he didn't know you let out a deep sigh at his text, even if it was three days late. it gave you hope - false hope. that he'd started to pay attention to you again. maybe being distant worked-

tamakiii ♥♥♥♥: want me to come over?

the question felt natural to him, you always visited his home but seldom did he ever visit yours. since you were sick, it made sense that you wouldn't come over this time.

yn>.< : arent u busy rn tho lol

your name on his phone had obviously been put there by you, his choice of emoji had been party hat for some reason.

"be serious, what does that even mean, tamaki?" you'd asked him one day during a break from your studying in his room.

"you don't like it..?" he pouted like usual and you rolled your eyes.

"here. that's better." you handed him his phone back with a new 'yn >.<' as your contact name.

tamakiii ♥♥♥♥: I can just come after club activities.

wait, he was actually coming? after two months of your only contact being through your rendezvous? it worked?! it actually worked?!

you thought of how to answer him.

at your lack of fast response, tamaki thought of ways to help you feel better through your illness.

'aha! eureka!' tamaki's head echoed.

tamakiii ♥♥♥♥: I'll bring some commoner snacks we can enjoy too! Commoners have incredible food to help alleviate illness!

tamakiii ♥♥♥♥: What are you even sick with, anyway?

of course.

commoner food, of course.

haruhi's food.

yn>.< : lol no its fine i dont want u to get sick. ill just c u at sxhool yn>.< : school* yn>.< : doc said its just a cold but yk w my asthma n shit

tamaki was thoroughly disappointed with your response, what did you mean 'you didn't want him to get sick'? you'd never cared if you caught his cold.

his heart raced with worry, and he decided he would stop by anyway. knowing his next appointment was approaching, he speed walked over to the newest host.

"haaaaruuhiiiiii!" he waved his hand to her and her two clients, smiling widely with all of them smiling back at him.

"yeah? what is it, senpai?" haruhi looked up at him from her armchair.

"sorry to intrude-" he runs his hair through his locks - an action that you told him the ladies would swoon over, "-but i was wondering, do you have any recommendations for commoner food that sick people can eat?"

"...are you serious?"

#ohshc #ohshc fanfic #ohshc x reader #fanfiction #ouran high school host club #ouran host club #tamaki x reader #tamaki suoh x reader #tamaki suoh #light angst #x reader #suoh tamaki

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chocsra · 6 months

Text

"Sweep Me Off My Feet, Honey-coated Words."

Chuuya x fem! reader oneshot - 'My Demon' inspired (kdrama)

a/n: i haven't wrote like this in a while! lmk if u want this as a series!! ALSO THIS IS BASED OFF MANGA CHUUYA. NO BLUE EYES 🤕🤕

summary: after being chased by a mysterious killer, a gravity manipulator saves you, only to switch abilities with you, leaving him powerless unless you two touch.. but apparently, you've met before?

Who is a friend and who is a foe?

Misty skies flow through the light air of dark streets. 11:34 AM, that's enough to feel the pit of your stomach drop in fear, absolute horror. You feel your feet being dragged across asphalt streets even if you stumble or feel tears falling along the way. Just a few hours ago, you picked up an Uber sleepily, wandering a cold beach, another figment of a lonely night.

When you found yourself waking up on a dark road still seated in the car, the loneliness dropped for a second, goosebumps rose and eyes scanned. The mysterious Uber driver adjusted his cap so that it covered his face in the car's front mirror, you opened your phone hesitantly to check the app, only to find that your selected uber was 32 minutes away.

A disoriented stare ran from your phone to the back of his head, fear coursed through every vein, a lump caught in your throat, fuck.

Through a punch and a kick, you dashed out of the car and took rugged steps for preparation as you see your driver pull a sharp blade out, a box cutter. Rugged steps turned into uneven running as your feet clashed harshly onto the asphalt, sucking in sharp breaths, exhaling even sharper ones; the dry air piercing out could slice skin itself.

A dead end arose as you ran, hopeless dread pulling at your feet, the once fiery and piercing breath turned shallow as you trembled. The cold, dark air preparing you for an even colder blade piercing.. God knows where.

Then you saw him, him.

A man, not so tall, who drenched from the dark, emerged from the shadows. It was as if the glow of the moon reflected off his ivory, smooth skin. There was something about him that seemed so.. foreign. To his silky copper hair, bangs that framed his face messily, and a few specific locks that rested on his left shoulder - such an unusual haircut, one that showcased slight sweat and a disehelved look despite his fancy attire.

He had eyes that naturally seemed low-lided, tired stormy grey eyes that you could make through his long lashes; a shine that was printed on his undereyes, one that presented the curves of it. His pinkish lips were tugged into a soft smirk, his hands stuffed in pockets.

The man walked ever so carelessly, as if he were used to lurking in the dark, and watching others drown in it. An expensive raven fedora adorned his hair with a pristine chain hooking around the piece, along with a black bolo tie, a leather choker, and white button up shirt. A long overcoat was thrown loosely over his broad shoulders, with a fitted grey vest and black blazer underneath. You took in his black dress shoes and matching slacks, before he halted, almost making you.. choose between them.

Something about him was also off, incredibly off, one that made your insides swirl and rummage for an answer. So, who is a friend and who is a foe? Crime inhabited every street and alleyway in Yokohama, there may be no safe option, but there is safer.

"Help me!" You run up to the suited man, adrenaline coursed through every vein, pumping to your pounding heart. "He's.. he's trying to kill me!" The man averted his stormy eyes to you, on you, tilting his head as if he were trying to clarify your statement. "And what do I get in return?" A crisp, raspy voice rolled off his tongue like candy, but his words were anything but sweet.

You dart your eyes back to the walking killer, face contorting in confusion, "Consider it a favour." he rasps, sleepy cat-like eyes barely gazing at you. "A favour?" your brows furrow in disdain and repulsion, what kind of life threatening situation deserves a deal in return? A mere business exchange?

"My boss told me we needed more men for infiltration," he clicks his tongue, the glint of the sharp blade inching closer.. and closer. "I think you're perfect." He explains ever so vaguely, "I can't just agree to something so vague.." you purse your lips, head turning as time feels so slow, so slow and so dangerous, "Do you want to live or what?" the man downright scoffs. "Fine." you mumble, biting your inner cheek before he nods his head arrogantly, like you made a respectable, good, choice.

"Noted," the man responds as the criminal behind you lengthens the box cutter to it's max length, you whip your head around in fear before a crushing force pierces the man's chest, dropping the box cutter in the process, blood coughs out of his mouth as his back clashes into the car's front window. Glass shatters and the dashcam runs crushed, lines of blood dribble out the killer's temple and forehead, body disehelved and messily thrown. From the corner of your eye, you see the same shine of the redhead's dress shoe, perfectly angled at the fallen man as he chuckles darkly, hands still shoved in his pockets.

"We've been waiting for you," He inquires, casually striding to the bloody man, "You have a debt to pay." the words roll off his tongue so perfectly, each consonant, vowel, each felt dipped in honey, even as he grabs a fistful of the man's hair, baring his teeth in a smirk devilishly.

'You have a debt to pay' rang in your ears almost irrevocably, there was a catch to his deal, isn't there? A mystery man whose bones crushed under his foot so casually, the wet stainted lips the redhead had, it was covered in lies, deceit, wasn't it? So, who is a friend and who is a foe? If there's one person to trust, it's yourself.

Your feet broke from the shackles holding you in place, from the feeling of your gut, you should've trusted yourself from the beginning, you should've decided what you wanted for your fucking self. You took your feet and ran away from them both, whatever debt he has to pay, he could pay it, whatever deal you had to go through, could suck your fucking dick.

Crash.

The beaten man was thrown right in front of your path of running, landing harshly onto the road; you halted immediately as the pavement cracked and debris emerged. The stormy-eyed man kept his gaze set on the half-dead one, his bones were messily twisted, a look of agony and hatred sent like fluid to each of his veins.

"Miss," you heard a familiar, sugar-coated voice dripping to your attention. The man again, smug, arrogant face dropped for a second, not with a look of sincerity, but rather seriousness. It overtook your breath with the smell of his musky colonge and cigarettes.

"we had a deal too."

You stopped for a second, maybe more than that - he finally stuffed his hand out of his pocket and extended it to you, revealing a gloved, large hand. His fashion was intricately overdressed, you could see from head to toe, he was dripping in a virginal assortment of accessories - rich in flavour, and extravagant in taste. He extended his hand gentle but firmly, undertones of something more lurking under his refined gloves, as if grasping his hand would seal your unknown deal. You stared up at him through your lashes; unbeknownst and rather innocent.

Time is wasting, but is 'waste' a proper word for a moment so enchanting?

Then, a sudden roar of a car's lights awoken and came crashing onto you two, the man, clearly taken off-guard, grabbed your hand, and pushed both of you off the road. Suddenly, you feel the once enamouring misty air blind you as you feel a firm hand grasp onto your wrist, another arm wrapped around your shoulder. A limp, fleeting rush of air flew past you two, as you crash into the lake below you.

Dim shines of city lights prick through the surface of the airy water. Lukewarm but cold quivered and raked through your skin as your hair splays in the lake. Dark corals of reefs peek against your vision as you turn your head around, only to see the same man, your saviour, sinking in the water asleep, his grey eyes were closed shut as his long lashes compliment his skin underneath the shimmer of the moonlight, along with a glow of red outlining his features. His fedora was nowhere to be found, only revelling his silky copper locks. He, without the fedora looked familiar, a little too familiar.

Wait.

You remember him now, all too well.

Chuuya Nakahara.

"I'll be honest, I think blind dates are completely useless."

An elegant man dressed in a fancy black tuxedo had his arms folded in the chair across from yours, almost sleeping in such a fancy restaurant. He had glowly copper hair with bangs that framed his face quite nicely, the sunlight from the open window shining through his locks delightfully too. The man's hair was on the longer side too, so he had it pushed into a half-ponytail, how pretty.

"Since when was this a date?" a raspy, no nonsense voice grumbled from his pinkish lips, his eyes still pinched shut. "I'm sorry?" you scoff, "Didn't Mori set you up with me?" you scan your eyes around the restaurant intently, the whole place was empty, it seems that the restaurant was reserved empty just for this 'date'. "Mori?" the redhead perks his head up, now setting his undivided attention towards you, "Yeah.. Mori." you nodded your head slowly, hinting that your fellow classmate set you up on a blind date with one of his friends.

"Why? He's not really into stuff like that." his brows furrow at you, leaning forward in his seat, now manspreading. "He said that you were.. 'a ladies man.' I guess he thought we were a good match." you inhale deeply, leaning back onto your chair. "Tch," he scoffs, turning his head to the side, still smiling,

"I guess you could say that."

"So how did your date go?"

you were currently walking on campus, your classmate, Mori, bumping into you. "Like shit. You were so lying about the whole ladies man part!" you snicker, still slightly irritated, your friend looked a little offended for his friend, but sighed. "Looks aren't everything, y'know, he's a really good guy when ya get to know him."

You quirk a brow at your friends revelation, "Huh? Looks were all he had! He was cocky, an asshole, had the worst manners, the most secretive bitch I've met, and talked about some secret occult society he was in!" counting the amount of times your date pissed you off on your fingers, if you kept going, you would need more than two hands.

Your friend beside you raised a brow more than once, "Hold on, what the fuck are you talking about?" he motioned harshly, "That's what I'm asking you!" you halt your steps, turning to face him. "Why the fuck did you set me up with him?!"

"Relax, what was his name? Was he the guy with glasses, tall, black hair?" you dart your eyes around your surroundings completely confused, "What? His.. his name was Chuuya Nakahara, I think." your friend pulls out his phone to show a picture of four friends having a drink at a bar, one matching exactly his description. "That's him. Who the hell did you go out with?"

Well shit.

'Seriously?! That crazy bitch from the cafe?' you thought, submerged in water, bubbles floating from both of your mouths to the surface. Excruciatingly and hesitantly enough, you pulled his wrist from the sinking body of water, and swam to the nearest surface of land. Barely noticing the red outline of his body travelling to yours.

Chuuya awoke on a shallow pile of land, surrounded by the lake's water. He rubbed his temple sleepily as he groaned, seeing your sleeping figure through lazy eyes. What did he get himself into? The redhead pushed your hair out of your face to get a closer look, not minding when he sees your eyes fluttering open. Then, he saw a poking tattoo of black ink written across your neck.

A5158.

Several pants of flashbacks flow through his head, you rise disoriented, rubbing your head as you look up at him. He looks at you with discontent, eyes that usually told a powerful story, every speck of grey took you out of the honey he dipped his words in. But now, he looked shocked, almost unreadable; enigmatic.

"..What happened?" you mumble, unaware of the glowly red outline running along your figure, to each strand of your hair, to the curve of your arms. The redhead firmly held your wrist, the lines of red connecting to him, the curve of his shoulder, the juncture of his neck, even the sharp line of his jaw. A large wave of clear, water splash behind you two, filtering the gaps of sunlight capturing the slope of his cheek. Chuuya stammers, an unreadable desire chasing from him to you.

"What.. did you do to me?"

taglist: @sstarshroom @soleelia @tomiroro

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mhin-t · 2 months

Text

early morning moment

foxspring early morning fluff because they're rotting my brain i haven't properly written fanfic in a longggg time, it's almost 4 am, i haven't replayed the demo recently, and this is my first shipfic!! so sorry if it's rusty sdfhskdkjs

warmth. the curl of an arm under one's head, the curl of a tail over the other's waist, the blankets shielding them both from the cold, and warmth. if heaven existed for these two, it would be that warmth.

ais wouldn't ever admit it out loud, but he enjoys moments like this. not that he minded the chatter and snarky remarks from vere, but being able to hold someone who keeps everyone else at arm's length so close made his chest swell. knowing that he was most likely one of a very small handful of beings who had seen the fox sleeping and lived to tell the tale was something he would brag about endlessly if vere wouldn't give him hell for it.

not that ais needed to brag about his closeness with vere. anyone who came across the pair could tell instantly, regardless of their lack of labels and vastly different backgrounds. the two simply found themselves in each other.

that solidarity is something only for them. neither would call it romantic, but they wouldn’t call it friendly either. intimate, close, warm, those would be the words they'd use to describe it, even if only in their minds.

a small shift comes from vere snuggling his face further into ais’ arm and tightening his arms around the other’s waist. ‘starting to stir. he’s probably going to wake up soon,’ ais thinks to himself, dreading having to let the fox slip from his grasp once again. he knows that vere will return, but he wants to savor this early morning a while longer. just a bit longer, to soak in the way the sunlight streams through the sheer curtains and illuminates the fur on vere’s ears as they shift. just a bit longer to listen to the soft, deep breathes coming from his companion. with a final twitch vere starts to open his eyes, being greeted by ais’ through his waking haze.

