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ilovemilestellersmoustache · 1 month ago

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Drunk Words, Sober Thoughts

Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts!reader

Summary: When a tipsy Y/N stumbles into his arms, full of affection and slurred confessions, Bob steps in to take care of her. What she doesn’t realize is that he’s been falling for her all along and her sudden mission assignment has just about crushed bob

WC: 2.8K

⸻

It was supposed to be a classy rooftop event promotion party, influencers, signature cocktails, a string quartet playing edgy remixes of classic rock.

Everyone was in sleek suits or silky dresses, posing for the press with polite smiles and champagne in hand. The interviews had gone well. Nobody spilled secrets, nobody swore on live TV (Alexei came very close), and no one walked out.

But five cocktails in, “classy” had been abandoned.

The entire Thunderbolts team was gathered around a long marble bar near the rooftop edge, city lights flickering like a galaxy below. But no one, no one, was as drunk as you and Alexei.

“Listen- listen to me,” you slurred, gripping John’s forearm like it anchored you to Earth. “We’re the heart of the team. Me, you, and Alexei. The heart and the- uh- liver.”

“I was Captain America” John reminded you, sipping his beer. “I am the liver. I filter the bullshit.”

You draped your arm back dramatically across a velvet stool grabbing another champagne flute in hand, head thrown back in laughter now while John refocused his attention to Alexei who drunkenly suggested arm wrestling.

Yelena was tipsy, sipping some martini concoction and live commentating everyone’s every play.

Bucky watched the chaos unfold with the patience of a babysitter, nursing his drink with a small smirk, leaning close to Ava, who was only pretending not to be amused by the disaster unfolding.

And Bob?

Bob was sober.

Completely, annoyingly sober in the corner, curls neatly combed and a soda water in hand.

He stood just behind the group, quiet in a button down and sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His hair glinted under the string lights. His eyes? Fixed on you.

You didn’t notice at first. Too busy rolling your eyes at John while he flexed his arm. “You know,” you muttered, “I’d say your ego’s almost as big as your biceps Walker, but they aren’t big at all”

“Almost?” he scoffed, tossing back a tequila shot, only hearing the first part.

Back to Alexei, slipping off his barstool and knocked into a waiter. Three glasses of prosecco went flying.

You howled with laughter.

Bob sighed.

He’d been watching your steady slide into drunk mischief all night, fighting the urge to step in. But when you finally tripped slightly on your heel and clung to the bar to steady yourself. laughing the whole time before finally getting up, he took initiative to wander towards you.

“Okay,” he said gently, appearing at your side like a guardian angel. “I think that’s enough champagne for you.”

You blinked up at him slowly, pupils wide, cheeks flushed.

“Oh no,” you said, smiling coyly. “It’s the Boy Scout.”

Bob raised an eyebrow. “Is that what you call me when you think I’m not listening?”

“I call you worse when I know you’re listening.”

That made him chuckle. A warm sound. And something in your chest fluttered.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get you some water.”

He helped you walk straight but you managed to stumbled into him still. Your arms wrapped around his torso as you giggled into his shirt. Bob didn’t move at first. He just looked down at you, stunned, his hands hovering like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“You smell really good,” you mumbled against his chest. “Like sunshine. Or… woodsy soap. And something expensive.”

“That’s very specific,” he said carefully, trying not to melt as your fingers clutched his shirtfront.

“Mmm. Your arms are so big, Bob.” Your palms smoothed down over the muscles of his biceps, then circled his waist. “How do you hide these under those sweaters?”

Bob’s face was turning the same shade as the pink lighting overhead. You leaned your head against his chest with a soft hum, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his jacket.

“Y/N.” His voice was strangled. “Maybe we should sit down.”

You looked up at him, eyes glassy but bright. “You’re so nice to me. You always open the door and hold my chair and tell me to drink water and you always remember if I’m cold or tired and—”

He was smiling now, soft and a little exasperated. “I just care about you.”

Your heart thumped.

You hiccupped. “I like when you care about me. I like you.”

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice low.

You nodded, your face suddenly serious. “You have perfect hair. And perfect hands. And your eyes do that glowy thing sometimes when you get mad but I think it’s hot- I think you’re secretly in love with me.” you whispered against his collar.

Bob stilled.

You looked up again with drunken sincerity. “It’s okay. I’m in love with you too. Don’t worry- I won’t tell the team. It can be our little secret.”

Bob let out a slow, stunned breath, brushing your hair back with more care than you could process in your current state. “You’re gonna hate me for this in the morning.”

You grinned sleepily. “Not possible. You’re my favorite.”

“I thought Alexei was your favorite,” Bob teased softly, trying to keep your balance as you leaned more into him.

You glanced over at the Russian man in question now sprawled on a velvet chaise lounge, snoring softly with one boot in a flower arrangement.

“Alexei’s funny.” you said with the grave tone of someone making a very serious declaration. “But he doesn’t make me feel the way you do.”

Before you could say more that Bob thinks you’ll regret in the morning he was steering you gently to another nearby lounge.

You practically flopped into it, arms still tangled around his neck, and he followed with a quiet laugh, kneeling in front of you.

“Water,” he said, grabbing a glass from a passing waiter. “Sip it. Slowly.”

“Will you kiss me if I do?”

Bob turned red to the roots of his hair.

“I think you’re too drunk for that right now.”

“Ugh,” you groaned dramatically, flopping back onto the cushions. “Why are you so honorable?”

“Because someone in this group has to be.”

You tugged Bob’s sleeve, pulling him closer again. “Hey. You wanna know a secret?”

“Sure,” he said, voice hushed like he was indulging a child. But his smile was aching.

“I’m not that drunk.” you whispered… A complete lie. “I just wanted an excuse to put my hands on you.” Not a lie…

He stared at you, jaw slack. Drunk words, sober thoughts or something.

Then you pressed your palm to his chest, right over his heart.

“I think I like you more than I should,” you admitted softly again already forgetting your prior confession.

His hand found yours, warm and steady.

“And I think I’ve been waiting for you to feel that way for a long time.”

You blinked, actually sobering just a little as his words sunk in. A blush crept up your neck.

Then Alexei who’s now wide awake on round 7, shouted something unintelligible about vodka and fell into a hedge.

Bob sighed again, this time fondly.

“Come on, handsy,” he whispered, helping you up. “Let’s get you out of here before Alexei find you.”

You leaned into him as the lights of the city glittered below, your heels clicking softly on the marble. And as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and tucked you gently into his side, you let your hand slide across his chest again.

Bob helped you into a waiting car a little later, after you’d danced with his tie around your head and tried to convince Bucky and Ava who had caught a ride with you guys, that you could beat both of them in arm wrestling. Bob sat beside you the whole ride back, one hand gently holding yours as you leaned on his shoulder, humming off-key.

By the time he walked you to your room, you were barely awake.

He helped you sit, brought you more water, wiped the glitter from your cheeks with a warm towel. You watched him through bleary eyes, heart thudding too fast for how exhausted you were.

“Don’t go,” you mumbled, grabbing his wrist before he could pull away.

His brow furrowed. “I should. You need to sleep.”

“I sleep better when I know you’re close.”

Bob hesitated. Then sat on the edge of the bed, still fully dressed, hands neatly folded.

You scooted toward him clumsily, curling into his side.

“You’re a good man,” you murmured. “Even if you don’t believe it.”

Bob swallowed hard. “You’re drunk.”

He looked down at you lashes low, curls golden in the dim light and for a second, it felt like the world was still.

“I’m gonna tell you all this again,” you whispered,. “When I’m sober. So you believe me.”

Bob smiled softly, brushing a hand through your hair.

⸻

One week later.

Valentina didn’t waste time not when she had agents to deploy and secrets to keep. She stood at the head of the briefing room with her arms crossed, voice clipped and commanding.

“You’ll be embedded deep. Minimal communications. Four weeks, maybe five. You know the drill.”

No explanation. No context. Just coordinates, code words, and a vague nod toward danger.

You nodded once, steady and composed. “When do I leave?”

“Tomorrow.”

That was it. No sugar coating. No safety nets. No goodbyes.