“you’re staring,” vere says, voice thick and deep with sleep but still teasing as always.

“mm, i am.” ais moves his free hand to brush some hair out of vere’s face as a smile makes its way onto it. “and you’re holding an arm of mine hostage.”

“hah! you could have just moved me.”

“i didn’t say that i wanted it back.” ais’ response made the other laugh shortly through his nose, vere opting to shift closer to ais’ chest at the remark.

“good, but you’ll be getting it back soon either way. i can’t stay forever.” vere could feel the rumble of dissatisfaction in the oni’s chest, one that he agreed with. if only the two could stay in this early morning moment, in their little slice of heaven forever.

#touchstarved game #touchstarved fanfic #touchstarved fic #ts vere #ts ais #touchstarved vere #touchstarved ais #ais x vere #vere x ais #foxspring #writing tag

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baestruly · 1 year

Note

your jj maybank x grumpy reader made me smile so hard!! i was wondering if you could write what jj would do if you were actually having a bad day and were more snappy with his constant attempts to get you smiling? how he’d comfort you??

i love your writing!!!

first of all, i wanna say tysm! this means a lot bc writing is a lot to me, and ty for requesting, ik it’s not rlly the exact same but it’s along the same lines! i love getting ideas from others so feel free for anyone to request anything from my masterlist that’s open

( 𝗌𝗒𝗇𝗈𝗉𝗌𝗂𝗌 ⋫ 𝖘𝖎𝖓𝖔𝖘𝖘𝖎 ) jj maybank x fem!reader

⤷ IN WHICH, you arent in the mood to be talking to anyone, especially when jj makes an attempt to be his playful self

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 - pinch of angst??, fluff

You’ve had constant bad days before but none like this one. This day for you was terrible, if that was the worst word to use.

It was as if a grey cloud had been covering over your head, the strong winds blowing your spark away again. Sometimes, you didn’t know why you felt like this ━━ an empty feeling in the pit of your stomach━━and it made you even more anxious.

This was one of those times.

You were walking home from summer work, keeping your head down as you quickly speed up when walking down the sidewalk to the chateau. You were almost dreading seeing your friends ━━ you don’t want to be mean! That’s not what this was. It was just━━you knew they would see right through you, and you didn’t want comfort, it was off the radar for you. You were never a clingy type of person, especially like JJ was. You didn’t mind it of course, but the thought of one of your friends looking into your dark eyes made you want to burst out crying all over again.

Finally reaching the chateau, you sigh heavily before opening the door. You expected to see Sarah, John B, Pope, Kiara, and JJ splattered around the small area like always or doing weird shit on the lawn, but to your surprise, they were nowhere to be found.

Well ━━ that’s until someone jumped at you from behind, tackling you onto the small sofa.

Your heart leaps into your throat. Holy━━you thought it stopped for a second! But that fear slowly started to fade once hearing JJ’s melodic laugh emit through your ears, then, you turned cold again.

“Get off me, JJ.” You pushed him off, not trying to hurt him. That psycho! He could've killed you!

The blonde boy laughed, raking his hand through his messy locks. “Oh━━oh my god━━you should've seen your face, oh, John B would have killed to see that.”

You scrunch your nose, turning around as your voice shakes. You weren't in the mood for his playful teasing. “Yeah, not before you kill me first?”

He laughed again, thinking you’re playing along, so you decide to kick off your dirty shoes that had mud covered all over them onto the mat, you would clean them afterwards. Then again, John B probably wouldn’t care.

“Okay,” JJ put his hands in the air with a smirk. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry.”

You could hear the smirk plastered on his face, was he━━?

Before you could realise what he was going to do, he tackled you to the couch again, wrapping his arms around you comfortingly to get what he would call ‘a good cuddle in’, as he buried his face in the nape of your neck, smelling your sweet aroma that melted him.

It wasn’t JJ at all, and you wanted to tell him, but you couldn’t as tears filled your eyes. You didn’t want to talk to anyone today, you just needed to be alone. “JJ, I said━━I said stop, okay?”

Your voice sliced through him once your voice cracks, as if it reached his heart, he stopped in place and winced, slowly untwining his arms from around your figure before slowly settling up and placing his thumb at the bottom of your head to turn it towards his.

His heart shatters when seeing tears roll down your face, redness already pouring into your face as panicked gulps heaved in and out of your chest.

Then, he started to panic.

“Holy fuck━━did I hurt you, baby? Oh m━━shit, I was just playing━━” He cupped your cheek, eyes blazing as his mangle breath intertwined with yours.

You tried to speak, but all you did was cover your face again, ashamed. You didn’t know why you were so ashamed when you had a bad day, but one thing you hated most was crying in front of other people because you knew you never deserved any comfort at all.

You just kept shaking your head, hoping that he knew he didn’t cause any of this, three shuddering breaths splurging through your chest. You couldn’t breathe.

JJ appeared to have relief wash over him for seconds before his eyes were back to darting all over your face, as if it could give him a clue to what was going on, but he found nothing.

But JJ was patient, wrapping his arms around you again━━which you didn’t push away this time━━until you stopped crying, and all you were left with was a nasty case of the hiccups, which were a pain in the ass even though nothing hurt more than your heart right now.

Deciding to look at this boy you loved so much, you pulled away, gazing into his blue eyes━━like the ocean, a beautiful sunset in the horizon full of beauty.

“I’m sorry.” You managed to choke out between hiccups, trying to breathe slowly. JJ was nodding along and rubbing your back. “I’m sorry, this wasn’t on you━━I was having a bad day and I just wanted to be alone but I snapped━━”

“Hey, hey, hey━━it’s okay, (Y/N). I didn’t take the hint, I should've left you alone in the first place.” He rubbed his thumb across your cheek. “I would never want to do anything to hurt you, you know that?”

You let out a choked laugh, feelings still caught up in it. “Yes, JJ.” You sniffed and wiped your eyes once more. “You’ve told me that many times.”

“Good.” The boy laughed along before a faint, but sad smiling taking over his features. “I won’t stay anymore, if that's what you want?”

Immediately you shook your head. An hour ago, all you could think about was how much you hated people━━not your friends━━but everyone else in the world. Everyone else who didn’t save you, when really, this boy who was sitting in front of you was your whole world, and you needed him more than you could've ever imagined, especially right now.

“No ━━ please, don’t go.” You pleaded, running your thumb across his hand, before tracing the yarn of his beaded bracelet. “I don’t want to push you away━━ever.”

“Even if you did━━” He chuckled teasingly, “I would wait around until you came back.”

Of course he would.

---

ty for reading!

jj masterlist masterlist

#jj maybank x you #jj x reader #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank x reader #jj obx #jj maybank #imagine #writing #jj x you #jj maybank x y/n #jj maybank oneshot #jj maybank drabble #jj maybank headcanon #outerbanks imagine #outerbanks #jj x yn #jj maybank fanfiction

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mrsaltieri-real · 8 months

Text

Helpless and Ruined (Mickey Altieri x Victim!Reader)

Words: 3k

Warnings: language, stabbing, (Mickey stabs reader, reader stabs Mickey) blood, talks of murder, violence, dub-con, smut, dirty talk, angry!mickey, stalking, cat and mouse, orgasm delay, ruined orgasm, degrading, knife play, blood play, threats, death threats, etc.

A/N: This idea popped into my mind a few days ago so I just ran with it and had a lot of fun. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

You’d managed to escape him, but not without the precise slice across your collarbone and to your shoulder from where you’d pushed yourself into his knife as he stood behind you so you could knock your head back, catching him by surprise before you’d managed to sprint away from him. The blood was dripping down into your cleavage, uncomfortably wet and sticky. You gasped, wincing slightly as you shoved the doors to the deserted cafeteria open, quickly turning around to glance out the window just as he ran up the steps, making you shout out and instinctively step back.

Ghostface stood in front of you yet again, only the flimsy wooden door and thin glass separated the two of you, his head was cocked to the side and the silver blade of his knife glinted in the dim light of the emergency exit sign illuminating him as he waved it at you menacingly.

You took a step back as his gloved hand wrapped around the doorknob, easily twisting it and swinging it open.

Fuck, you’d forgotten to lock it. There was no other way out, you were trapped in here with him.

“Leave me the fuck alone, you freak!” You shouted at him as you stumbled back in between the tables, eyes flitting down to watch his boots slowly step toward you.

There was an oddly familiar swagger to his walk, a confidence that you could’ve sworn you recognised, but you were in survival mode right now, there was no time to dwell on this.

“I don’t fucking know Sidney Prescott, why the hell are you coming after me?” You spoke again, desperately trying to get him to speak. Maybe if you heard his voice, hell, even just recognised the fucking tone, you’d clock on to whoever this guy was.

He let out a laugh, much to your agonising dismay it was muffled by a voice modulator. Your cut was beginning to hurt even more as the adrenaline dispersed into something more akin to dread and fear as you continued stumbling backward until your back finally hit the wall.

Fuck.

“Sidney, Sidney, Sidney. Everyone thinks it’s all about Sidney.” The way Ghostface spoke made you pause for a second, eyebrows creasing as you tried to recognise anything familiar. If you were going to die, it wasn’t going to be until you knew who the fuck was doing this.

“Did Maureen Evans or Phil Stevens know Sidney? Did CiCi Cooper? Did any of the people I’ve killed know who the fuck she was? Care about her?” He was striding toward you, stopping abruptly when he was about a foot away. Although you couldn’t see his face, you felt uneasy, feeling his eyes scanning over you. The sick fuck clearly liked seeing you in pain and you suddenly realised something.

If he wanted to have killed you, he would have done it outside.

“Then- then what do you want?” You asked, voice small and helpless. You were cornered now, nothing you could do but try and keep him distracted enough until you figured out a way to get the fuck away from him.

“Isn’t it obvious? I want to play with you.”

“Go and play with someone else, you fucking pervert.” I couldn’t help but snap. The way he spoke sent a freezing cold shiver down your spine, made your blood run cold in your veins.

Ghostface laughed, spinning the knife in his hand before saying, in a voice so satisfied it made your stomach churn, “There’s that fire.”

He suddenly lunged at you but you quickly ducked, dodging the knife that impaled into the wall just above your head. You tried to make a run for it but his hand circled your wrist, yanking you harshly toward him with such force it almost completely winded you, his other hand connecting with your stomach and making you double over, gasping for air.

You felt his hand in your hair, yanking you up and slamming your head against the brick wall, a choked out cry leaving your lips as you felt the crack of your skull as it connected with the hard brick. Your vision clouded, but you refused to stay still, struggling willfully against him as his body pinned you against the wall, the mask agonisingly close to your face.

“F-fuck you.” You gasped out, feeling the blood ooze from your head and beginning to mat your hair.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you? I’ve seen how you look at me in film class, sweetheart. Nothing but a fucking slut. I wonder how wet you are after our little game of cat and mouse.”

His free hand slid down your body, edging toward the button of your jeans. This was your moment.

His hand was still gripping your hair, the knife still grasped between his thumb and forefinger. You twisted your head, wincing as the action made his fingers pull it at the roots, and sunk your teeth into the slightly exposed skin of his arm until you could taste his blood. Ghostface shouted out and instinctively let you go, the knife falling to the floor with a deafening clatter. You took this moment to lift your knee, slamming it into his torso and he doubled over with a muffled groan, the voice of his modulator faltering as he did.

You decided you were going to find out who the fuck this weirdo was.

You threw your weight on him, taking him by surprise once again and he fell to the floor, the back of his head connecting with the wood and his hands falling to his side. You leapt on top of him, straddling his waist and your knees pinning his hands to the ground. You made sure to yank at the top of the hood of his robe until his head lifted off the floor, curling your fingers until you found his hair beneath, slamming his head down against the hardwood before grabbing his fallen knife and pointing it down at him.

“Fucking- fucking bitch!” A slightly familiar voice shouted up at you.

You froze as you heard the voice, the crackly modulator wasn’t covering it anymore. You glanced above his head, noticing the small white machine broken and tangled in a wire before you stared back at the mask.

He was struggling, a little weakened by his head connecting with the ground twice so it was a little easier to overpower him. You weren’t oblivious to feeling his semi erect cock rubbing against you from under his robe and through your jeans, but, for now anyway, you chose to ignore it, one thing entirely on your mind.

“Don’t- fucking don’t-“ his struggle intensified but you ground your weight down onto you knees, hearing him cuss as they dug into his hands. You quickly reach your hand for the mask, snatching it off the killer's face.

“What the fuck?” You gasped as you stared down at none other than Mickey Fucking Altieri, the guy from your film class.

His unfocused brown eyes glared up at you, still struggling to move his hands.

“Mickey?“

“You fucking bitch.” He spat up at you.

Mickey was loud and boisterous, oddly fun to be around, but you weren’t friends. You couldn’t think of a single reason why he’d be targeting you, and you honestly didn’t think to ask. For once, you’d been the one to overpower him, not like any of his other victims.

“I’m the bitch? Screw you, you fucking creep.” You retorted, unable to not notice how he twitched beneath his cloak as you shouted down at him. Did he actually enjoy this?

You noticed quickly he’d stopped struggling, his eyes were beginning to focus again. His own knife was resting against his throat, you were on top of him, you’d managed to get one over on him, and he really fucking liked it.