Just logistics… and the dull ache in Bob’s chest as he stood by the door, silent and still, watching you take the news like a soldier.

It wasn’t your first mission. Wouldn’t be your last. You were good at this hell, you were better than good. But that didn’t make it easier to watch you go.

Especially now.

Not after last week.

⸻

That night, Yelena hosted.

It was her version of a send off. The living room of the Thunderbolts’ tower had been transformed into a mess of mismatched blankets, greasy pizza boxes, and horror movies from the ’80s that were more comedic than scary.

Ava was curled up in an armchair, a rare smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Bucky and John were in a ridiculous standoff over whose popcorn seasoning was the superior blend, Bucky’s Cajun mix versus John’s “proprietary” cinnamon-butter recipe. Alexei had, inexplicably, brought an entire suitcase of vodka “for emergencies.”

And you?

You were radiant.

You always were before a mission. That pre mission energy pulsed off you in waves of confidence sharpened into a kind of glow, like lightning trapped in a bottle. You cracked jokes too fast, leaned into the mood like it grounded you. Your laugh echoed louder, your eyes sparkled with mischief.

Bob hated it.

He hated it because it reminded him that soon, you’d be gone.

He sat on the edge of the couch, trying to act normal while you dropped onto the beanbag next to him, giggling at something Yelena had said about a haunted vending machine. You bumped his knee lightly with yours. He barely looked at you.

He was stretched thin, like a rubber band one pull away from snapping. Because all week, he’d replayed your drunk confession on a loop, your breath warm against his neck, the way your hand had pressed flat over his chest, how you’d slurred out that you liked him more than you should.

And then, the next day, you’d forgotten.

“I got so drunk,” you’d said with a sleepy laugh, sipping your coffee like it was a lifeline. “Sorry if I said anything weird.”

He’d smiled.

Lied.

Said, “Nothing weird.”

He’d swallowed it like poison.

⸻

So that night, for the first time in a hot minute, Bob accepted a shot of tequila.

Then another.

Then three more.

⸻

Half an hour later, he was drunk.

Not tipsy. Not warm and relaxed.

Sloshed.

He was flushed pink, laughing too loud, talking too fast, and struggling to open a bag of chips like it was a bomb he had to defuse. He kept tearing the corner wrong and then getting confused why chips were flying everywhere.

Yelena squinted suspiciously. “Did you spike his water?”

Ava shook her head slowly, sipping her beer. “Nope. That’s all him.”

Alexei bellowed a laugh. “I love drunk Bob. He is like crazy man you see on street!”

John leaned over, trying to keep a straight face. “Hey, buddy. You good?”

Bob blinked slowly, eyes glassy, then raised a shaky finger across the room and pointed… directly at you.

“She’s leaving,” he announced, mournful as a funeral bell. “Tomorrow. Or… or the day after. Or the… second tomorrow.”

Everyone froze.

The movie kept playing. But nobody was watching anymore.

Bucky let out a long, low breath. “Ah. There it is.”

Yelena covered her mouth with her hand, shoulders shaking from a suppressed laugh.

You looked stunned. Concern flickered across your features as you stood and crossed the room, kneeling in front of Bob.

“Hey,” you said gently. “Bob, are you okay?”

He looked at you like you’d just asked him if the sun existed. Like you couldn’t possibly understand the storm unraveling inside him.

“I miss you already,” he said, his voice cracking. “And you’re not even gone yet.”

You blinked.

Your expression softened instantly. “Bob…”

“I don’t want to miss you,” he said, almost childlike. “I want to stay in the room. When you’re in the room. Always.”

Something splintered in your chest.

He wasn’t done.

“You don’t remember,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “That night at the promo thing. You said you liked me.”

Your brows furrowed. “What—?”

“You were drunk,” he continued, eyes wide and wounded. “Said I smelled good. Said my arms were big. Said you liked me more than you should. Said you loved me.”

You froze.

“I’ve been holding onto that,” Bob said, his voice breaking like glass. “Like a f*cking idiot. Thinking maybe it meant something. But you didn’t even remember.”

The room was dead silent.

No one laughed.

Not even Alexei.

You stared at Bob, at his bloodshot eyes, the way he sat hunched over like his confession physically hurt him. He looked like a man unmasked. No bravado. No power. Just raw, trembling truth.

“I’m in love with you.” he said softly.

And then?

He groaned, flopped face down on the couch, and mumbled into the cushions passing out

⸻

An hour passed.

Yelena switched the movie. Jenga towers collapsed. Alexei tried to start a drinking song that Ava promptly shut down.

But you didn’t move.

You sat beside Bob’s sleeping form, his body curled in a loose crescent against your side. He looked younger like this, soft and peaceful. His messy hair fell into his eyes. He smelled like warm laundry.

Without thinking, you reached over and gently brushed the hair from his forehead.

And something in you ached.

You hadn’t remembered that night.

But now you did.

And it meant everything.

⸻

The Next Morning

Bob woke up with a thunderstorm behind his eyes.

His skull felt like it had been jackhammered. His throat was dry. And the taste in his mouth could only be described as salty

He sat up slowly, wincing at the daylight.

And then he saw it.

A glass of water. A packet of painkillers. And a note in your handwriting, folded clean and left on the coffee table.

He blinked, opened it with trembling fingers.

You were a total mess.

I took at least three videos for blackmail.

Also, you were right. I did say those things at the party.

I meant them. Even if I don’t remember every word.

Talk before I leave?

—Y/N

His heart tripped over itself.

And then the door creaked open.

You stepped inside, ready to go. Hoodie zipped, backpack over one shoulder, hair tied in a high knot. Your eyes flicked to him, uncertain, hopeful, vulnerable in a way you rarely let yourself be.

“So,” you said softly, stepping closer, “about that talk?”

Bob stood slowly. He ran a hand over his face, unsure if this was a dream or just a hangover hallucination.

“I’m really sorry if I—”

“I meant it,” you cut in, voice firm. “Everything I said that night. I didn’t remember at first, but… even if I had, I was scared. Scared it would ruin what we have. Scared it would make things complicated.”

You took a shaky breath.

“But I think not saying anything? That’s worse.”

Bob stared at you, eyes wide and clear for the first time in days.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you added quickly, nerves bleeding through. “I just couldn’t leave without—”

“I love you,” he blurted.

You blinked.

A slow, stunned smile curved your lips.

“Even hungover?” you teased, voice lighter.

Bob laughed, quiet, sheepish. “Especially hungover.”

You stepped into him, closing the space. Your forehead pressed against his, breath shared between parted lips.

“I love you too, I promise I’ll come back soon.” you whispered.

“You better,” he murmured, cupping your cheek and pressing the gentlest kiss on your lips like a promise.

“I’m not drinking again till you do.”

“Deal.”

⸻

A/N: Guys was this boring I can’t tell I need ideas on what to write, please give me prompts in my in box!

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sleepincrow · 2 months ago

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suguru the typa yearner who cries in bed at the thought of you!

suguru geto may just be the reigning king of yearning when it comes to you. whether it's highschool or curse user geto, the thought of you linger in his mind for far too long and far too much.

he wants to be with you. to take care of you. dont you get it?

youre so pretty, he could stare at you all day. the both of you would be going out and holding hands by now if you weren't so dumb! hasnt he made his love for you known already?

suguru would jump on his bed, cuddle up to his soft sheets and giggle at the memory of you simply laughing at his joke earlier while kicking his feet like a lovesick highschool girl.

he cant tell you just yet. just play into this cute little fantasy, wont you?

lean on him, call for him, depend on him.

but youre too cool for that, arent you?

you can take care of yourself. you can take out a hundred curses with ease! you can even bandage yourself up when he's right there next to you with hello kitty bandaids in case you ever get a tiny scratch on a mission.

why cant you let him brush your hair and paint your nails without it having to be a platonic hangout? youre just rubbing it in his face now arent you.

everything was going quite okay until he remembered what truly set him off the most today.

you saved him from a curse.

now i understand that this man was one of the strongest special grade sorcerors of his time. which is why suguru completely believed his life purpose to keep you safe was over.

the thought alone made tears prick his eyes. he was like a child; kicking his feet and gripping at his newly combed, perfect hair. it was supposed to be you in danger, and for him to save. he feels selfish, he knows, but he cant help it.

youre too sweet. suguru just wants to keep you in his pocket forever.

he whines and looks up at his ceiling, violet eyes all marbled because of his tears. he wants to hold you close and keep you safe. you wouldnt have to worry about anything. just come to him. stay with him.

all he can do now is hold unto his pillow and imagine its you in his arms.

#another brainfart #honestly atp #whatever comes out #HAHAH #jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #geto x reader #x reader #geto suguru #geto suguru x reader #jjk geto suguru

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uwmspeccoll · 1 year ago

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Marbled Monday

It's been a minute since we last posted for Marbled Monday but we're back with an exciting combed French curl or snail pattern! This pattern was created by dropping colors onto the water bath, creating a gel-git (or zig-zag) pattern with a stylus, then combing it once perpendicular to the gel-git with a fine-toothed comb creating a pattern called nonpareil, and finally using a wide-toothed comb to create the characteristic curly swirly snails. This particular pattern uses blue, maroon, cream, and yellow. The marbled paper was used for both the front and back covers and the endpapers of the book.

The book inside the lovely marbled binding is a 1779 ninth edition of Sketches from Nature, which features "upwards of one hundred portraits, or characters, of the most conspicuous persons in the kingdom." This edition was printed for George Kearsly (or Kearsley, 1739-1790) and was written by an anonymous author. It is a satirical piece with humorous profiles of well-known figures and so the names are all printed with blanks in the middles (ie: Mr. G_____s), but in our copy all of the names have been filled in by an industrious owner.

View more Marbled Monday posts.

-- Alice, Special Collections Department Manager

#Marbled Monday #anonymous #gel-git #french curl #combed french curl #nonpareil #George Kearsly #George Kearsley #marbling #paper marbling #marbled paper #Sketches from Nature #Alice

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thisisnotkitty · 2 years ago

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slowly but surely piecing together a timeline for tbhk bc the time travel stuff makes things wonky but i want to prove that the past, future, and present are kinda sorta happening simultaneously and also i have like,, 7 theories that are neither coherent nor complete but still

#i promise theres a method to my madness #this is Techncially all the pre-nene events #not really gonna do a deep dive on stuff that doesn't really concern the yugis #thats why 6 2 4 have vague notes of them happening #but i dont really go into their story #will add a couple of things that may be foreshadowing or imp info from those arcs tho #also slowly combing through my screenshots #there's over 500 bc im insane #anytime i saw the dilated pupils or info that was randomly thrown out #BAM screenshot #once this is fully fleshed out #ill do the timeline for the series (aka nene time)#i want to do it below so i can draw connections to things in the past #also quick rundown for future ref #blue are dates #white/grey are canon events that we for sure know of #yellow are notes #purple is theories/misc thoughts #red is tl stuff so future affecting past or vice versa #marbles? gone #tbhk #jshk #kitty.twt

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rebecca96 · 2 months ago

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Most of my favorite findings, so many different colors, shapes and sizes they come. Especially rare colors red, yellow, pink and marbles 🌈💎 beach combing is a fun hobby

#sea glass #my collection #collectibles #colorful #show and tell #shapes and colors #finders keepers #beach life #pacific #colors #room decor #close up #neon #rare finds #california #marble #discover #beach combing

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harpe-et-nitroglycerine · 2 years ago

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Phoenix 3/4 Bath Bathroom

An illustration of a medium-sized transitional bathroom design with 3/4-sized white and marble tiles, a green floor, shaker cabinets, a two-piece toilet, beige walls, an undermount sink, quartzite countertops, and white countertops.

#white marble shower wall #shower bath comb #french style window #white marble countertop #beige walls #mosaic tile accent band

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matrixfangs · 2 months ago

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blood and elderberries

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: Remmick has been your friend since childhood, and he's been spending a lot of his time in the woods.

word count: 5.8k

warnings: slight smut, DUBCON AT THE END, pls pls skip if you’re uncomfy with that!!!, blood, murder, fire, spooky woods, probably inaccurate religious imagery, definite misuse or mistranslation of Irish Gaelic, 18+ please!

a/n: hi everyone! this is my first fic on this account so please be kind to me! it's also my first time writing anything related to smut and I'm very nervous about it so please bare with me if it's written a little awkwardly! my requests are open if you'd like to send me anything, though it may take me a few days to get back to you, as this took me a few days so I'm gonna take a break now lol <3 also feel free to shoot me something in my inbox if you just want to chat! enjoy! :3

In Ireland, it hardly snowed, but when it did, it didn’t disappoint. Fat snowflakes fell over your hair as you walked on the cobbled road, the snow crunching underneath your feet and soaking into the fabric of your shoes that weren’t built for the cold. As you journeyed to the local market, the sun was still rising, warm pink and yellow streaks bled into pale blue. On the horizon: a burning hole of a sun. You let it burn spots into your vision, just to continue looking at it.

The market was quiet when you entered it, the only sign of life being the freshly baked goods at the front windows, handcrafted pies, and loaves of bread. Steam coated the glass, and underneath it all was the lingering scent of him. Something earthy with a sweetness underneath, like the berries he liked to pick in the woods at the edge of town. “Dia dhuit.” A honeyed and resonant voice pulled you away from the pies, your head rearing up to glance at the front counter. He was there, an apron tied around his waist and a streak of flour against his cheek from the early morning. Remmick, the shopkeeper's son. He’d been your best friend since you were young, but the feelings that had developed for him as you’d gotten older were something new entirely. Watching his careful hands work had become your personal torment. You shifted from one foot to another, warmth spreading across your face. Your eyes roamed over his body, all neat angles and sharp lines. Despite the dusting of flour across his cheeks, his hair had been neatly combed back, and the clothes underneath his apron were clean and pressed. He somehow always managed to look completely perfect, standing before you like a marble statue. Completely untouchable yet begging to be disheveled. “Nice pies.” You smiled, crossing the distance to him and placing your hands on the counter. The wood cooled your burning fingertips. “You've been out in those woods again?” “Aye. They’re elderberries. Picked them just last night.” He raised his fingers, revealing the faint purple stain on the tips of them. Your gaze lingered on the veins in his hands, the skin that looked tough enough to knead dough but soft enough to caress skin. “You should be careful, Rem. Those woods spread out for miles.” You told him, the words easily tumbling from your lips for the hundredth time. But he never listened. Those woods weren’t safe; you’d been told that by your parents and grandparents for as long as you could remember. Your childhood had been filled with fables of people who’d gone missing for days and coming back changed. Like they’d been hollow shells of who they’d been before, something heavy sitting on their chests.

Remmick shrugged, and it was a familiar gesture that made frustration eclipse all other emotions. He moved around the counter with a small box in his hands. “Nah, they’re plenty safe.” He opened the box, placing a pie inside and securing it with a piece of twine with a baker’s precision. His eyes shot up to meet yours, and he held out the box. “You should come with me sometime.” He let that hang in the air for a moment. “I’ll keep you safe, a pheata.”

He pressed the pie into your hands, his thumb grazing over the bumps of your knuckles. “No charge for a fine thing like yourself.”

Heat traveled up your neck as you met his icy gaze. “You’re sure?”

Remmick cleared his throat and let his hand release the box so he could instead lean forward, bringing his lips inches away from your ear. His scent lingered, cinnamon and clove filling your nose. You felt his warm breath brush the skin of your collarbone.

“You’ll just have to owe me, a chuisle.” He backed away, his eyes never leaving yours as he returned to the counter. “The edge of the woods, tonight after supper.” He winked, only breaking contact when a new customer came inside, ringing the bell against the door. You had to remember to take a breath before you left the shop, the pie held so tight in your hands that the delicate paper of the box had crinkled beneath your fingers. The snow continued to fall as you left the shop, but somehow you felt warmer than before.