“I can feel how wet you are through your clothes, how messed up are you?” His voice was a little weak as he practically laughed the words at you, his hips tilting upward a little to grind his now fully erect clothed cock over your core. You let out a small gasp as he did so, still not removing the knife from his throat.

Fuck, your head was spinning. It was easy to blame what was about to happen on the extremely evident concussion you had. Even so, you couldn’t help but notice that you had the power over Ghostface- over Mickey, how much of an advantage you currently had.

Mickey noticed it too, eyes flickering down to the knife held to his throat and up to your slightly dazed and torn expression. He was rock hard underneath you, your deep breathing pushing you down harshly against him and making a soft grunt leave his throat as he stared at you expectantly.

You could kill him. You should kill him. Even though you didn’t know the girl, this stupid asshole was tormenting her. Maybe it was a mistake taking his mask off, no way he’d let you live now you knew who he was.

It was gonna go one way or another. Either you were going to kill him, or he was going to kill you. The most you could do now was postpone the inevitable.

With the knife still held to his throat, you very lightly pushed your hips down. His reaction was subtle, his eyes fluttered just slightly and you felt his finger tips briefly press against your knees before relaxing against the ground again. But there was nothing subtle about the shit eating and triumphant grin that lit up his face like a fucking Christmas tree.

“Ah, I see what you’re trying to do. Maybe if you fuck me, I’ll let you live, right?” His voice was mocking, eyes now fixing on the blood still oozing from the wound he’d inflicted and coating your chest as he continued to speak, “Go for it, sweetheart. Let’s see just how bad you want me to spare you.”

Maybe you were messed up for even considering this, maybe you didn’t care.

“Pause?” He offered, glancing down at his hands still pressed underneath your knees, “I could do with a good fuck.”

Fuck it.

You moved your knees from his palms but only moved off of him for a split second to remove your jeans as fast as you could, the knife still pointing at his throat the whole time as you spat at him, “One move, I’ll cut your throat.”

Mickey didn’t say anything, eyes nothing short of amused as he stayed motionless, watching as you climbed back on top of him, hoisting up his dark robes so his dark sweats were exposed.

He couldn’t help but love this. Of course he was still going to kill you, but at least he could finally fuck you first. Sex and murder were two of the same for him, what could be better than fucking you then gutting you? So, he allowed you to work over him, his eyes finally moving down as he felt you pull his hard cock free from his sweats and briefs.

You stopped for a second, quickly glancing up at Mickey’s face. He was gorgeous, you couldn’t deny that, you’d always thought so. But this was the guy, the monster that was running around the college, brutally murdering people. What the fuck were you doing?

“Oh, come on, sweetheart. Don’t back out now, don’t be scared because you want to fuck a murderer. Own that shit.”

His words pissed you off. You were horny and angry, a combination you don’t think you’d ever felt before. You decided then and there what you were gonna do.

You adjusted yourself on top of him so the tip of his cock was just nestled in the entrance of your dripping hole, had you ever been this wet before? He let out a sigh, a small roll of his eyes before he thrusted his hips upward, making a loud gasp fall from your lips as he quickly filled you, wincing a little at the unexpected stretch as your walls covered him. He laughed again, his strength clearly beginning to gather as his hands moved to rest on your hips so he could fuck you.

“Don’t pretend like you’re such a good person when you’ve got me balls deep inside of your pathetic little cunt.”

You weren’t going to take that, especially not from a sick fuck like him.

The knife, still gripped in your hand, was quickly and harshly brought down, imbedding into the flesh of his shoulder through the robe and he let out a surprised yell as it pierced through him, the feeling oddly satisfying you. You didn’t stop driving it down until you felt it hit bone, letting go of the knife and beginning to roll your hips as you watched as his face twisted in pain and he spat out, “Fucking bitch!” up at you for what felt like the hundredth time.

You noticed as soon as you stabbed him, his cock throbbed inside of you, did he like that? It was your turn to laugh as you rode him, grinding yourself down on his dick, desperate to use this piece of shit for the only thing he was good for.

“You like to hurt people, Mickey? How’s it feel to be the- Ah, fuck- be the one without the power?” You asked him, voice wavering as your hands moved up your body to slowly begin to unbutton your blouse, revealing your bloody chest to him as you ripped it off. You weren’t wearing a bra, and his eyes, although filled with pain, couldn’t help but settle on your tits and oozing wound, still bleeding and staining your tits red.

“I don’t know. How does it feel to be riding a fucking serial killer, you dumb fucking whore?” He growled between gritted teeth. He didn’t like not having power, it was a foreign concept to him.

Your head tipped back, fingers twisting in the soft material of his black robes as you continued to roll your hips against him, one hand moving down your body to toy with your clit. His eyes followed the motion and he groaned as he felt your cunt squeeze around him as you began to rub yourself harshly, his head falling back once again against the hard floor.

“Feels pretty good, especially as I’m going to make sure this is a fuck you won’t be forgetting anytime soon.”

Before he could ask you what the fuck that was supposed to mean, he was taken aback by your hand curling around the butt of the knife and yanking it from his body, he shouted out in pain but your head came down and you kissed him, absorbing his screams into your mouth as your tongue danced across his. He was a mess of a combination of confused, in pain and aroused, for once he didn’t know what to do with himself other than kiss you back, messy and almost hungry, his tongue sliding into your mouth as he snarled and growled against you.

You took his confusion and agony as your moment, reaching beside you to where your jeans laid as you kissed him and pulling your phone quickly from your pocket. You sent a brief text; “call 911 to the cafe, GF.” to a friend before quickly discarding the phone underneath your clothes again.

Your hands finally rested on his shoulders, using him as support as you slammed your hips down, pushing yourself back upright and using his cock like he was nothing more than a piece of meat to you. Usually you liked some give and take, to be spanked, spoke to, for him to fuck you. But in that moment, riding a helpless and partially subdued serial killer and having him completely at your mercy was dragging your impending and quickly building orgasm closer and closer, the feeling of your skin slapping against his as you fucked him, harder than you’d ever fucked anyone. How helpless and agonised and confused yet turned on he looked, knowing that he didn’t have one shred of control in this situation, you knew you were about to cum.

The knife rested against his throat as you came on his cock, making sure to look him in the eye as you did, your cunt clenching around him as you gasped and moaned his name, entire body shaking.

You stayed there for a few moments, his cock still rigid inside of you. You’d made sure he didn’t have the opportunity to cum, made sure he’d gotten so close to the brim that his cock was a weeping, dribbling mess as you pulled him out of you, your hands sliding along his shaft and twisting it once before you released him, letting him pathetically cum in small drizzles on his own stomach, white staining his Ghostface robes and his orgasm ruined as he shouted, “Fuck! No, you fucking cunt, I’ll fucking kill you!”

The two of you heard the sirens before you saw the lights, completely surrounding the cafeteria. You quickly clambered off of him, dropping the knife and grabbing your clothes, pulling them on quickly as Mickey scrambled to his feet, eyes boring straight into yours, absolutely furious.

Not only had you ruined his orgasm, you’d ruined his entire fucking plan in the space of twenty minutes.

He unsteadily rose to his feet, his robes messy and ruffled as they straightened out around him and his eyes were dark and menacing.

The shouts of the cops outside grew closer as his eyes caught the glint of the knife and he bent down, picked it up and twirled it in his hand.

To your surprise, Mickey laughed. It was a dark, sick laugh as he tutted a little, shaking his head at you as if in disappointment. “Now, why’d you have to go and do that?”

You didn’t respond to him, walking back until your back hit the wall again, eyes fixed on his menacing face and toothy grin.

“Why’d you drop the knife? Are you really that fucking stupid? You think the cops are going to get in here before I manage to slash that pretty little throat?”

You shrugged, wincing slightly at the pain in your shoulder as you did so before stating simply, “See you in hell I guess,” just as the doors of the cafeteria opened and the police flooded through the doors, guns drawn and pointed at Mickey, who grabbed you by the hair, dragging you in front of him with the sharp side of the blade digging into your throat.

#this was FUN #i wanna overpower him #I WANNA #hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it #KISSES #scream #mickey altieri #mickey altieri x reader #mickey altieri x you #mickey altieri smut #scream 2 #ghostface #ghostface x reader #ghostface smut

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somaticmilk · 3 months

Text

REN MILK FIC -

Shut up and take it.

The overwhelming smell of hay, fresh paint, and barn animals filled Ren’s nose, but he was soon distracted by cold metal pressing up against his back. Scissors began to slice away at the Beastkin’s tank top. After tearing away the fabric, Strade grasped at the waistband of the jogger shorts before pulling them to his victim’s ankles.

He soon did the same to his boxer briefs. As his clothing was quickly stripped away from him, Ren felt increasingly insecure and fearful, his tail subconsciously going between his legs.

He would have tried to pull his shorts and underwear back up but was stopped by Strade still holding the drill to his head.

The best he could do now was shrink back and cover himself with his shaking hands as his captor shot him a few mocking gazes and a cynical smile. Horrid thoughts began to bounce around in Ren’s pounding head.

He slammed his eyes shut. “This is it. He’s going to rape me, shoot me, and then dump my body in the desert for the scavengers to pick apart. Attached to the red leather collar was a large golden cowbell that jingled loudly with every small movement Ren made.

Once the collar was secured and taut on the sobbing fox’s neck, the German grabbed him by the back of his leather neckband causing him to choke.

As he was dragged over to another side of the barn, Strade reached out to Ren, silently begging him for mercy in the hope that he was less sadistic than the taller man.

His chokes and gasps for air thankfully ended, but the terror and dread didn’t. It seemed like it never would… As he was spun around, a squeeze cage came into view.

Ren recognized the cruel-looking device as something used to help brand and dehorn cattle. He was shoved inside, his head forced through bars and squeezed together so his neck was trapped.

With his head and neck trapped and motionless, Ren could only rely on his moving eyes to see what his captor was about to do to him.

Strade quickly went outside and slipped on some gloves before grabbing a lukewarm Craft Beer. He could see the German man outside the barn, wearing thick protective gloves and holding an iron rod over a burn barrel.

Once he came back, Goosebumps formed over Ren’s flesh as Strade dabbed a cold alcohol swap over his exposed behind. A thick lump formed in his throat as he put two and two together..

He was going to brand him… His thrashing became much more frantic and violent. Although the actions pained his neck and head greatly, he persisted with his struggles. If this sick freak was going to brand him like livestock, he wasn’t going to let it happen without a fight.

He wasn’t going to just go limp and take it. Strade removed the rod from the fire, revealing that the end was bright orange and steaming.

His fight against the iron cage grew even more frantic as he came closer. “NO! YOU GET AWAY FROM ME!” “Stay still, Schatz. Don’t want to mess it up.”

Strade said it was so nonchalant, it almost scared him. Still, Ren didn’t have time to think about that, he could only focus on the hot metal coming closer to his ass. With one swift motion, the iron was pressed hard against his left asscheek, burning and sizzling into his flesh. As his vision turned white and spotty and his throat let out an ear-piercing scream, Strade smiled at his display. Although he couldn’t see it yet, there were two letters now permanently burned into his skin forever.

Before turning in for the night, Strade chained Ren into his stall that was so confined, he couldn't even extend his legs out all the way. He was cramped, cold, naked, and terrified. He should be at home watching anime, not with this German psycho in the middle of buttfuck nowhere.

Ren started to scream again in an act of desperation, although the cries were shot and weak. His throat was still tortured by the screaming he did while being branded. In the back of his mind, he knew that all of his commotions would amount to nothing in the end. Still, you never know if someone willing to help would be trespassing on the farm property. Chances were slim, but not impossible...right?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Help… Please somebody help…” By sunrise, Ren could hardly let out more than a whimper. He had been hollering for a savior almost all night, but as he predicted, all he got in response was the song of the crickets. His eyelids weighed heavy, his crash in adrenaline hitting hard.

Right as he was about to drift off, his eyes flew open at the sound of the barn door swinging open. “Guten Morgen, Kuh!" Ren recognized that voice. It was Strade. “I had to get up early because it was my turn to feed the chickens and let the dog out.” He set down a bucket of water into Ren’s stall. “We heard you mooing out here all night, so I imagine you must be parched.” “I don’t want to see you. Get away from-OOMPH!”

Ren’s back hit the dirt as Strade gave a hard blow to his stomach, his heavy boots knocking the wind from his body. Before he could sit himself up, Strade sat on Ren’s chest, his weight pinning down his lithe body. The man, who was currently gasping for air, violently flinched as he felt the farmer grasp at his limp cock. “A bit rowdy right now, are you?

No problem. I have something that will help calm you down.” The fox (mistaken for a cow apparently) threw his head back, letting out a few shuttering cries as he heard Strade digging around in his pocket.

He was convinced that it was the pistol. He was about to be shot dead for being too difficult to handle. However, instead of his head being blown to bits, Ren could feel cold metal encasing his dick, quickly being securely locked on with a small metal key.

Strade had just put a chastity cage on him. “There. Isn’t that so much better? Your cock all wrapped up like a present for your beloved farmer.” Strade said sweetly as Ren continued to squirm underneath him. His face felt hot against the cool hair as he flushed a deep red from the humiliation and shame. He felt like a wild animal being muzzled. “Don’t worry. We won’t keep it on forever of course. We just have to keep you all pent up for milking.”

if you want like actual milking lmk- but other than that I was never here.

PT 2

#Soma Writes #btd ren #Ren Hana #Anyways-#OKAY SERIOUSLY I DON'T HAVE A COW OR MILK KINK /SRS #soma says truth.#btd fanfic #fan fic writing #fan fiction #fafiction #writers on tumblr #ren btd #ren boyfriend to death #btd strade #cough- anyways #ima delete this soon so stfu i don't want this on my consciousness

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nataliesfirefly · 16 days

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chapter 3 - the truce

a/n: omg i am so sorry for not uploading sooner!!! may was so chaotic with finals and everything. i sincerely apologize for taking so long to write this chapter! i dont know if anyone still cares about this series or wants to read it, but im still going to post this just in case some of you still enjoy it :)) love yall so much and again i apologize for the wait 🤍🤍

chapter warnings: slight language

wc: 4k

series masterlist

You make your way to English class hastily, the cold wind almost slicing through your skin and bones. November weather in London has always been cruel, but you can’t remember the last time it was this freezing. You look down at your shoes as you walk, trying to save your face from the harsh, burning gusts. If it’s going to be in the negative temperatures, some snow would be nice.