The day dragged on, slow and painful. Your father worked checking and cleaning the game traps at the border of the woods, while you and your mother tended to the animals at home. Fed the chickens, milked the cows, spun wool from the sheep. You were stirring the stew for dinner in the kitchen when your father returned home. His cheeks were bitten red by the cold, and he held three rabbits in one of his hands. He kissed your mother on the head from where she stood, setting the table. “Fierce strange day.” He hummed, setting the rabbits on the counter. “Tracks in the snow near the traps. No animal footprints I’ve ever seen.” He shrugged, rubbing his rough hand over his beard. “Tracks went deep into the woods, I didn’t want to follow.”

You chewed on your lip, continuing to stir the stew. Your father made quick work of sharpening his butcher knife against a whetstone and slicing into the rabbits to add them to the stew. A loud curse from your father cut through the evening calm. The inside of the rabbits was black and dry, like the blood had been completely drained from the poor things. The only thing that remained were the organs, shriveled and lifeless.

“Th'anam 'on diabhal!” Your mother cried, hands flying to her mouth. “What sort of thing could have done that?” “Could it have been the cold?” You asked, your voice cracking. It was a hollow question. You knew the cold couldn’t dehydrate a creature from the inside out. You thought of Remmick, of the fables and the elderberry bushes. The woods that liked to eat people whole and spit them back out as ghosts. You dropped the wooden spoon of the stew and headed to the front door, grabbing your cloak.

“Where are you going, wean? Your mother followed after you, wiping her hands on the apron covering her dress. She looked at the dining table. “We haven’t eaten.” “I’m sorry,” You told her, hand wrapping around the cold metal knob. “I forgot that Mrs. McCoy asked me to pass along a message for Remmick. It was urgent, I don’t want to forget.” Crisp winter air met your skin as you pulled the door open. Night had claimed the village, and all that was left from the sun was a melted slush of water on the road. The squeak of your shoes was faint as you walked in the direction of the woods, a heavy anxiety pressing on your chest. You’d tell Remmick that he needed to stay away from them - that the Devil walked in the wood. You rehearsed the words in your head, your lips moving in a silent speech, until you reached the line of trees at the edge of town.

Remmick wasn’t there yet. You pulled your cloak tighter around your body as you gazed up at the trees. They seemed to groan with each gust of wind, as if warning whoever stood before them. The branches reached up to grab the sky with crooked fingers, and the pale blue moonlight spilled between them.

Though the snow remained on the ground here, the air seemed to be heavier, warmer in your lungs. It felt like a large hand was pressing on your chest, trying to reach your pounding heart. Whispers drifted by your ears like breaths, just barely unintelligible. You turned, looking back toward the village.

“Remmick?” You called, your voice hoarse from the cold.

“Remmick?” A voice called back from deep inside the woods. It was nearly identical to your voice, but wrong. It was distorted, like it’d been shoved into a throat not made for human noises. The tree branches made giggle-like sounds in response, and you felt the bile rise hot in your throat. When you turned to flee, your face met with an obstacle, solid and warm against your skin.

“Woah, where are ye going?” Remmick’s voice was like water in the desert. His eyes caught the moonlight, his gaze gleaming at you as his brow furrowed. In the dark, his hands found yours. The interlacing of your hands ceased your trembling.

“Remmick, you need to stay away from these woods.” You tried to pull him away, but his hands caught your shoulders, spinning you around to face him. The dark hollowed out his eyes and carved his cheekbones into sharp shadows. “What are you on about, pet?”

“A voice,” You swallowed. “I heard a voice, it was like mine, but it was…” How could you describe a wrongness so strong that it was supernatural? That something had stolen the voice from your throat and put it on like a disguise?

Remmick squeezed your shoulders - comforting or restraining you, you couldn’t tell. “Ah, the wind in the trees feels like they’re speaking to you sometimes, is all. Nothing to be scared of.” “Rem…” You said quietly, letting go of one of his hands, squeezing the other.

“Trust me, A chuisle mo chroí.” His soft voice made your inhibitions melt away. He pressed your knuckles to his warm lips, letting them linger there for a moment. “I just want to be alone with you.”

Your heart lost its rhythm, your hand on fire where his lips had pressed to it. His warm gaze held such a certainty that you weren’t sure how to say no. Maybe it was the feeling of his palm pressed to yours that made you feel safer, but you followed him into those woods.

Remmick’s hand never left yours as you passed the first row of trees, pine needles, and wet grass muting the sound of your steps. He ran his thumb over your knuckle repeatedly, soothing you without words. With him beside you, his arm brushing against yours, the groaning trees and crying wind didn’t seem as frightening. He hummed beside you, low and deep in his throat.

The deeper you ventured into the woods, the more the cold disappeared, as if time moved differently there. Soon, you were shrugging off your shawl and wrapping it around your waist, as Remmick rambled along about the bakery, the plants he’d come across, a mushroom that matched the color of your eyes. Like summer rain, his voice fell over you, and you wished to open your mouth and catch the drops. “I’ve been keeping track of the plants I come across.” He told you, hand reluctantly releasing yours to pull out a leatherbound book. “See?” He passed it to you, and you flipped through pages of drawings and descriptions of different plants and bushes - their scientific names and the names he’d come to know them as next to that.

“I didn’t know you could draw like this.” You hummed, your voice trailing off as you flipped to the next page. A perfect charcoal drawing of your face, head thrown back in laughter. Every line had been drawn with loving precision, like he’d studied every valley and line on your face. You looked to him, an embarrassed flush brushed across his cheeks. “Didn’t think it worth mentionin’.” He shrugged, taking the book from you and tucking it carefully back into his coat.

“Everything about you is worth mentioning.” You squeezed his hand, looking back out to the woods. They were approaching a clearing, a strange area where the trees seemed to move around it like a circle.

“My gran would tell me about this place,” Remmick explained as they entered the clearing, his hand on the small of your back as you walked over a fallen log. “She used to say that these woods existed outside of time, and that’s why so many weird things happened here.��

Your eyes roamed over the white branches of birch trees curling around the clearing. A patch of dry, dead grass lay there, despite the rest of the ground being wet, surrounding it. You followed him in, feeling the very air change around you. It was thicker, warmer, like when you’d step into the room after a hot bath.

“Have you ever taken anyone here?” You asked Remmick as you crouched down to run your fingertips over the grass.

Remmick released your hand to sit down in the middle of the clearing. “No,” He shook his head as he stretched his long legs out. Every line of his body seemed to be carved from stone in the pale moonlight. His loosened collar revealed the strong, tanned column of his throat. His broad shoulders filled out his coat, and you could see just a peek of his suspenders underneath. You wondered what it would feel like to pull them off, to let them hang over his hips as you took him apart. “Just you.”

His words fell over you like a warm blanket, like arms wrapped around your middle.

“Why me?” You sat beside him, shoulder pressed against his. His hand moved to rub the fabric of your skirt between the pads of his fingers, and he looked at you, all soft and pliant in the light.

“Because it was only ever you.” He said, leaning in until your foreheads touched. His breath mingled with yours as his eyes slid down to your lips. “Because every path that I’ve ever walked in these woods has always led back to you.”

Remmick’s hand released your skirt so he could rest it against the soft skin of your cheek. His thumb reached for your bottom lip, pulling it down and letting it go. The first press of his lips to yours was gentle, a soft brush of a kiss. The second was hungry, his rough hand grabbing the nape of your neck to pull you to him. The kiss was a liberation in your body - your fingers flying to his coat, clutching the fabric in your hands like he’d fly away if you didn’t. He shrugged it off in a heartbeat, lips hardly able to leave yours. Your heart drummed in your ears as you reached under one of the straps of his suspenders, pulling it down with a desperation that surged through your body like a flood. A pulse had begun between your legs, its roots spreading through your entire body.

Remmick pulled away from you, his eyes half open as he pulled the other strap of his suspenders down. He kissed you again, his body slithering against yours and pushing it down until your back was hitting the ground. The cool grass pressing against your back was a stark contrast to the warmth of his body pressed to yours. One hand braced near the side of your head, while the other slid down to lift your skirt up above your waist. His lips found your neck, his teeth nipping and licking downward. Your breath caught in your throat as he worked to slide his hand under your stockings and underwear, his fingers pressing against your center. Your nails dug into the dirt beside you, your hips lifting up to meet his fingers.

“Remmick,” You said his name like a prayer, your eyes fluttering closed at his gentle touches. His mouth had reached the swell of your breast, his teeth marking and bruising the soft skin there. “Moilligh beagán, mo ghrá.”

Remmick pulled back, his chest heaving as his hand continued to move against you. His fingers had just begun to curl, your hands gripping the grass - and then he stopped. He looked out into the woods, his brows knit together.

“Do you smell that, love?” His usual soft and warm voice had an unusual edge to it, making you pause.

You sat up on your elbows, your body trembling as you tried to register what he’d asked you. But you didn’t have to. The overwhelming smell wafted past you, and Remmick stood up. The reflection of orange in his eyes made you turn your head, looking up to see heavy, charcoal gray smoke rising from above the trees.

“Fire.” You said, panic rising in your throat. You stood on shaky legs, wrapping your hand around Remmick’s toned arm. The muscle underneath his shirt tensed. “In the village, there’s fire.”

Remmick’s jaw clenched, and his hand reached down to grip yours. He pulled you through the woods like he knew every branch on the ground. The warm air from inside the clearing turned back to cold, filling your unprepared lungs. Your boots were soon hitting snow again as you reached the threshold of the woods, your eyes immediately searching for the source of the fire.

Remmick’s home - a small cottage at the end of the road.

“My mother.” The words were strangled, hoarse.

Remmick released your hand, clutched in his grasp as he sprinted down the slope and toward his burning home. Angry flames were licking the blue-black sky, the smell of burning wood filling your nose as you ran after him, your heart hammering in your ribcage. His feet splashed against melted snow and cobblestone. Local villagers had gathered outside the home, holding each other as they watched the fire eat the house and the small barn that Remmick’s father had built behind it. Their faces glowed orange, demonic masks that the fire had made for them.

“My mother?” Remmick called to neighbors, grabbing them by the shoulders and shaking them. “Has anyone seen my mother?”

They were shaking their heads, apologizing, crying. Remmick turned to look at the cottage, and you knew what he wanted to do. You reached for him, but he wouldn’t even look at you.

“No,” You said, tears beginning to fill your eyes. “Remmick, don’t.”

He wasn’t listening, his arm tearing away from your grasp. He shook his head, the fire waving in his pupils. His mouth hung open, slack in a dreamlike state.

“I can hear her,” He said quietly, walking toward the fire. “I can hear her calling…”

You looked up, trying to hear what he was talking about. You heard nothing but the foundation of the house cracking like bones, the sparks popping and flying off the roof.

And then, in the doorway, you saw it. Your entire body froze, your own nails digging into your hand. You felt blood trickle down your palms, but you couldn’t feel the pain.

A dark figure stood there, cloaked in black. It stood in the flames like it was nothing but a summer breeze, fingers longer than what could be human. A shadow of horns spiraled from its head, something akin to the horns of the ram. And on what would be the face, if you could have seen it, were two red glowing dots for eyes. Despite what you could see, Remmick hadn’t stopped moving. He was walking into the fire, like the figure was calling him. You had been right. The Devil walked in the woods.

You couldn’t move, you couldn’t scream for him. Something had seized your body, pinning your feet into the snow-covered ground. The villagers cried, but none of them seemed to see Remmick entering the fire, or the figure that beckoned him. You felt your entire being die as he disappeared into the orange abyss. There was no scream of pain as the fire absorbed him, nor an acknowledgment of the figure that followed after. There was just numbing silence afterward. When the force that had kept your body still released you, you fell so hard to your knees that you felt the skin break open, blood against snow.

The villagers hadn’t been able to move you from that spot, not for hours. You watched the roof collapse in on itself, the shed behind become reduced to ash. But you still somehow thought that Remmick could walk out of those flames, that he would press his lips to yours and wake you from this nightmare.

—------------

The murders began a few weeks after the fire.

The first victim had been Mr. Flynn, a sweet old man who had the biggest book collection you’d ever seen. When you were young, you’d run to his house with Remmick in the summer heat, feet bare and grass-stained. You’d sit in his room of books and tear through pages like you wre starving for them. He’d been found in that room, sitting in the armchair by his hearth, a book in his hands. He looked like he was sleeping, until you reached the front of them and discovered the two holes at the base of his throat, an inch or so apart. Sticky, wet blood stained the front of his shirt and trickled off the chair onto the hardwood floor.

The book in his hands - a collection of James Joyce's poetry. A favorite of Remmick’s.

Rain on Rahoon falls softly, softly falling

Where my dark lover lies.

Sad is his voice that calls me, sadly calling

At grey moonrise.

Love, here thou

How desolate the heart is, ever calling

Ever unanswered - and the dark rain falling

Then as now:

Dark too our hearts, O love, shall lie, and cold

As his sad heart has lain

Under the moon-grey nettles, the black mould

And muttering rain.

The murders continued, one every week. The fifth week, the midwife who had brought both you and Remmick into this world, found just outside the nursery doors. The seventh, a local farmer who had been tending to his horses, found in his stables. Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. While your village disappeared, your mother struggled to get you to eat, to sleep, to do anything. You spent your days on the porch, watching people begin to board up their windows, place crucifixes on their doors. The village priest began to host nightly services to pray for their lives, and though you didn’t attend them, you could hear their prayers and sermons echo through the village.

“And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his heads the name of blasphemy. And the beast which I saw was like unto a leopard, and his feet were as the feet of a bear, and his mouth as the mouth of a lion: and the dragon gave him his power, and his seat, and great authority.”

People didn’t leave their houses much after the priest was dead, the thirteenth to be found.

After that night, you opened the door in the early morning to find something nailed to your door. An elderberry leaf, splattered with red. You turned it over and over in your fingers as you sat on the porch that day, waiting for the sun to go down. You waited for him because you knew it was him.

The sun went down slowly that night, like it was trying to keep you from your fate. The last of the snow had melted, the air a bit warmer to welcome a morbid spring. Your bare feet pressed against cold pavement as you walked to the corpse of Remmick’s home. You hadn’t dressed all day, a sheer white nightgown clinging to the curves of your body as you stopped in front of the charred remains.

You waited, standing there for nearly an hour as the breeze blew through your legs and hair, kissing your skin.

A voice, as familiar as his hands on your body.

“A chuisle mo chroí…” The words that had once warmed your chest every time he said it now made your body go rigid.

Your head turned before the rest of your body, eyes meeting his cold, gleaming ones. He was dressed in clothes that weren’t his. A black button-up shirt, a size too small. Pants a size too big, held up with suspenders. The carved lines of his face had become even sharper, the hollow points of his eyes and cheekbones cloaked in shadow. The only part you could see of his eyes were his irises, amber, orange, and red, swimming in pools of black. Nothing like the clear blue you’d looked into just weeks ago, before he pressed his lips to yours. Your body betrayed you, a heat forming in your throat. His beauty hadn’t diminished; maybe it was even stronger.

You took a step forward.

“Your eyes…” You said hoarsely. “Looks like the fire is still in you and fighting to get out.”

He smiled, and his smile was odd. More crooked than usual, and his teeth in the dark seemed.. sharper. Not the smile that he had pressed against your skin, though it still somehow made your legs feel weak. “No fire could have kept me from you.”

Your chest ached. All you could do was let out a broken breath that felt forced out of you, your hands aching to reach for him, but too terrified to move.

“Where have you been, Remmick?” You asked him, taking a step back. “Rather, where do you go when you’re not…” Draining your neighbors. Draining them of all their blood like those rabbits your father had found near the woods. The woods where Remmick had pressed his fingers to the most intimate parts of you.

Remmick turned his head, looking out to the slope that lead to the woods. Even in the early spring, you could still see your breath in the cold nighttime. Remmick had no breath, no movement in his body that read any way human. The rise and fall of his chest that you had once used to ground yourself was absent now.

“Come to the woods with me.” He said quietly, looking to you with an insatiable hunger. “When the sun is out, I sleep in the cold dirt, and it’s the most peaceful silence you could ever ask for.” You frowned. Remmick’s voice had changed, an accent that you didn’t recognize bleeding into his regular speech. You took another step away from him, and he followed, his body becoming coated in moonlight. It was then that you could see the viscous, thick blood that coated his chin and chest, and the way that his teeth didn’t fit right in his mouth. A monster in your lover’s body - the Devil in your lover’s body.