You eventually reach the classroom and swing open the door, shuffling inside. You sigh with dread, knowing today is the day you’re going to be assigned your partner for the essay. You’d much rather be cozied up in your dorm room with a mug of hot tea, listening to your favorite classical music pieces while reading a non-assigned book.

“Good morning,” Mrs. Chasteen greets you as you walk to your seat. “Are you quite alright?” You pause at her words and raise an eyebrow. “Yes, miss. Why do you ask?” You reply, confused. “Oh. No reason,” She waves a hand dismissively and you decide not to question it as you venture to your seat.

You sit next to Magdalena, a new accquaintance you’ve made in this class. “Is something off about me? Like, my face?” You ask her as you set your things down. “Your cheeks are just very rosy. And your nose,” She giggles and covers her mouth, her green eyes twinkling with amusement. “Oh. It’s just the cold,” You sigh. This was a common occurrence for you.

“Didn’t know Rudolph was in our class,” Someone mutters as they pass by. You glance up and see Farleigh glancing back at you with a smirk. You roll your eyes and groan. “He’s funny,” Magdalena remarks.

You turn to her. “Excuse me?” It comes out harsher than you expected it to, and her eyes widen. “Sorry. I mean… he’s… annoying..?” She says it almost like a question while trying to bite back a grin, but you can see it clearly. “Just because you hate him doesn’t mean I have to,” She points a finger at you. You nod. “Fair point. Sorry, Lena.” You pat her shoulder and she smiles. “No worries.”

“Alright, is everyone settled?” Mrs. Chasteen’s voice drags your attention back to the front of the room. A few quiet agreements echo throughout the room, meaning it’s unfortunately time to start the lesson.

Towards the end of class, Mrs. Chasteen stands up to announce something.

“So, with our first term coming to an end soon, it’s time for you to begin your essays. I’m expecting university level quality, and some very thought-provoking writing. I know you all can do it, just put your minds to it, and trust yourselves. Now, just because I’m giving you a partner does not mean you can slack off. You must do your equal parts of work,” She warns, already knowing the work ethics of some of the people in this class.

“I chose each of your partners for a reason. I think I know you all well enough by now, and I believe you are going to work well with whoever I paired you with.” She explains. You glance over at Magdalena with a smile and raised eyebrows. Mrs. Chasteen likes you, you think, so perhaps she paired you with Lena, since it’s obvious you two have become close.

“Alright.” She walks to her desk and grabs a piece of paper with the pairs written down. “Fiona and Oscar,” She calls out. You hear some mutters and hums and shuffling of your classmates. “Mason and Henry,” She says.

She continues calling out names, and you think you’re going to die from the anticipation. It seems like she’s saving your name for last on purpose. She hasn’t called Lena yet, though, so perhaps there is still hope.

“Magdalena and…” She pauses and squints at the paper. You tightly cross your fingers under the desk. “Olivia.” You turn to Lena quickly. She looks at you with a confused expression and shrugs. Mrs. Chasteen hates you, probably.

Suddenly you hear your name and your attention peaks. You whip back around to face the front, watching your teacher closely. “...and Farleigh.”

You swear your heart drops to your stomach. Your eyes widen and you blink, desperately trying to wake yourself up as if this is only a bad dream. In fact, now that you think of it, you genuinely believe you’ve had a nightmare about this before. Having to work with Farleigh on a project. A project that is basically worth your entire grade this term. Magdalena gasps quietly and then giggles, nudging you. “Oh my God,” She whispers. Of course she finds this funny.

“And that’s all. The essay is due December 15th, I will give you the prompts tomorrow. You are dismissed.” You immediately shoot up from your seat, seemingly at the same time as Farleigh, speedily walking up to Mrs. Chasteen’s desk, trying to beat him there. But it’s no use, as you both arrive there at the same time.

“Miss, is there any way I could switch partners?” You quickly blurt out before he can get a chance to talk, while still trying to remain polite. She looks at you with a surprised expression.

“I can’t do this essay with him.” You glance over at Farleigh who looks offended. “I can’t do this essay with her!” He exclaims. “Alright, alright, you two. Calm down. Why don’t you both have a seat?” She nods towards the two chairs positioned in front of her desk.

You exchange glances before obeying and sitting down. She sits down in her own chair across from the two of you, adjusting her glasses and leaning forward.

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I had paired you two together for a reason?” She quirks an eyebrow and you have to resist the temptation to roll your eyes.

“I have noticed that there seems to be some sort of… rivalry or.. tension between you. However, I believe you two can work together and write something beautiful, once you put your feelings aside. If you both desire to go to Oxford, this is a skill you must learn. You must be agreeable, and able to adapt to new situations and people. Even if you do not prefer their company.” Mrs. Chasteen explains matter-of-factly.

“I’m not doing this because I dislike you. I’m doing it because you are two of my favorite students.” She winks and stands up. You’ve won, but at what cost? You and Farleigh stand shortly after, following suit. “Now, I think you’d ought to get to your next classes.”

“This absolutely sucks,” He groans as you both trudge across the courtyard, as you have both done everyday since the first day of school when he offered you his umbrella. It’s like a tradition, although he’s not the preferred person you’d like to be walking with right now.

“Yeah, you think?!” You exclaim furiously, raising your voice over the wind. “Did she say we’re going to have to meet outside of class?” He asks, and you turn to glance up at him. “What? Oh my God, that’s even worse!” You slap a hand to your forehead and shake your head.

“I’m not meeting you anywhere,” You tell Farleigh. He stops in his tracks. “It’s not up to us. We have to if we want to get this done. It’s half of our-”

“Yes, I know. Half of our grade. At this point, I’d rather take the zero!” You throw your hands up as you both reach the door to the west wing. He rolls his eyes and holds the door open for you. You angrily bustle past him to escape the freezing cold air.

“Are you serious? It’s really not a big deal. We can get along for the sake of an essay.” The door closes behind you two, leaving both of you alone in the long hallway. You turn around to face him.

“Fine. But we both get equal input for the essay. I know how you are when it comes to group projects,” You narrow your eyes at him and fold your arms, remembering that chaotic astronomy project you had to work on with Farleigh and some other irrelevant people during your tenth year. He was a total control freak and didn’t let you do anything, because he feared you would ‘mess it up.’

“Okay, okay. Deal.” He nods and holds out his hand like it’s some kind of business agreement. Or maybe more like a truce. For now. You reluctantly take his hand and shake it gently. You can’t help but notice how small your hand is compared to his own.

“See you later.” You spin on your heel and head up the stairs quickly to get to biology. Hopefully this whole ordeal doesn’t cause you to be late.

The next day in class, Mrs. Chasteen assigns each group their prompt. Unfortunately, you now have to sit next to Farleigh. You’ll certainly miss Magdalena’s peaceful company and her ability to not make snarky comments every five seconds.

“Right, so our prompt is…” You drag the slip of paper closer to you to read the words printed. “Discuss revenge in the novel. In what ways is it connected to love? What is the nature of love in the novel, that it can be so closely connected to vengeance?” You read aloud.

“Easy.” Farleigh sighs and leans back in his chair nonchalantly. “Well, then perhaps you would like to enlighten me with some of your ideas?” You turn to him expectantly. “Are you doubting my knowledge?” He asks, clutching a hand to his chest as if to appear offended. “No. Just curious.” You shrug and smile mischeviously, but you know exactly what you’re doing.

“Heathcliff’s unrequited love for Catherine drives his desire for revenge. Their love is self-destructive and all-consuming which leads to Heathcliff’s strong emotions and actions.” He replies. You sit there in silence for a moment, realizing he actually knew what was going on in the novel. You had assumed he had just skimmed through it and Googled a summary.

“Exactly what I was thinking,” You mutter, nodding slowly in agreement. “Great. Sounds like we won’t have any trouble with this essay,” He smiles and pats you on the shoulder firmly. You almost instantly recoil, shifting in your chair and glaring at him. What is it with him and touching you?

“So, when should we meet up to work on it?” You ask. “How about tonight at seven? The library?” Farleigh suggests. “I won’t steal your spot this time,” He says teasingly. “Shut up.” You snap.

“Why did you care so much about that anyway?” He questions. “I’m just…” You trail off, your face reddening. “Superstitious?” He raises his eyebrows and you sigh. “I guess you could say that.” You shrug and look back down at the table.

“Should we get each other’s numbers?” He suddenly asks. Your eyes dart up to his. “What?” You can already feel your face getting hot again, and you don’t even know why. The idea of Farleigh having your number is… frightening. But why are you blushing at the thought of it? And why does he want your number? Could he possibly…

“For the project.” Your expression probably gave too much away, so he had to clarify. “Oh. Right. Yeah, definitely.” You nod a bit aggressively as he fishes his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it and handing it to you. Your hands tremble as you take his phone and type in your number. You hand it back to him and pray he didn’t notice your strange behavior. “Thanks,” He mutters.

“You know that Clara girl?” He says. “Yeah, what about her?” Your curiosity peaks as you glance over at him. “She’s been talking to me a lot. Like, she’s barely spoken a sentence to me in the past five years we’ve been at this school. And now she won’t leave me alone,” He says it with that tinge of pride in his voice.

“Okay?” You gesture vaguely. “Well, your friends with her, right?” He lowers his voice and checks around him to make sure no one is eavesdropping. “Yeah…?” You raise an eyebrow.

“Does she ever… you know, talk about me?” He asks. You almost laugh but you stop yourself. “No, she doesn’t.” You bite back a feisty remark. “You are seriously no help whatsoever.” He shakes his head and pinches the space between his eyes.

“Just because a girl starts talking to you more than she usually does, does not mean she likes you.” You tell him, only realizing how untrue that sentence is after you’ve said it. “You just have a huge ego,” You recover quickly after your moment of silence.

“I do not. If anyone does it’s you.” He replies a little too quickly. It goes quiet all of a sudden and you awkwardly look away and out the window. He clears his throat. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” You quietly respond. Sooner or later class is over and you’re free from that awkward moment.

Later that night you arrive at the library, a few minutes after seven. You walk in and head over to where Farleigh is sitting, conveniently next to your usual spot. You smile at the thought of him remembering where it was and remembering not to take it.

But then you notice there’s someone standing at the side of the table, leaning against the table with their long legs crossed, twirling their lengthy blonde hair. Clara.

You awkwardly walk over and stand there next to Clara, waiting for her to turn and notice you.

“You’re funny,” She giggles right as Farleigh glances up and sees you. She turns, following his line of eyesight and eventually meeting your gaze. “Oh, hello!” She grins brightly. Why is she always so… sociable?

“Hi, Clara.” You step aside, going around her to your side of the table and sitting down. She seems confused. “Oh, are you two-”

“We’re just meeting up for a project,” Farleigh explains. “Oh. The essay for English, right?” To your surprise, she sits on the table, perfectly comfortable. Is Farleigh blushing?

“Yep,” You nod with a sigh, hoping that she’ll take the hint. “That book was honestly so boring. I couldn’t even tell you what it’s actually about.” She laughs like it’s funny. And the worst part is, Farleigh is chuckling along with her.

“We should probably get to work…” You mutter. You make eye contact with Clara and something in her gaze is threatening. But then, the switch flips and she nods, sliding off the table. “Alright. I’ll leave you to it! Have a good night, you two.” She smiles and walks away, and you swear she purposely walks with a swing in her hips.

Farleigh is just staring after her like an idiot. You nudge him harshly. “Farleigh,” You hiss. He startles out of his trance and turns to you. “Ow. What?!” He rubs his arm sarcastically and you roll your eyes.

“See, I think she likes me. You were lying to me.” He whispers. “I didn’t lie to you. I just–” You cut yourself off before you say something embarrassing.

“Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Let’s just get started on this,” He says, and you both reach down into your bags for your laptops and book copies.

“I’ve never written an essay with someone before.” You mutter. You’re curious as to how this will work; perhaps you both take turns writing paragraphs, or take turns revising and editing. “I can do the introduction. I’m pretty good at those,” Farleigh offers.

“I mean… you could, I guess.” You don’t sound so certain. Introduction paragraphs are your specialty, and if he writes it, you know it wouldn’t be as good as yours. He looks at you with confusion. “What do you mean ‘I guess’?” His thick eyebrows furrow.

“Nothing, it’s only that… well, I’d rather write the introduction.” You explain sheepishly. “What, you think I can’t do it?” He questions. He crosses his arms defensively.

“I never said that. I just think that you should let me do it.” You reply. You can already feel yourself becoming annoyed by him. “Why should I?” He shoots back. “Because– Because..” You can’t think of a good reason. Shit.

“Because?”

Silence.

“Let’s write it together, then.” Ah, yes. A compromise. Something you hate. Of course he would be the one to suggest that.

“Fine.” You huff and fall back into your chair. “We’ll just write it on mine, it will be easier that way.” He moves his laptop in front of him and begins to type. You sit up quickly and squint to see what he’s typing.

Seems good so far. Until–

“Wait. Maybe we should use a different word right there,” You suggest, but it’s not really a suggestion at all. More like an order.

“What’s wrong with intense?” He asks combatively, not bothering to look at you. “I think impassioned would be better. Or passionate, even.” You reply. He lets out a sigh full of exasperation. “You’re so stubborn,” He mutters while shaking his head.

“And you’re such a dick,” Your voice raises a bit too high, gaining a few turned heads and curious glances. “Jesus, okay. I’ll change it.” He whispers, replacing the word with your recommendation.

Your next hour spent in the library consists of hushed arguments and whisper-yelling over who should write what and who comes up with the better phrasing. You knew this couldn’t possibly work out. You’re both too stubborn and aggressive to work together.