You asked what you didn’t want to know. “Who?”

Remmick didn’t answer. He just continued to ramble. “I can show you what I’ve seen. Life beyond life, death beyond death. The ability to move between worlds, to see what can’t be seen-”

“Remmick,” You backed away as he continued to move toward you, eyes seeming to get redder with each step. His gaze no longer held anything that made you feel safe. “Remmick, who? Who’d you-”

Remmick paused, inches away from you. He lifted his hand, and his fingers were long, with curved nails that went well past his fingertips. He took a strand of your hair in his fingers, twirled it around. Your body remembered his touch, wanting to connect to him like a magnet. But you stilled, staring at his eyes that gleamed like stained glass windows. “Do you know,” He said quietly. “I thought it would be your father that would taste rotten, but it wasn’t. It was your mother.” He smiled, his eyes fluttering closed as he breathed in deep through his nose. He had begun drooling, like a rabid dog. “She called your name as she went, sweet Death taking her into his arms…”

You tore yourself away from him, your hair tugging from his grasp. Your body burned, wracked with grief as you looked at Remmick, or whatever had replaced him. He was grinning, his hands pushed into his pockets. The drip of blood from his chin onto the ground made you feel nauseous, your hand clutching at your stomach.

“You’re scaring me, Remmick.” You said quietly, holding your hands out as if you were trying to not frighten a deer. But he wasn’t a deer. He was a wolf, and you were the prey. “Why don’t you just go?”

“You sweet summer lamb…” Remmick frowned, as if from genuine concern. “I’m not leaving without you.”

Remmick’s body twitched, as if taken over by something otherworldly. His head cocked to the side with an inhuman crack, his eyes traveled up your body, to the sky, to the woods.

“A game,” He said, a grin forming on his face again. “Like when we were children…do you remember? I’d chase you… You’d laugh.” His arms twitched as he took his hands out of his pockets.

His voice fell into a deep purr, his eyes half lidded with a sick sense of desire. “Wouldn’t you like to laugh again?”

Remmick lunged, his body moving quicker than you’d ever seen a human move. Your body twisted around, sprinting away as fast as you could with your bare feet on the cold ground. You knew he could have caught you from the moment that you started running, but he was having fun. Playing with his food. When you turned your head for a split moment to look behind you, you could see him walking, slowly. Hands at his sides, drool dripping from his mouth to the ground. His tongue caught out to catch it, and it was longer, flicking out like a serpent.

He was leading you to the woods, your feet feeling the switch from cobblestone to wet grass coated in mist. You felt the twist in your stomach as you passed the threshold, the way the air changed, and the trees whispered no longer fascinated you. You couldn’t help but wonder if the chase was somehow foreplay to something bigger, to something worse that he would do to you.

Deep down, you wanted to know what he’d do to you if he caught you. The shame of that ached in your chest as you ran.

You whipped past tree branches that seemed to reach out for you, catching on your nightgown and cutting your skin. You could hear his voice, echoing around you.

“And they worshipped the dragon which gave power unto the beast: and they worshipped the beast, saying,”

You groaned as a branch ripped into your arm, your head spinning. You jumped over a log, passed through a bushel of elderberries.

“Who is like unto the beast? Who is able to make war with him? And he opened his mouth in blasphemy against God, to blaspheme his name, and his tabernacle, and them that dwell in heaven…”

A blow to the face, your nose crunching against something rough. Your body flew back as you felt the blood flooding from your nostrils and over your lips. You’d run into a tree that you couldn’t have seen in the dark. The woods spun in your vision, your nose already swelling and pulsing. Your lungs burned, and you turned, preparing to run in a different direction.

You stopped, a breath caught in your throat. He was there, standing like he’d been there the whole time. In a speed incomprehensible to your eyes, he was in front of you, his hands pushing you to the ground with a force that you never would have been able to fight. His boot pressed into your shoulder, the inhuman weight of him keeping you still against the cold grass.

Remmick leaned down, his thumb brushing against your lips and collecting the blood that ran there. He looked at you as he pressed his thumb into his mouth, his tongue swirling around to collect what he’d gathered there. He hummed, eyes fluttering shut.

“You taste like the sun… like goodness.” He opened his eyes. “And fear.”

His thumb left his mouth. The same hand moved to wrap around your throat. Not tight, but firm, like a collar that claimed you. His skin was abnormally cool against yours.

“What happened to you, Remmick?” You asked, tasting your blood on your tongue. “After the fire, I saw…”

Remmick smiled, using his other hand to push your hair from your face. “I died. I came back. I was hungry.” He said it so matter-of-factly, like it didn’t matter. “I know it wasn’t kind, what I did to them. But I prayed for their souls when I was done.”

He pressed his finger to your cheek, the sharp nail of his fingertip cutting into your skin. “But not you. I’ll keep you. Our souls will be damned, but we’ll be together.”

Remmick removed his boot from your shoulder, and you still didn’t move. He leaned down, his body hovering over yours. His hands ran down your sides, his eyes wandered over your face.

“I watched you every night since my death.” He said quietly, something akin to the old Remmick in him as he said it. “And all I could think about was how my teeth would feel sliding into you.” His nose twitched, his mouth curled. “My tongue lapping up your blood.”

Remmick’s knee slid between your legs, pressing against you. Your treacherous hips lifted up, pressing against him. His drool dripped onto your skin as he leaned down to press his lips to your neck, right at the pulse point. His teeth digging into your throat didn’t hurt; not like you thought it would. It was warm and wet, his teeth sliding out of the holes to lick over the bleeding wounds. His hand gripped the fabric of your nightgown, pulling it up to reveal you bare underneath.

“Tastes like sin and goodness all at once.” He moaned against your skin as his hand pressed against your center, rubbing in circles that matched the rhythm of his tongue on your throat. You hated him. Hated the way your body responded to him and how he knew what to do to make you undone.

The blood was nearly drained from your body when you found your release, your nails digging deep into his shoulder blade. Your body ached from the emptiness, and your nightgown pooled around your legs like a blanket. Remmick sat on his haunches before you, rolling up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal a toned arm, stained with blood.

His teeth, still coated in your blood, dug into his arm. He let the blood trickle down his skin, hovering it over you to let it drip into your mouth.

The taste was unlike anything you’d ever had before. The very taste of God on your tongue, sweeter than the elderberry pies that Remmick would give you at his family’s shop. It sang in your veins, making you reach for his arm to drink more. You drank until he had to force himself from your clutch, his body falling to lie next to yours, arm pressed to his chest.

Your body had begun to die, a terrible pain wracking through your body. You convulsed, Remmick’s blood dripping from your lips.

He laughed breathlessly, turning his head to look at you.

“Our covenant, my love.” He said finally. “I told you every path led back to you.”

_______________

Irish Gaelic translations:

dia dhuit - Hello or God be with you

a pheata - my pet

a chuisle - my pulse

th'anam 'on diabhal - your soul to the Devil! (expression of surprise)

wean - child

a chuisle mo chroi - pulse of my heart

moilligh beagan, mo ghra - slow down a little, my love

_______________

Also credits to the poem She Weeps Over Rahoon by James Joyce, and Revelations 13:1 from the Bible lmao

#sinners 2025 #remmick x reader #remmick #sinners remmick #remmick sinners #remmick imagine #remmick oneshot #jack o'connell #remmick x fem!reader #sinners fic #sinners au #i maybe gave up toward the end of this lolololol

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florencemtrash · 7 months ago

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Prim and Proper - Azriel x Reader

Warnings: Some suggestiveness

Masterlist of Masterlists

Summary: Y/n and Azriel get dressed for a party at the Court of Nightmares in their own special way.

Author's note: This has been sitting unfinished in my drafts. Time to get it out into the world.

The taste of metal seeped onto your tongue, the bite of iron grating against your teeth as you held a pile of pins between your lips. You sat in front of your vanity, hair gathered up in your hands as you tried to create something of a shape.

Shadows, cool, black fingers, gently slid up your back, whispering against the expanse of skin before gripping your chin. One by one you let the pins fall from your lips where they were caught by spectral hands.

“Thank you, Azriel,” you said with a smile. You didn’t need to turn to know your mate, and husband, had appeared in the room. He was, always, silent as mist and moved like it too. Once there, and in another instant, gone.

“Thank the shadows.” Hands, scarred and corporeal, brushed against your shoulders. “They needed no commands from me.” Azriel smiled, leaning against the vanity when he moved in front of you.

The scent of his latest fight against Cassian still clung to his skin and leathers. His knuckles were bruised and split — an injury you knew would disappear before you even stepped foot outside of Velaris — and a faint red mark tinged his high cheekbones from where he’s been struck.

“Do you need help with that?” He asked coyly. You spit out one last pin. It fell against the marble countertop with the plink of rain on a tin roof. Then you dropped your hair, shaking out your arms as your hair fell down your back.

Azriel’s eyes traced you hungrily, and he couldn’t help the disappointment in his stomach when that wide expanse of bare skin disappeared behind the curtain of hair. But perhaps it was a good thing. He’d have a hell of a time keeping his fists to himself if any male eyed you in your strappy dress.

You draped an arm over the back of your chair, eyelashes fluttering up at him in a way that made his heart stutter. Seventeen years of knowing you, and three years mated, and you still pulled at his heartstrings like a puppeteer.

“That would be lovely. But!” You held up a hand before he could walk any closer, then pointed towards the bathroom door. “Shower first.”

Azriel huffed, stealing one quick kiss before slipping into the bathroom.

Steam billowed out from beneath the door, rolling over the floor like white caps over a beach. Azriel combed back his hair, towel sitting loosely on his hips as you busied yourself with makeup. The smile you’d adopted while brushing blush over your cheeks became real as Azriel rested his hands on your shoulders, stealing a kiss along the curve of your neck before you could say anything.

He put up your hair and you helped him with the buttons of his dress shirt, especially the pesky ones that lined the slits below his wings. With that done and out of the way, the real work could begin.

“Three inches or four?”

“Three. The four-inch one is too heavy.” You touched a strand of hair that Azriel had purposefully left out of its arrangement. For framing those beautiful eyes, was what your mate had said. “I want the hair to last if it comes to a brawl.”

“Smart.” Azriel smiled and spun the thin, three-inch dagger in the air before sliding it into its sheath and then into your hair. The ends that showed looked decorative — beautiful — and discrete, but he’d seen you pluck out a male’s eye with a needle — you could do far more damage with this. He then added a few pearl pins — also using for stabbing people in the eyes.

“I have a surprise for you,” Azriel murmured against the curve of your ear.

You hummed in curiosity, then your brow shot up as he gently laid a new pendant necklace against your chest.

“Raskel finished it in time?!”

“He did indeed. You’ve got twelve shots.”

You fingered the teardrop shaped pendant, hearing the faintest clatter of hair thin darts within it. You raised the fuller, blunt end to your lips before aiming at the wall and blowing. A sharp, thin whistle followed by the faint plink of the dart hitting the wall made you laugh with glee.

Azriel smiled adoringly. “Now you’ve got eleven.”

“That’s eleven of Keir’s males if he decides to test us tonight.” You winked back, for the darts held a poison concentrated enough to kill a fae… if her aim was true… which it always was.

They traded teasing remarks and began a heated discussion about Sellyn Drake’s newest novel — the author’s first foray into historical fiction — all the while trading daggers and hidden poisons and the odd cutting wire here and there.

“I like Hellvin Thorv best,” Azriel said from his position on the floor. He slid the sheath up your thigh, tightening it until you nodded in confirmation and slipped a simple silver dagger into its rightful place and flung your skirt over top.

You clicked your tongue half in disapproval. “You would like him best.”

“What is that meant to mean?” He asked in shock.

“Nothing.”

You helped him put on his thin, leather gauntlets with the hidden blades tucked against his forearm, buttoned up his shirt, and helped lace together the corset he wore, each of the boning channels hiding a knife thin as a feather but stronger than steel. You’d designed it for him, much to Raskel’s chagrin as he was the one who made your creations come to life. Raskel loved to moan and groan about the injustice of it all, but he did love a challenge… and gold.

As a final touch you made Azriel sit down in your vanity chair before climbing into his lap and holding his chin in a gentle grasp as you lined his eyes with kohl.

“I would like to see us back in this position at the end of the night,” he sighed.

“Then let’s hope no one tries anything tonight.” You pressed your lips against his neck leaving a berry red stain.

“Leave it,” Azriel said when you went to wipe it off, then grinned at the expression on your face. “Let them remember which female I belong to.” You left two more marks on his jaw, just to reinforce the message.

“Shall we go, Husband?” You asked, standing to your feet and holding out your hand.

“We shall.” He squeezed once before sliding his arm around your back and squeezing your hip.

Rhysand and Feyre were the center of attention at the Court of Nightmares with their glittering jewels and chins raised high. Cassian’s voice was loud and grating to unfamiliar ears, and Nesta’s eyes shone like two ice chips, flashing like spotlights as they raked over the crowd. But everyone knew it was the silent pair furthest back from the front of the dais that needed to be feared. The ones made of shadow and darkness that could disappear and reappear seemingly at will.

Keir caught your gaze once and shivered much to Azriel’s delight. He tipped his head to the side ever so slightly, letting the room catch the smear of lipstick on his neck. The male gritted his teeth and fled out of view. No one would dare raise a hand in defiance so long as you and Azriel graced their presence.

#azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x you #acotar fanfiction #acotar #a couple that fights together stays together #lovveeeee me a battle couple trope

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iydiamartinx · 2 months ago

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HOME IS IN YOUR ARMS

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader

divider by: @kodaswrld count: 778 synopsis: After a long night of entertaining the Capitol, Finnick finally comes home to your arms

It was late when the door finally clicked shut.

Not that you’d been asleep. Sleep didn’t come easy on nights like this. Not when you knew where he was. Who he was with. What he had to do.

You lay still, your back pressed to the thin mattress, the blanket half-tangled around your legs. The city lights bled in through the curtains, casting pale gold across the floor. He was somewhere out there, and you couldn’t help him. You couldn’t even help yourself.

But you could be here.

You could be waiting.

You could hold whatever pieces of him made it back.

You didn’t move when you heard the apartment door ease open. But when your bedroom door creaked, you sat up, watching him.

Finnick crossed the room in silence, eyes downcast, not even looking at you.

He stripped off his clothes—jacket, shirt, belt—each one falling to the floor like something rotten he couldn’t shed fast enough. Like a costume he’d been forced to wear, layer after suffocating layer. His movements were quiet, but not calm. You heard the tremor in his breath. Saw the pause in his hands.

When he finally slipped beneath the covers, he didn’t reach for you right away.

He just lay there.

Still. Silent.

You turned toward him and opened your arms—slowly, gently—leaving the choice in his hands. If he wanted your touch tonight, it would be his to take. You wouldn’t force it. You wouldn’t be hurt if he didn’t.

Too many people had taken from him without permission.

You never would.

He didn’t move right away.

For a moment, you weren’t sure if he would. His body remained still beside you, muscles tense beneath the thin blanket, like he was carved from the same marble the Capitol favoured—beautiful but cold and hollowed out from the inside.

But then—he shifted.

Not toward you, not at first. Just the barest turn, enough that his shoulder brushed yours, and you could feel the tremble in him. A breath escaped him then, sharp and broken at the edges, and in that sound, you heard it all.

The shame. The disgust. The guilt that should never belong to him but clung to him anyway.

You said nothing.

You just kept your arms open, patient, unwavering.

And then he came to you.

He moved like he was drowning, like the bed was water and you were the last thing keeping him from sinking. He pressed into you, head tucked beneath your chin, arms sliding around your waist. His grip was tight—too tight—but you didn’t flinch. You held him in return, folding your body around his, wrapping your limbs around him like armour.

Your fingers slipped into his hair, damp with sweat and Capitol cologne. The scent clung to him like a lie, sweet and artificial, masking something much more fragile underneath.

You stroked gently, combing through the strands with a slow rhythm, letting the silence hold him when words couldn’t.