You haul your backpack onto your shoulders and push in your chair a bit violently. Farleigh really pissed you off tonight.

“Goodnight…” He watches you with wide eyes. “Night,” You respond shortly as you hurriedly walk to the front doors.

Later that night, you’re sitting at your desk listening to music while doing some homework for your history class. Your phone dings with a notification.

You curiously flip over your phone, peering down at the screen. Unknown number.

“Hey, it’s Farleigh. Should we meet tomorrow evening, same time at my dorm?”

Oh. He hasn’t texted you since you gave him your number, so you haven’t had the chance to save his number. But why at his dorm?

You unlock your phone and begin typing out a response.

“Okay.”

No, too harsh. You hit the backspace button a few times and try again.

“Sure!”

Too energetic. You groan and delete the word once again. Why are you overthinking this so much? It’s just Farleigh.

“Sounds good.” You settle on that and press the send button. Maybe he doesn’t want to meet at the library anymore because of all the strange looks you both received last time.

You check the time on your phone lockscreen. Seven PM sharp. You take a deep breath and knock on Farleigh’s door, preparing yourself for some more bickering.

The door opens with a slight creaking sound. “Hey,” Farleigh says quietly. The awkwardness sets in and it takes you a moment to come up with a response.

“Hi.” You stand there, waiting for him to step aside to let you in. He stares down at you for a few seconds, but for some reason, it feels like a whole minute.

He opens the door further and makes room for you to enter. You take a few small steps inside and he closes the door behind you. You glance around, taking all the details in. All the dorms here have the same layout, but everyone is free to personalize and decorate however they would like to, within reason.

You would expect the asshole to be sporting a bunch of medals and trophies, but it’s quite the opposite. There’s a few movie posters and postcards (you’re assuming from America) hung neatly on the walls, a small bookshelf with various novels and notebooks, a work desk similar to your own with sheets of paper splayed out and pens scattered about in typical Farleigh fashion, a closet, and a nice potted plant on the windowsill.

“Not bad,” You comment with a teasing smile. “What did you expect?” He laughs softly and rests his hands in his pockets, watching you survey the room. “I thought it would be more messy,” You grin.

“It usually is,” He replies, and then his smile quickly fades as if he just registered what he said. “So you cleaned up just for me? Awww.” You press a hand to your chest and pout your lips in mock flattery. He stutters. “No, I..” Is he getting nervous right now?

You clear your throat. “Anyways. Let’s get to work.” You clap your hands twice for dramatic effect, sitting down on the floor with your legs criss-crossed. Farleigh grabs his laptop and joins you, placing it in between you.

“Sorry about yesterday.” He murmurs so softly you can barely hear it. “Hm?” You decide to be cheeky. If he’s going to apologize, you want to hear it louder than that. “I said sorry. About yesterday. I was being… annoying.” He says it a bit louder this time.

“Annoying is one word for it,” You bite your lip shortly afterwards. You shouldn’t have said that. If you want to get this essay done, you’re going to have to try to get along with him. “I forgive you.” For you, those three words are the hardest words to say. You let out a breath.

“You were being an asshole too, though.” He tilts his head and raises his eyebrows at you. “I- Yeah. I was. Sorry.” Your face reddens and you rub the back of your neck. Why is it suddenly so warm in this room?

“I really think we can do this.” Farleigh’s gaze burns into yours and it’s so hard not to look away. His usual cold and dark stare is replaced by something warmer, kinder. “Me too,” You agree, but your voice comes out sounding a bit odd. You cough slightly. “Sorry.”

“I’ve written down some ideas for the format. Like, what we should write about in each paragraph.” He explains, standing up to grab a notebook from his desk. Wow. Maybe he’s actually going to be useful.

This evening was far more productive than the one before. You two managed to get most of the second paragraph done. And against all odds, there was only one small argument. You were even able to laugh together. There’s still some tension floating around the room, and you’re not sure why it’s there. Not even the usual tension between you two, more like…

Farleigh stands up. “I’d say that was pretty productive.” He stretches and yawns before offering you his hand. You freeze and just stare at it until you realize he’s just trying to help you up. God, why do you keep assuming the wrong things? You reach up for his hand and he pulls you up with a little too much strength, causing you to kind of fall into him. He steadies you with his hands on your waist before quickly removing them as if he’s just touched a hot stove.

“Sorry,” You both blurt out. “It’s okay.” You say casually, although you’re trying to pretend your legs don’t feel like jelly right now.

“So… I guess I’ll see you Monday, then. Unless you want to work on this over the weekend.” He says. You shake your head. “I think since we started early, we’re already pretty far ahead. Let’s just plan for Monday.” He nods at your words and you smile.

“Goodnight, Farleigh,” You head for the door and you can see a slight hesitation in his eyes, like he wants to say something more. But he doesn’t. “Goodnight.”

And with that, you’re headed back to your own dorm, already feeling the effects of exhaustion setting in.

#farleigh start #saltburn #farleigh x reader #farleigh start x reader #farleigh x you #farleigh saltburn #archie madekwe

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starrysamu · 10 months

Text

✦ you and nanami have been working side by side for three years now. when nanami brings his son to work with him one day, it changes the entire trajectory of your relationship in only 24 hours.

✦ nanami kento x f!reader

✦ word count: 1.9k

✦ warnings: none.

contents. | 3. | 4. | 5.

previously.

“he really likes exercise equipment, but he’s too small to use them, especially the elliptical that we have at home. i’m afraid he’s going to hurt himself. instead, we go to the park when we can so he can play. he likes spending time with his friends there. he likes it when i cook dinners for him, which is most nights. he hates vegetables, and i’ve heard it’s common for kids his age but it’s been really tough to get them in him. sometimes - ”

he stops abruptly and blinks at you. you blink back.

“sometimes?” you urge quietly. your hands are folded on your lap and your chest is pressed against the edge of the table.

he clears his throat. “ah, i lost my train of thought.”

you smile, knowing full well there’s no way a man like him just “lost his train of thought.”

you’ll give it time, though, because this time it’s different. this time, you’re willing to wait.

chapter 4

“another friday, another yuto, hm?”

“another?” yuto yells disbelievingly. “there’s another yuto?”

nanami shushes him. truly, it was just another day of figuring out how to phrase things to a small child.

“no, no, that’s not what i meant - i’d like to call a lifeline to help explain to yuto that he’s the only yuto for me, and i simply meant that - ”

“another friday, another nanny not available,” nanami mumbles monotonously. his voice - low and deep and rich like velvet - incites a completely inappropriate response from you.

you frown, masking the tugging in your stomach with unamusement. “you’re the worst lifeline.”

nanami turns to look at you point-blank, hands folding over his abdomen.

your frown deepens when he doesn’t say anything.

“what?”

he draws in a deep sigh before turning back to yuto. “you know the drill. i’ll get you that mango custard today.”

nanami probably broke his back trying to find someone to look after yuto. the sharpness of his eyes have softened, already weathered down from the morning.

“mango custard?” you wiggle your eyebrows, leaning back to get a good look at yuto. “the dessert game keeps getting upped.”

“i lo-ove mango,” yuto declares with his entire chest. “but i think dad likes it more. we also like strawberry. we like cake. cake is so good, like especially the cake with the little strawberry pieces in the middle of the slice -”

“yuto, i think she knows what cake is.”

nanami grunts as he leans over to pull yuto’s jacket around him, zipping it up to the very top. you grin at the sight: a sky blue marshmallow.

“very flattering,” you gush. you feel like one of those aunties that’ll come up to him in 10 years and ask, ‘do you remember me?’ when there’s no way in hell he would remember you from such a young age.

“look at all that extra padding. i think you’re ready for your first sports game.” this time, you wiggle your brows at nanami.

yuto is not paying attention to you. yuto is actually quite upset that he’s got this suffocating jacket on him. he hangs his head back exasperatedly, letting out a long groan.

“don’t make that face,” nanami murmurs. “it’s cold in the office today.”

yuto starts to flop his arms and legs around like a fish. the chair wobbles, swiveling to the side pitifully. nanami reaches for the armrest to stop it from spinning and you watch, partly in awe with how the office chair practically consumes yuto whole. once he’s sure yuto’s giving up the resistance, nanami turns back to his computer.

you try not to stare at nanami. you’ve always been drawn to his sharp features, but you think something else tugs at you now - pity, maybe? just thinking it fills you with dread. you hope it airs along the lines of longing, sympathy, even.

he’s working with pinched eyebrows and the softest, most exasperated sighs - a large contrast from stoicism and silence. your chest tightens.

you cross one leg over the other and swallow. “is there anything i can help you with today?”

you can’t recall the last time you asked him that. you remember asking religiously during the first two quarters of working at the company, back when you were fresh-faced and impossibly ambitious - and back when he was simply polite and efficient enough to always say ‘no thank you.’

out of the corner of your eye, you catch yuto slouching defeatedly in his chair.

would you have acted differently had you known? should you have tried harder to extend yourself?

does this … does yuto change things?

it shouldn’t. you don’t think it does, at least.

you frown to yourself. you’re still contemplating it when he murmurs, “i think we just need to finish making the presentation for tomorrow.”

your lips almost part. almost.

“i might need some help with yuto,” he admits, eyes trained on the file on his computer. “he was a little … apprehensive about coming with me today.”

this might be the longest response you’ve ever gotten to that question, much less to any of your other questions.

“yeah, sure, anything,” you nod quickly, smiling at yuto. “really? who would’ve guessed he hates coming here? i thought this was the funnest place on the planet.”

yuto scrunches his nose. “dad said funnest isn’t a word.”

“he’s right, kiddo.”

“then why’d you say it?”

“for fun.”

you lean over and drag his chair to sit in the middle of you and nanami.

nanami looks at you before looking at yuto. when he looks at you once again, you tilt your head to the side. what?

he shakes his head and turns back to his computer.

it’s almost embarrassing how your back pops when you reach your hands up to the ceiling and wiggle your fingers. you sigh out in relief and slump forward.

it’s friday. it’s friday. it’s friday, it’s friday, it’s friday.

“do you have the excel sheet from the sukuna account?”

you’re sensing a foreign invader. your eyes narrow. you’re like a white blood cell, and gojo satoru is a pathogen - a threat to your peace and serenity in the workplace.

“ah, hello, dear, sweet gojo. the bane of my existence.”

“how charming.” gojo grins. “happy to be of service.”

“shut up,” a new voice says. “stop bothering her. i need to bother her. and him. both of them.”

you smile tersely. “ah, hello, dear, sweet utahime. currently the other bane of my existence.”

“i’m happy to take over the role from gojo,” she says curtly, passing a file to you. “i need you to look through this before i submit it for approval.”

“must i?” you ask, pressing the back of your hand to your forehead and tilting back dramatically.

while you’re busy brooding over extra work, gojo comes around to pick yuto up.

yuto giggles when gojo holds him up like simba. he circles around in his spot, yuto still suspended in air. “everyone praise king yuto. king yuto, we thank you for gracing our presence today - ”

nanami doesn’t shift, doesn’t twitch, doesn’t budge a single muscle. he doesn’t watch gojo swing his child around, he doesn’t ask gojo to put him back down.

full, unadulterated trust.

doubt creeps in. you remind yourself you haven’t known him for that long, you suppose. what’s it going to take to get there, though?

you watch quietly, gnawing on your lip.

“stop bothering everyone,” utahime hisses, tugging on gojo’s collar. “hi, yuto,” she coos, taking him from gojo. “you’ve gotten so big. do you remember aunty utahime? i haven’t seen you in so long. how’s work going today?”

yuto sighs dramatically. it’s obvious he doesn’t remember her, but he’s itching to complain. “work is so bo-oring. i think dad and i should go to the park every day instead.”

gojo ruffles his hair. “sorry kid, this is what life’s all about. luckily, you got a rich dad and … ” he looks to you, “an entertaining friend over here, so you’re basically set for life.”

“entertaining?” you parrot, scrunching your nose. it leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

“derogatory,” gojo clarifies.

“how sweet.”

utahime sets yuto back down in his seat. “anyways, just look over that when you can,” she says to you and nanami.

“yeah, and the sukuna account,” gojo tacks on. “you guys are the best. just awesome. amazing people. great coworkers. keep up the great work.”

you press your palms to your eyes and lean back in your seat. “i think i’m gonna have to go into overtime,” you groan, once gojo and utahime are out of earshot.

“we can finish,” nanami mutters under his breath. “it’s fine, we’ll finish in time.”

you’re not sure if he’s trying to convince you or himself.

you’re fighting for your life. you’re fighting the urge to scream and rip your hair out and do literally anything and everything the main character in a romantic comedy would do when nothing is going their way.

you glance out the window. the sun has been gone for several hours now. you’re left to fend for yourself in this dusty, dark office - which, you figure you might be able to see better if you just got up to turn the lights.

lights are for the weak. it’s time to rely on your hunter-gatherer instincts.

(you doubt hunter-gatherers were as lazy as you are, but that’s another discussion).

you sigh and lean back in your seat.

“why’re you sitting in the dark?”

the lights click on and you jump in your seat.

your heart is racing a million miles when you rub your eyes to adjust. footsteps approach you. what do you do? what would the hunter-gatherers have done?

you open your eyes. nanami towers over you, yuto attached to his hip and a grocery bag in his free hand.

“we thought you might still be here.”

you don’t know if you should be nervous. did something happen?

“what’re you guys doing here?”

he looks at you a little sheepishly. “yuto’s idea.”

oh dear. what’re you to do now? what’re you to do now that you've seen this side of him? what’re you - a woman of nature, one with the trees and the wilderness - to do with a man like this?

he’s shot you straight in the heart with a bow and arrow.

“we got you a mango custard,” yuto grins. “you have to try it. it’s so much better than the strawberry cake.”

“also got you some noodles if you’re hungry.”

as if on cue, your stomach growls.

you are no longer one with the wilderness. if you really think about it, this is the modern version of gathering.

nanami sets the bag down on your desk with the slightest curve of his lips. he grunts as he sits in his seat, yuto clinging to his front like a koala.

“eat,” he murmurs, reaching for your mouse.

he leans forward and you feel the warmth in waves, rolling off of his stiff suit. you still in your spot when he casually hands yuto over to you. now you’ve got a whole child hanging off of your right arm and a bowl of noodles in your other hand, with nanami brushing over you everytime he moves to type something on your computer.

your heart blooms, flowers uprooting from your arteries. you’ve been watered after a long, dry day.

“eat the custard.” yuto is whispering in your ear, but every time he speaks, he gets louder. “eat the custard. eat the custard, eat the - ”

“yuto.”

yuto brings his voice back to a whisper. “eat the custard.”

you giggle, holding up the box. “i gotta have these noodles first, right?”

“no you don’t,” yuto shrugs. it must be nice to be a three-year old, considering how easily he made that decision for you. he shifts so he’s sitting on your lap, digging through the grocery bag to find the custard. “i think you should have the custard first.”

“let her eat.”

you let your eyes rest on nanami for a moment. his brows are slightly furrowed, with the same pinch from this morning. it feels that just as much as he hates overtime for himself, he hates it for you too.

it makes you feel warm.

“thank you,” you whisper.

if he hears you, he doesn’t say anything. he makes sure your computer is shut down by 8:00.

contents. | 3. | 4. | 5.

#nanami x reader #nanami kento #nanami x you #jjk x you #jjk fluff #nanami fluff

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cassaloopa · 4 months

Text

A Night to Forget

Reposting this scene, updated and with dialogue between Astarion and my Paladin, Zoia (she/they). Set after Raphael reveals the truth of Astarion’s scars, he shares the memory of how he got them with Zoia via tadpole.

CW/TW for torture, knife work, blood, compulsion, and some degradation. Happy ending to the scene.

He never called any of them into his chambers. It was a space that was sacred, private, barred to lowly spawn such as himself. So when the command came down to him, Astarion was justifiably terrified. And well he should be for what transpired that dreadful evening.

Cazador was in his study, waiting with eerie serenity. Almost… happy. It made Astarion’s skin crawl and his instincts screamed run run run. He entered the room, bowing low and keeping his eyes cast downward, never looking at his master directly. “You wanted to see me, lord,” he said as a statement, knowing no questions would be answered for him.

“My child, come to me, let me see you,” Cazador beckoned gently, a hand extending in welcome. Astarion’s feet dragged a moment as his body wrestled with the urge to flee, stepping in close and willing himself to remain calm. Cazador took his chin in a firm grip, turning his head this way and that, inspecting him like a prized hog at fair.

“My my, you are such a pretty thing. Such a waste, really, but there is time yet.” The look in his gaze was full of intent Astarion could not begin to comprehend, so he simply forced his face to stay neutral, allowing Cazador to fawn over him before he switched his grip to the back of Astarion’s neck and led him towards a stone table at the far end of the room.

“Get onto the table and take off your shirt, pet.” A wave of panic washed over Astarion, and he hesitated. The grip on his neck tightened painfully, sharp talon nails biting into him and forcing him to obey. He pulled away and climbed atop the table, removing his shirt with shaking fingers.

“Lie down, child, face down.” Another wave of fear hit him as he complied, cold cheek against colder stone. Cazador grazed his nails down his spine, sending a shiver through him, before seizing and binding his wrists and ankles to the slab. Astarion bit back a whimper and his whole body shook with adrenaline as he waited in dread for what would come next. He couldn’t see Cazador from where he lay, but he heard movement and the sound of implements being prepared. He craned his neck to get a glimpse of the room, trying to see anything that would give him a clue as to what misfortune was to befall him, but just then Cazador was beside him, a jagged blade in hand and a smile so malicious it would have stopped Astarion’s heart were it yet beating. “And now we begin,” he said easily as the knife came down to meet flesh.

Cazador began the first incision slowly, like drawing a hand through water; the pull of it achingly careful in its precision. Astarion arched reflexively away from the blade, crying out at the shock of sharp steel to skin, but there was nowhere to run from the knife where he was pinned against the table.

“Hold still, boy. Do not disrupt my lovely poetry with your writhing.” His words were sharp, annoyed; a clear and decisive compulsion Astarion was helpless to resist. His body stilled instantly even as he shrieked through another slice into his back, the muscles unnaturally loosened while his nerves felt the fullness of the pain. It was acute and excruciating, like fire burning through his delicate skin as each new cut shredded him to ribbons. Rivulets of his precious, vermin-stolen blood pooled on the tabletop and dripped to the floor, and all the while Cazador composed with delight and single-minded focus.

The carving seemed to carry on a lifetime as his master sliced circle and runes into his back, taking his time to savour the torture, make it right for his purposes. Astarion remained statuesque throughout, gasping and wailing like a wounded animal caught in a snare, desperate to flee but unable to for how his body betrayed him. Cazador mocked and praised him as he screamed: “what a voice you have, my boy. Such sweet music you make as I rend you. Your cries are the loveliest of all your brethren, you know. They make my soul revive with the anguish of your body beneath my hand. How pathetic you are, truly.”

Eventually, when the night was all but spent, the deed was done and the blade was removed from his flesh. Astarion whimpered pitifully, delirious from the pain and weak from so much blood lost. He was unbound and without care Cazador compelled, “begone now my vile creature, my sundered spawn. Back where you belong.”

Astarion slid slowly and gracelessly off the table, crumpling to the floor in a bloody heap. He paused only a moment before pushing himself to his feet with a groan, inhuman strength born of a long cultivated terror forcing him upright even through his wretched sobs. Every movement gave a fresh shot of pain to his nerve endings as he staggered his way out of his master’s chambers, collapsing to the floor of the hallway as the door swung magically shut behind him. How long he lay there, he could not say. Eventually he was aware of hands on him, of torches flickering and his own feet dragging across the floor, of a straw pillow beneath his head and the smell of blood in his nostrils, on his lips, down his throat. He swallowed desperately, nearly choking on the acrid liquid, feeling it course through his dry veins once more. It returned some of his vigour and with it sensation, the pain coming back to him in agonizing clarity.

That night, like many others before and after it, he wished he would have chosen death instead of accepting this cursed existence. But such choices had never been his to make then. And perhaps it was meant this way, to lead him to this moment for redemption. For revenge. A chance to choose, to see vengeance done, finally. And maybe not, maybe it is all folly. But he has to at least try.

He opens his eyes again, looking at Zoia as the connection severs between them, gauging their reaction. The vision is a risk, a vulnerability much deeper than the talk they had so many weeks ago in the wood, but it’s necessary if he is to convince them to aid him in this.

She looks pained, angry, in grief. Their hand twitches toward his own but doesn’t grasp it, and a small part of him wishes for the touch even though he knows he would spurn it in this moment. Perhaps she senses this too, their minds still tethered with delicate strings.

“So, now you know the whole sordid thing. And more of why I need to stop him. If what Raphael said is true, a vampire like Cazador can’t be allowed to wield the kind of power he seeks. I won’t let him have that glory after all the centuries of torture and depravity he inflicted on me. I have to kill him, I will kill him. I’m just… not sure I can do it alone, much as I’m loath to admit it.” He looks away from them, conflicted and bitter, smaller than his words would have him seem.

The impulse finally wins out, an opening sensed despite the thorny exterior he exudes, and Zoia steps carefully closer into his space, a hand tentatively settling on his arm. He tenses but doesn’t flinch away, brows furrowing deeper and eyes clouding with an aura of wetness that never fully materializes. He looks up again, meets her eyes with a challenging defiance, daring them to mock him for his plea for help in this grave matter. But she doesn’t, only holds up a hand for him to take, and when he does they pull it to their lips with a reverent kiss. “You have me and will never be alone so long as you let me stay with you. You will kill Cazador and I will be there by your side when you do it. That is my promise to you.”

His defensive front breaks then, crumbling away to leave only awe and relief in his crimson eyes. He falters, at a loss to reply to such an oath given when none before have ever thought to swear anything to him in kindness or loyalty. “You are astonishing to me, truly. I… thank you. Thank you.” He lays his free hand on their face and leans in, resting his cool cheek to hers in a simple act of intimacy, of gratitude. He whispers, “I don’t… I’m afraid I am not worthy of the faith you have in me…”

“You are worth everything to me,” Zoia whispers back as she pulls away to smile at him, their faces still close in confidence. “I had hoped you would know that by now. Just let me remain with you, Star, that’s all I want.” His breath shudders quietly, emotion swelling before he reigns in it, keeps that mask on still, but Zoia knows their words have found a home in his heart.

He nods lightly, acknowledging without words, and plants a gentle kiss to their cheek. Then he turns away with a final squeeze of hands to rejoin the group once more. He coughs to get their attention and dons a roguish grin. “Well! I suppose you all best prepare yourselves then. It would seem on top of everything else transpiring, we’ve got a vampire lord to slay for Baldur’s Gate, too. And I don’t know about you, but I would really like a new set of knives for the occasion.”

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remember-to-be-gentle · 26 days

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This fic took me forever to write and its taken me over 45 minutes to post because of my shitty wi-fi but here it is! I'm so fucking hungry.

Subject: Genshin Impact, Neuvilette

Title: Justice

Trigger Warning: Size difference, breeding, dub con, double dick, claws, biting, nipple play, cunnilingus, scratching, kissing, rut (mentioned), some praise

By order of the Oratrice Mechanique d’Analyse Cardinale: You will be bred by the Hydro Dragon.

All you could do was stare dumbfounded at the sentencing from the Oratrice, the courtroom a riot of concerned whispers. Face placid, Neuvilette had been kind enough not to read your punishment aloud, instead walking down to your place on stage and allowing you to read it for yourself.

He breathed heavily beside you, his body so close the heat of him was like an inferno. Impossible to ignore.

You shivered.

Normally being besides your former boss was cooling and refreshing like fresh, clean water on a hot day. Your mouth grew dry remembering all that and changed between the two of you, and now this sentencing.

In the history of Fontaine, no punishment like this had ever been issued before. At least, as far as you knew.

And what crime was so great that you had to give up your autonomy? Forgery. For the last year, you'd worked as Neuvilette's assistant, and one month ago you were approached by a man looking to reduce a friend's sentence in exchange for more money than you could imagine. You caved. You sliced off ten years from his sentence.

And you'd been caught. Fired on the spot and scheduled for trial.

And now you were being sentenced to be bred by the Hydro Dragon, Neuvilette, your ex-boss.

In the last week you spent in jail, you dreaded the moment you’d have to face him again. Neuvilette was undeniably likable, and not just for his pretty face or deep, smooth voice. He wasn’t necessarily your friend, but you trusted him and disappointing him felt like an unforgivable sin. He’d been so kind to you at work, always happy to see you and ready to offer advice when you needed it.

"Meet me at my place tomorrow night," Neuvilette said quietly so only you could hear. His deep voice rumbled through you like thunder on the horizon, a taste of what was to come. His pearl grey-blue eyes bore into you, slit pupils cold and calm. This was the Hydro Dragon, not the judge of Fontaine. "I'll try to make your sentencing as comfortable as possible."

And with that, he turned on his heel and left you alone on stage, clutching your punishment between shaking hands.

***

All the next day, night threatened your every move. Each time a cloud passed in front of the sun was a jolt to your nerves, shadows growing as the dreaded time crept closer. The idea of doing anything knowing that once the sun was gone you would be spread open and fucked until the hydro dragon's seed rooted in your core... It made doing anything else impossible.

Neuvilette was the unattainable workplace crush. He was unearthly beautiful and tall and spoke with a voice that was both commanding and sensual. No man could compare and yet he was on an entirely different level. No one had the courage to so much as talk to him about anything other than work. The one time you'd tried ended in an awkward discussion about the weather and him recommending a new brand of water.

Even worse, you weren't even sure what to wear. It's not like it would stay on your body all that long. But still, this was Neuvilette's house, he was always so put together and calm. Showing up in your pajamas would be an insult, and despite betraying him, you still respected him.

Eventually you settled on a modest dress, long enough to the knees with a zipper on the back to take off easily.

By the time you'd finished applying an inoffensive red lipstain to your mouth, the sun was burning red against the green hills of Fontaine.

No more stalling. It was time.

***

The dragon's house was grand, not because of its size, but because of its warmth. Two stories tall and covered in flowers, boxes at the windows and lovingly spaced around the perimeter. Ivy crawled up the walls and tangled with a rooftop vegetable garden.

Smoke puffed from the chimney. Warm light spilled from the windows, clear indications that Neuvilette was home. Waiting.

All you could do was knock.

Within moments the door opened, Neuvilette's imposing figure filling the doorway. Without his judge's robes—and dressed down in simply a dress shirt, pants, and pink apron—you nearly thought you had the wrong house. But those cold, serpent eyes remained the same as they drank you in.

"Please, come in." He said.

Inside was well decorated, new vases of flowers and polished wood furniture. The fresh scent of warm bread and hot food tangled in the air with wood polish and pollen. Floorboards creaked pleasantly under your weight, the scuff of your shoes overshadowed by the deep thud of Neuvilette's boots.

"I made dinner for you," he said. "I thought I should at least do that for you before we... begin."

You nodded but your empty stomach was twisting. You weren't sure how much you could even eat knowing that soon you'd be pinned down with your other mouth stuffed full of a completely different kind of hot soup.

The kitchen was cozy, big windows giving a view of the street outside. Mechanic lights glittered in the dark. A hand-carved table sat in the middle of the room with two chairs, one place set for you and him. His seat already had a glass of wine poured and half consumed. At least he was nervous about this, too.

He pulled your chair out for you and offered you wine, which you accepted. In silence, he served your meal and set his own down on the table.

"The Oratrice has never made a decision like this," Neuvilette began. "I... I cannot imagine why breeding must be your punishment but its decisions have never been wrong."

You could only nod.

He didn’t look at you, fiddling with the wine bottle. "I will try and make this night as comfortable as I can, but you should know that my body only looks human. Not all of me has the same... anatomy."

You blinked at him confused. "I don't understand."

Neuvilette raised one milky white hand—you hadn't even noticed he wasn't wearing his usual gloves—and presented two blue-stained fingers. "I have more than one member. But fear not, one should suffice for tonight's... activity."

"I see." Two?! He had two cocks under those tight pants? Your head was spinning and you hadn't even sampled the wine yet.

The rest of dinner was had in silence. Neuvillette collected the dishes and placed them in the sink. Then his hand was on the back of your chair, the heat of his body a physical weight you couldn't ignore. "Shall we move to the bedroom?" His voice was nearly a whisper, so quiet it would have been easy to ignore.

You couldn't.

Like a ghost you followed Neuvilette to his room on the second floor. He'd prepared for the evening. New bottles of lube sat on his twin dressers, a sea of pillows spread across the mattress, and seated on a chair was a box of toys. Vibrators, dildos, blinding mask, and even handcuffs.

"I hope it's not too much." He said behind you. “I'm afraid I am rustier than I'd like to be.”

"Oh, no, it should be fine. It's fine." Nervously you sat on the bed. "Should I take my clothes off or...?"

"Please," Neuvilette sank to one knee, sliding between yours in a single, swift motion. His hands were on your thighs, parting them to give him more space. His heat sent a thrill of excitement through your core. "Allow me."

Slowly his thin, blue fingers slid beneath the hem of your skirt, just the tip poking beneath the elastic of your panties. He pressed his mouth to the inside of your knee, placing modest and thrilling kisses up your thigh, stopping just inches from your apex.

Your breath caught in your throat from the devilish glean in his pearlescent eyes. Just the corner of his stoic mouth was curled into a self-satisfied smirk. Never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined that the judge of Fontaine, aka your ex-boss, was a tease.

Just a hair further, Neuvilette whispered into your skin, his mouth so close you could feel the scrape of his teeth, "Is this to your liking, my lady?"

Heat rushed to your already red cheeks. You covered your mouth to try and hide the embarrassment. "It's weird to hear you call me that. Just call me what you normally would."

"Doesn't your name seem too... familiar? We no longer work together and I am bestowing the Oratrice's punishment onto you." As he spoke he slid his fingers around your ass, sinking into the soft flesh there, feeling you under your panties to pull you closer to him. "I should offer you some dignity, shouldn't I?" Neuvilette laid his cheek on your thigh, his white pale skin soft and practically glowing compared to yours. He blinked faux innocent eyes up at you, watching for your reaction.

"Fine." You huffed, your embarrassment and excitement only growing. "Just until we're done."

"Understood." And then his face vanished beneath the skirt of your dress.

You shrieked as you felt the thick length of his tongue against your cotton-covered cunt. Instantly you tried to close your legs, but Neuvilette's arms were under your thighs, strong and soft in the casing of his silk shirt. His thin but strong fingers squeezed your ass, pressing your clothed folds as close to his mouth as he could.

It was like he was making out with your crotch, the way his jaw worked and tongue explored, needy and smooth.

Suddenly Neuvilette pulled back, lifting your hips as he went. Your back hit the mattress as his movements intensified, his desire seeping into the fabric of your underwear as your core did the same. He groaned hungrily against your clit, the top of his white head bobbing between your thighs.

A noise you'd never made before threatened to squeak out of you and you bit your wrist to hold it back.

And just as suddenly as Neuvilette's intensity took over, it vanished. He lifted himself up, long snake tongue hanging out of his mouth as he caught his breath. His pale cheeks flushed red, pearl eyes unfocused. "Forgive my enthusiasm, I'm afraid my rut will be beginning soon. It's why I wanted to begin quickly, otherwise, you'll be trapped here with me for over a week and I won't stop even if you do conceive."

You weren't sure what to say to that, so you just nodded.

It was then you realized he hadn't stopped just to excuse himself. Your underwear was suddenly passing over your thighs and on the floor before you could even properly process it.

"Can I kiss you?"

You nodded.

Neuvilette leaned his face into yours, his mouth on your cheek then the corner of your lips. One hand traced teasing circles across your thigh, your bare cunt unignorable. And the other pressed against your upper back, working the zipper down as he pulled you closer. And just when the zipper was eased all the way open, his fingers ghosted against your folds.

You gasped and that's when Neuvilette captured your mouth in a kiss. Just the tip of his tongue was in your mouth, probing but patient, feeling everything he could without invading even as his hand did just the opposite.

Within a second, one finger was buried up to the knuckle inside you. You were already so wet, accommodating his thin digit with ease. Both of you groaned, him from your sucking wet heat and you from the pleasant feel of him against your soft walls.

His tongue moved a little further in, coaxing your own with his forked tip. It felt strange dancing over your taste buds, asking you to meet his enthusiastic lust.

Hesitantly you raised your tongue, carefully poking out to prod Neuvilette's teeth, tracing the path of his gums to his—you gasped at the sensation of his fangs, dagger-sharp and smooth as marble.

Neuvilette pulled away just enough to murmur against your lips, "You're okay. Did my teeth scare you?"

"Just surprised," you murmured.

A softness came over his face. Neuvilette kissed your cheek, then your jaw, slowly bringing his mouth to the stunning curve of your shoulder. Gently he pressed his front teeth to the skin, letting you feel their shape, then he opened wider to scrape his fangs on your skin. His teeth closed, exciting pain and a burning want inside you.

Your core fluttered around his fingers, suddenly threatening to snap. Unconsciously your hips bucked against his hand, asking for more.

"So sensitive," Neuvilette chuckled against your skin, breath hot. Goosebumps fluttered to life. "But I must ask you not to finish yet, my lady, I want it to be when you take me in."

Before you had a chance to process what he'd said, you were on your back, cunt empty as Neuvilette pulled back to unbuckle his pants. Black fabric slid away to reveal two blue erect lengths. Each of them was softly ridged and unmistakably inhuman.

White bumps lined the sides, growing larger towards the base of his cocks. Along the tops and bottoms were blue, scale-like ridges that followed the same gradient pattern as the rest of his lengths.

"I won't make you take both tonight,” Neuvilette was panting, his chest rising and falling with his eagerness, “but if our first attempt at fertilization fails, then using both may become a necessity." You could barely hear him, watching each head softly twitch with his desire. His cool hand cradled your heated cheek, forcing your gaze up to meet his. Burning pearl eyes commanded your attention. "My lady... Do you understand? I want to hear you say it."

You swallowed. You could barely imagine taking him in tonight, let alone taking two inside of you. "O-okay. I understand."

“Understand what?” He pressed, the ghost of a smug grin slipping into the corner of his mouth.

“That I might h-have to take both.”

Neuvilette seemed to relax, leaning in to nuzzle the side of your face with his own. His lips pressed against your throat as his hands slid lower, gently sliding your arms from your dress. He didn't wait to take off your bra, letting your breasts bounce free before engulfing them in his hands.

His mouth moved lower, breath coming fast as he enveloped the doughy flesh, teasing your nipples by squeezing them between his fingers. He relished your softness. Neuvilette brought his mouth to your hardening nipples, sinking his teeth inside of your breast, leaving bruises in the shape of his desire.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “I can’t wait any longer.”

Neuvilette reached for a bottle of lube, pouring enough in his hand to cover one of his members. He pulled back, lubed his cock and aimed it right at your core. The head pushed in suddenly, stretching you out, filling you in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time. Your fingers curled into the sheets, back arching as if trying to help him inside.

“Good girl,” he breathed, pressing in. The first ridge popped inside. “Just keep being good for me.”

Slowly, painfully slowly, each ridge slipped inside, strange and lumpy and pressing right against the top of your core, pushing up and into your g-spot so effortlessly you nearly came. And he still wasn't done.

The thick base of his cock began to press in, the ridges on the side struggling to squeeze into your cunt. It occured to you then that those ridges were for competition, to scrape out the seed of competing males. Knowing something so animalist, so feral and possessive existed on someone like Neuvilette who was virtuous with his patience and had a gentlemanly demeanor... It made your core flutter.

Neuvilette sighed, rolling his hips with notable frustration. “I fear I won't be able to get all the way inside. I feel something blocking me.” He shivered a little, his hands gripping your thighs with impatient squeezes. “I don't want to hurt you, but it's disappointing I can't go further.” His hips rolled again, as if testing if your body would really bar him from fully sheathing himself.

Gods, you felt so full. It was hard to focus on what he was saying, especially when the tip of his cock head kept twitching against your cervix in time with its twin hovering over your belly. Its shadow smoothed the bulge below your navel, a barely noticeable rise in your skin. Precum dribbled into your belly button.

He felt so good. Your mind cleared as the only thing you could focus on was the sensation of his cock bulging out of you. Your hips bucked, rubbing him up against your sweet spot, pleasurable shivers rising gooseflesh along your skin. You could probably cum just from humping him like this, forcing his cock head into that sweet spot over and over while his pearlescent eyes drank you in. You shivered again at the thought, fingers curling into the sheets as your core squeezed him excitedly.

Slowly, Neuvilette tested your cunt, pulling out an inch and rolling right back in. His breathing strained as he held himself back, trying so hard to keep himself trapped in the gentlemanly facade he showed the world as the animal he was vied for control.

Wet, pleased sounds escaped your cunt with each movement, eagerly swallowing his cock as best as it could. Pressure compressed against your cervix and just above, causing that sweet knot of release to tighten ever so slightly. The purpose of your union to Neuvilette vanished, only the animal need for more fuzzing over your thoughts.

He was barely moving and yet that the pressure of him, the space he took up inside you, numbed anything but the fire in your nerves. Your hips rocked to meet his, toes curling as you tried to get some kind of purchase under you.

Your clit ached for stimulation but the words wouldn't form in your mouth, too busy slumping open to leak your breathy moans. How did you become such a mess so quickly?

You reached between your legs where his cock was currently making mush of your cunt to relieve your aching but just as you pressed the pads of your fingers to your core, Neuvilette's hands were around your wrists. He pinned them above your head, his firm abdomen flush against your feverish belly. Feeling him press on the bulge of his cock with his other cock and his body, practically squashing his cock inside you and the hilt of his cock pushing up into your clit—

A high pitched whine escaped you as you bucked, head going blank. So close, so close...

“No need to rush,” he purred. “We have all night.”

“Neuvillette,” you cried, “please.” You didn't know what you were begging for. More? To cum?

“So impatient,” he huffed. He inhaled your scent, ghosting his lips over the marks he'd left on your throat. A light sheen of sweat began to glisten on his white skin. “I suppose if you're so wanting, I shouldn't hold back anymore myself.”

Hold back? You'd barely processed what he said when his shallow, smooth thrusts erupted into an animal frenzy.

His body slammed into yours, his bed rocking violently, practically throwing you to engulf more of his cock. Punishing, brutal, animal thrusts bounced you against him, leaving you to scramble to hold onto him for the ride. Pleasure burst like stars each time he rammed into your cervix, your nails burying into his back, legs vice tight around his narrow hips. Neuvilette seemed to relish your reaction, an animal purr escaping his throat.

He panted above you, sweat beading on his temples. White strands of hair stuck to his forehead, his cheeks. The clawed shaped of his blue-white fingers bit into his sheets for purchase, to better breed your criminal cunt. Suddenly the god-like gentleman Judge of Fontaine was disheveled and real and a man with human lust. You were probably the first human to see this side of him, and maybe even the last.

The thought nearly sobered you out of your pleasure haze until suddenly his sharp teeth sank into your collarbone. Pain erupted like white lightning and suddenly your core was snapping, mouth open to scream as you came.

Your wetness flooded down his balls, practically dripping but Neuvilette's pace didn't let up. He was moving faster if anything, shallower thrusts to humps against your cervix.

Your toes curled listening to your drenched core being churned, the sound so shamelessly slutty and crude it was nearly impossible to image it was coming from the space between your thighs.

A high whimper sounded in the back of Neuvilette's throat, his thick cock spasming inside you excitedly. “Close,” he grunted into your skin, breath hot. “So fucking close.” Those big teeth met your flesh again, leaving marks on the untouched side of your throat. That whimpering noise came again in time with his movements until his hips were hitching, bucking so hard against you nearly thought he'd managed to get his full length in. And then, melting his pelvis to yours, Neuvilette came.

Something thick, wet, and warm burst inside of you. It felt so strange, like an extra little pleasure right against your sweet spot. Your core twitched as you blinked away white desire. You hadn't realized you were panting until the world settled back under you, the bed still as Neuvilette recovered above you.

Slowly he let his weight pull him down, resting his head in the crook between your throat and shoulder. For what felt like a long time, he laid there breathing, nestled between your thighs and against your cervix. Then, slowly pulled out, standing up to his full height. Even sweaty with messy hair, he was beautiful. “I'll get you some water. I think Mondstat spring water would best suit our theme of tonight.” He didn't wait for an answer, leaving the room.

You went to sit up and felt everything gush out of you—lube, slick, cum. Something was surreal here but you didn't want to acknowledge it, naming what it was would make it actually real.

Carrying two tall glasses of water, Neuvilette returned. Condensation frosted the glass and you were grateful for something cold after how hot you'd just been.

Neuvilette knocked back his glass like a shot. Feverish excitement lit up his pearlescent eyes as they focused on you, slit pupils blown wide. “I think for our next round, a low angle might be best. Hips up and head down, like a stretch or yoga pose. I'm afraid I don't know the exact name of the position.”

Your ears burned hearing such perverse words come from your former boss’ mouth. It took you a second to realize exactly what he was talking about. You weren't done with your punishment, not for tonight anyways. After taking a careful gulp of water you asked, “Um, just how many times are going to be working on my punishment, tonight?”

Neuvillette reached for your glass, gently indicating for you to finish it. You obeyed, fully aware of the hungry stare that watched your throat bob with each swallow. When you'd finished, he took your glass and set it aside with his own. Only then he said, “As long as it takes.”

#raven writes #neuvilette x reader #TW dub con #TW scratching #TW biting #TW marking #TW belly bulge'#TW size difference #TW rut #TW claws #TW double dick #TW some praise #TW cunnilngus #TW kissing #sorry if i'm missing tags i am currently fighting for my life

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inuhalfdemon · 2 months

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Dirty Dealings (21/21)

Word Count: 2,941 Words

Rating = Mature (Violence)

Chapter 21: The Beginning

This would be terribly dramatic.

It was early morning…still dark. He was nearly ready and if done right; he might just time it perfectly.

Still bleeding; Alastor set aside the unholy dagger and reached for a chunk of the brimstone. He sighed; not really wanting to have to put her through this but knowing he was being left with no other choice. The reaping had its requirements after all…

Starting the incantation, he stepped into the roughly made pentagram he clawed and smeared into the smoking ground. Wildfire had engulfed the swamp and was actively consuming everything that surrounded the spot where their deal had been made. He easily kept the flames at bay but they licked hungrily against the outer circle that was his smearing of blood across the ash and the dirt.

This would be terribly dramatic.

Finishing the incantation; the bloody brimstone burst into a brilliant green flame in his hand. Forcefully; he threw it at his feet; blood spraying from the cut in his palm and catching green fire as it sparked and ignited the blood-smeared points and ring that was the symbol. He inhaled deeply; breathing in the fumes of sulfur and wood smoke into his lungs as if it were a breath of fresh air to calm the nerves.

And then, he summoned Adeline.

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Tendrils of shadow – moving and twisting through the dark; just as they had before. Adeline had dreamt this dream many nights. Cold touching her; freezing her veins as she is pulled and drug to some dreaded nothing.

Sometimes Alastor stopped it and sometimes he didn’t.

A tentacle of shadows reaches out and touches her; it slithers and wraps itself around her – finding her throat. She feels it tightening; constricting. She chokes and struggles; her hand finding its hold but then everything changes and it’s Alastor who is choking her; claws digging into the skin of her throat and crushing her windpipe. His antlers are flared out long and wide above them and his eyes are glowing a brilliant green. Adeline struggles and his hold on her only tightens. His green eyes narrow into piercing slits that slice through the dark and -

She gasped awake.

A searing heat was radiating around her neck; scorching her skin.

“Adeline…”

She not only heard him; but felt him calling for her.

Being pulled forward; she landed face forward into burning ash and dirt; choking and coughing on the burning air and embers that filled her lungs. Shakily lifting herself up; she saw a long glowing green chain; falling from around her neck and trailing to where Alastor stood; gripping the end. She felt the shackle; heavy and burning on her neck. Green flames burned in a purposeful pattern around her; touching her but not harming her. Beyond the borders of this pattern; a wild swamp fire burned and raged; filling the dark sky with a deadly smoke.

Alastor shifted the chain; claws sliding through the links.

Adeline gasped audibly; her heart wildly palpating in her chest – feeling every hair on her body rising as if they were going up in hackles with the goosebumps that spread across her skin. He was clutching at her soul; touching her in such an invasive way – her whole existence recoiled against it.

“No more games, Adeline.” Alastor murmured. “Tonight, our deal is done.” A deep thunder rolled overhead.

She couldn’t see his face through the smoke and the fire but she could hear his voice. She shook violently; feeling him as he slid the chain through his hands.

“Did you really think that I would watch you throw this away?” He hissed; gripping the chain and she shuddered. “That I would allow it?”

His eyes flared a brilliant green; cutting through the dark and the smoke. Antlers rose thick and heavy; a jutting and twisted crown traveling high above his head. Adeline quailed at the possessive hold he had one her; fingers digging into the scorched and burning ground.

“Please…Luc…” She trembled terribly; tears streaming down her face. “You can’t-.”

“But, I can.” He was snarling and he pulled the chain to her shackle so that it was made taught; her neck stretching painfully with it. A crack of lightning split the sky; rain pouring down in heavy sheets and sending the brilliant red and orange flames of wildfire into hissing and swiftly dying out – never touching the flames of green.

How? How could he just…take her soul?

Panicked; she reached for the collar to her shackle – crying out when he dug his claws into the links and pulled it even tighter.

“Adeline Lorraine LaRue…” Alastor spat out the name and she felt something crumple within her in a crippling way.

“I release you.”

He said it softly. Through her tears; the rain, the ash and the smoke she saw the glowing green of his eyes briefly soften.

What?

Taking the dagger; he quickly swiped the blade across the palm; the previous cut already made closed by the presence of burning hellfire. Bright green burst and flared as the blade dragged through his skin; coating its sharpened edge in burning blood. He brought it down; and it tore cleanly through the links to Adeline’s chain – breaking their connection.

“Our deal is made void, Adeline.” He told her; her chain and shackle quickly dissolving before her eyes. “I no longer wish to possess your soul nor do I mean to claim it.”

Slowly; the glowing green of his eyes died; his antlers curling back into themselves and shrinking back. The green hellfire burning around them slowly ebbed and faded away; the rain coming down turned into an absolute torrent; clumps of ash and bits of licking swamp fire hissing loudly – heat perishing in the drenching shower.

“You may go.” He told her, his voice low. “I am leaving and you will never see me again.” He said, turning away. “Go home. Live your life. I have no more use for you.”

Shaking and cold; she slipped and slid – struggling to her feet. Her teeth chattering.

“You can’t do this.” She said it weakly, watching as he walked away from her. “I didn’t ask for this, I – I didn’t agree to it!” She yelled now.

He kept walking; saying nothing.

“You bastard!!! You don’t just to get to do this!” She was thinking of Henry: how she could do nothing for him now…

Alastor threw up a portal; about to step through it.

“Luc…please…” She called out; meekly.

He stopped. Turning his head; without looking at her he said: “My name isn’t ‘Luc’, Adeline… It’s Alastor.”

“Alastor?” She breathed.

He looked at her then, his fur and antlers soaked and dripping with rain; ears drawn and to the side – a small, sad smile on his face; before he stepped through the swirling of green and was gone.

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“Alastor!?” Rosie stepped into the studio; finding him there braced against the barrier to the pentagram enclosing his shadow. “What is going on!?” She asked him worriedly.

She had heard the screeching of the creature and hurriedly came to see what had agitated it so.

The dark form moved rapidly back and forth along the walls of the pentagram; trying to find a way to get closer to Alastor. Frantically; it bit and tore at the barrier – screeching and whining in a keening cry. Alastor had his back to Rosie, leant into the barrier, and she could see that his suit and jacket were completely soaked through and that he was shaking.

“Alastor…” She said quietly, carefully approaching him. “What has happened?”

Alastor spread his hands along the barrier; pushing himself off so that he could turn his head and speak clearly to her.

“I-I let her go…” He said it so softly, Rosie didn’t catch it right away.

“The girl? The soul you…?” Rosie paused beside him; not sure whether she should touch him quite yet.

“Yes.” He swallowed. “I released her from my…service.” He laughed lightly but Rosie could hear the manic tone it held.

His shadow continued its agitated movements; trying desperately to press itself closer.

“Alastor, sweetheart.” Rosie braved to touch his shoulder. “It’s going to take some time...”

Taking a deep breath; he turned so that his back was now pressed to the barrier – standing straighter but not quite looking at Rosie.

“She, uh…She really did a number on me.” His ears were moving erratically; his smile twitching at the corners. “I imagine breaking a connection like that…does that.”

“No, hun.” Rosie told him; and he looked at her now. She touched his face – seeing the pain that was there. “But, a broken heart will.”

His eyes widened and his ears dropped and Rosie knew hearing it had shattered him. Without thinking and without hesitating, she pulled him close and held him as he fought the racking sob that forced its way painfully out from deep within his chest.

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June 25th, 2020

New Orleans, Louisiana

Adeline fidgeted nervously in the cab all the way to the restaurant; absently shifting the folded parchment of paper back and forth between her hands.

After days and days of crying and fighting to come to terms with everything that had happened; she found it – a note on her bedroom dresser that read:

Our 70th Anniversary;

June 25th, 2020

7 p.m.

You know where…

She wanted to cry and scream and rip it apart – all of it - when she found it; knowing it certainly hadn’t been there hours before. However, the thought never crossed her mind to toss it aside and just ignore it.

Getting out of the cab, Adeline nervously smoothed her dress. She had chosen to wear the red one; the same dress she had worn the first night he had brought her here before they spent many an anniversary at the establishment; enjoying the fine dining and dancing together to their hearts content.

Adeline sniffed as she approached the restaurant; trying to ignore her persistent headache and thought briefly about having to adjust to being a regular mortal. Of course, the first thing to happen to her was catching covid in the very first few days to her brand-new life. She hadn’t had to worry about illnesses like that before so of course she caught this one straight out of the gate. Next; she had to remind herself that she was rememberable now…something that brought immense relief and excitement to her while also proving to be rather problematic when she forgot she couldn’t just take or do things now and walk away with no consequence. She had seventy years’ worth of bad habits to break…

She paused at the entrance to the restaurant, swallowing hard. She wasn’t sure how to think of him…after everything that had happened – where this might leave them. He had taken pangs to ensure she had had a comfortable head-start to things…she found out early that the loft apartment had been completely entitled to her - no payments necessary; she discovered a good amount of money left for her to utilize as she needed and he had somehow obtained all manner of documents; social security, birth certificate, driver’s license - everything she would ever need in order to survive this strange and new existence. Everything had been so carefully prepared for her; it left her wondering how long he had actually planned for this to be the result of the deal that they made…

Taking a deep breath; she entered the restaurant. She was warmly greeted by the Maître D. Giving him her name; he quickly nodded and led her to the table that her and Alastor normally occupied for their dinners there together.

But when she approached the table, it wasn’t Alastor that was seated there across from an empty chair.

It was Henry.

He smiled at her nervously as the Maître D politely helped her with her seat. The waiter was already there to take their drinks. After that was done and before Adeline could say anything; Henry handed her a sealed envelope.

“He told me that if I didn’t give this to you; he’d make sure that I died alone in a dark gutter somewhere.” Henry said; handing it to her and flinching inwardly.

Yep, sounds like him.

Adeline took the envelope and tore it open. Opening the parchment of paper left for her she read:

Dearest Adeline,

Life can feel very long sometimes, but in the end, it goes by so fast…You better live a good life; Adeline LaRue. Teach Henry that it’s worth doing. I leave his soul safely within your capable hands.

With love,

Alastor

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One year later…

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June 25th 2021

New Orleans, Louisiana

Alastor’s shadow pulled him to just beside the gravesite within the old cemetery, materializing him smoothly from the darkness. It was nearly midnight; but Alastor just only had this one last visit to see to. After this; he would leave earth and he knew not when or if he would ever be coming back.

His shadow detached itself from him; flitting across the ground, touching headstones, the fencing, and finally shifting itself to meld into the blackest shadows of the old oak tree. Alastor marveled at how useful and powerful it had become by its own right; while still having remained entirely devoted to him and any of his commands. Had he known this to be the result; he may have approached Rosie for an exorcism sooner – or at least considered it.

Alastor had spent the entirety of this last year bonding with and utilizing the presence of his shadow by taking it with him to collect on all the souls he had remaining from closed contracts. The work had taken a great deal of time to complete and whatever free time he had, he had spent it by considering and re-considering the deal offered to him by his new client. Finding it entirely too tempting to decline; he accepted the terms – though, they did come with some considerable restraints…he felt that the reward would surely be well worth the price he’d pay.

Stopping just beside the grave, Alastor sighed.

Sitting just atop of the headstone was a bundle of sunflowers.

“Manman mwen renmen anpil*…” Alastor said softly, speaking to his deceased mother. “Watch over our dear Adeline, and…put in a good word for her…for me. Hell won’t touch her; if I can help it...”

He remembered a conversation he had had with Rosie a year ago; just days following his return to her and his shadow…

"I did not love her, certainly." His gut twisted at the thought; his body and mind acting very differently to something so intimate now that he was wholly himself.

Rosie laughed. "Of course you loved her, Alastor. You let her go! You never would have if you didn't!" He made a disgusted face at that.

"Surely even you can appreciate that love doesn't have to come in devotedly romantic forms." She expressed. "It can creep and bury itself into the heart in many different ways; yes, even cold and dead ones such as our own."

He had chosen to act resentful to the idea; but still felt the pain of a deep and resonating ache in his chest...

He stood quietly beside the grave for some time…remembering.

His shadow slipped from the tree, pausing at the headstone and whining softly as it looked to the flowers. Alastor tilted his head and saw what it meant for him to find…reaching down; he plucked the black rose corsage from the bundle of sunflowers; finding a small note tied to the hellish favor.

It read:

With love,

Your dearest Adeline

He pulled the corsage to his face; pressing a black petal to his lips before carefully stowing it away into the pocket of his suit jacket; keeping it safely with him as he left with his shadow…returning to Hell.

*my dearest mother (Creole)

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The Epilogue

Some years later…

Adeline made the walk to the old cemetery that day; the same walk she did every year now on this day – June 25th. Sometimes; if she was feeling particularly sentimental or nostalgic; she’d pay an extra visit. It was a beautiful summer day and the sunflowers she brought with her were especially fragrant and bright. All in all; her heart felt light and she felt both happy and confident about her future.

Placing the flowers at the top of the headstone; she carefully knelt herself down, resting.

She remembered coming back here…that first year she started to bring the sunflowers here herself…she came back the very next day – just to see; finding the black rose corsage and note were gone. She knew Alastor had found it and had taken it with him. Since then though, she was certain he hadn’t returned – hadn’t come back to visit the grave of his mother. She couldn’t explain it…she just knew – maybe suspected - he no longer did or could…

“I sure hope he’s not getting himself into too much trouble, whatever he’s up to.” She said aloud; not sure if it really did any good – not knowing if anyone was truly listening - but it somehow made her feel better to try. “You know…he’s not nearly as bad as he likes to make himself believe he is.” She mused. “I…” She swallowed. “I really miss him.”

She sat there for awhile; enjoying the sun and the warmth on her skin….just remembering.

After some time; her back began to ache and with some effort she lifted herself back up onto her feet. Groaning; she stretched and placing a hand on her very swollen belly, she turned to leave - carrying a baby – a boy, that she would soon name: Alastor Lucian LaRue.

[THE END]

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