You held him tighter. Pressed a kiss into his hair, slow and gentle.

You knew exactly what the Capitol took. What they dressed up in gold and called privilege. What they made you smile through, entertain through, survive through.

Your hand slid into his hair, gently combing through it again and again, until his breathing began to slow—still shaky, still uneven, but no longer on the verge of unraveling.

He pulled you closer, he needed your heartbeat pressed to his chest to remind him of what was real. Of what still belonged to him. Of you.

Another kiss—this one to his temple. Then lower, along the slope of his cheekbone. And finally, his lips—soft, reverent, like you were kissing the hurt away piece by piece.

He didn’t kiss you back at first.

But then—he did.

Just once.

Just enough to say I’m still here.

Then his forehead pressed to yours, and he whispered, “I didn’t think I’d make it through tonight.”

“You did,” you said softly. “You made it home.”

He didn’t say this doesn’t feel like home.

He didn’t have to.

Because you weren’t talking about the Capitol apartment. Not the sheets beneath you or the walls around you. You were talking about this. The space between your bodies. The way you held each other like nothing else existed—like nothing else mattered.

This was the only place in the world that still belonged to you both.

Your fingers curled gently at the nape of his neck. Your legs tangled with his beneath the covers, anchoring him in place.

And in that small, stolen space—

where the Capitol couldn’t reach,

where the cameras couldn’t follow—

Finnick Odair let you hold him.

And you didn’t let go.

#hunger games finnick #hunger games #the hunger games #finnick odair x oc #thg finnick #finnick odair #finnick odair x reader #finnick x reader #Hunger games oneshot #finnick x you #finnick odair x you #finnick odair oneshot #finnick odair x y/n #finnick x y/n #victor reader

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cece693 · 6 months ago

Text

Me, Jealous?

pairing: hannibal lecter x male reader tags: jealous hannibal lecter, reader is amused, not hannibal (nbc) canon,

A date at the opera was hardly what you would call romantic. The venue itself might’ve been grand—old, world architecture with gilded flourishes on the ceiling and plush velvet seats arranged in perfect rows—but everything about it felt like a stage set for egos. Brighter-than-necessary overhead lighting illuminated acres of expensive fabrics—lustrous silk gowns and tailored tuxedos that cost more than what most people made in a month—and you could all but taste the arrogance in the air.

It wasn’t your ideal location for a date by any stretch, but your husband had turned on his rare brand of doe-eyed pleading, sweetly murmuring “Please?” in that honeyed timbre that usually meant he had something up his sleeve. You should have guessed there was more to his insistence. In fact, you’d sensed an undercurrent of excitement radiating off of him from the moment you’d left your shared home. It became painfully obvious why he was so eager once you arrived and found him being whisked away by a woman whose understanding of personal boundaries seemed nonexistent.

You didn’t recognize her, and maybe she truly had no idea Hannibal was spoken for—or maybe she was fully aware and enjoying the attention anyway. Possessively, she clung to Hannibal’s arm, her manicured nails splayed like a decorative cuff on his impeccable suit sleeve. Her laughter at his every remark was irritatingly saccharine, the type that left you rolling your eyes behind the rim of your champagne flute.

Hannibal, naturally, glanced your way every so often. He had a certain glint in his eye—like a cat playing with its prey—anticipating your jealousy. A lesser spouse might have felt their heart clench, might have shot daggers at the other woman or stormed over to reclaim their partner. But you’d been through these small tests before. This was Hannibal’s game, and he loved to provoke a reaction just to study it, to taste it the way he might taste a fine wine. But you knew better than to give him exactly what he wanted without having him ask sweetly.

Leaning against a marble column, you let your gaze skim over the crowd. Most of the attendees were too busy boasting about their knowledge of obscure operas or discussing the perfect brand of caviar to notice you, but you still felt a few curious stares. Being Dr. Lecter’s husband was a precarious sort of prestige—people either hovered like anxious sycophants hoping to impress you, or they observed you from a distance with feline curiosity. Tonight, though, you simply had no patience for idle chit-chat. If Hannibal wanted to play, let him. It wouldn't cause a rift in your relationship like others might believe. Because that was the unspoken truth: no matter how many admirers clung to his arm, Hannibal’s nights were solely yours. It was you he felt anything akin to love.

Your eyes continued to roam the opulent hall: heavy drapes fell from high windows, shimmering under the bright chandeliers. The murmur of voices rose like tidal swells, and snippets of classical music drifted in from the stage where the orchestra had tuned mere moments ago. It was then that you caught sight of someone else—a man with neatly combed dark hair and a tailored suit that fit him so flawlessly it seemed hand-stitched. You recognized him vaguely; he’d been polite when you first entered, a quick hello exchanged in passing while the audience was still finding their seats.

Now, he stepped away from a small group he’d been conversing with and headed in your direction. Despite the chatter around you, his voice was pitched low when he finally spoke, creating a sense of intimacy amid the bustle. “Good evening,” he greeted. “I see we meet again.”

You inclined your head politely. “We do. Enjoying the performance?”

“I’ll be honest—I’m not much of an opera fan. But I make appearances when necessary.” He motioned around him, lips curving in a self-aware smirk. “Comes with the territory, I suppose.”

You let out a laugh—short, genuine, and surprising even to yourself. “I can relate.” You took a sip of champagne, feeling its effervescence linger on your tongue, and cast a glance across the hall to find Hannibal watching you. He stood a few paces away from his clingy companion, but his gaze was entirely fixed on you. You could practically feel the heat of his scrutiny.

The newcomer followed your line of sight. “Husband?”

You nodded. “That’s him,” you confirmed, swirling the champagne in your glass to give your hands something to do. “He’s…quite sociable tonight.”

“Lucky man,” the stranger said, his brown eyes gleaming with sincere admiration. He leaned in just enough to keep his words between the two of you. “I hope I’m not being too forward, but I’d much rather chat with you than half the people here. You seem—” he paused, searching for a precise term—“less rehearsed.”

Your lips curved into a small, wry smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

And honestly, it was. In a sea of plastic smiles and pretentious laughter, Adam was a breath of fresh air. He asked about you in a way that felt genuine—inquiring politely about the arts, about your tastes, about what you liked doing in your free time. The conversation flowed so effortlessly that you didn’t notice the time slipping by.

For nearly an hour, you and Adam talked, a soft bubble of quiet warmth in the midst of the bustling foyer. Eventually, the bell sounded to signal the final act was about to start. Adam extracted a slim black business card from his wallet and handed it to you, smiling. “Let me know if you ever want a less formal chat. I’d like that.”

You looked down at the card and then back at him, feeling amusement dance along your features. “I’ll consider it,” you said, inclining your head in gratitude.

He nodded his goodbye, rejoining the flow of people returning to their seats. Suddenly aware of how your heart beat just a bit faster, you turned and found Hannibal already at your side, the tension emanating from him as palpable as the hush that once again fell over the audience. He offered you a measured smile—overly polite. The humor never touched his eyes, and his hand came to rest protectively (or possessively, depending on perspective) around your waist.

As the two of you made your way back into the darkened auditorium, Hannibal’s grip did not loosen. It was as though he wanted the entire opera house to see exactly to whom you belonged. His free hand brushed down the front of his suit in an almost nervous gesture—though he’d label it a mere habit. The moment you settled into your plush seats, you could feel his gaze flicker to the business card in your hand. There was a storm in that glance, a controlled fury that might have burst into a full hurricane if not for the need to maintain civility in public.

Slyly, you slid the card into your pocket without breaking eye contact, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. You could imagine the wheels in Hannibal’s mind spinning: envy, curiosity, possessiveness, all swirling like a tempest. And you? You were calm—steady. His petty pageantry in parading around with another woman felt all the more transparent now that he watched you with such thinly-veiled anger.

Yes, Hannibal Lecter was a possessive man, a petty, petulant prince if ever there was one. But you knew just how to handle him. Smoothing the lapel of your own jacket, you let the lights dim around you. The orchestra swelled, the final act beginning, and Hannibal’s hand tightened over your own. You felt a rush of satisfaction that cut through the boredom of the night, a sense of triumph in how quickly the tables had turned.

By the time you and Hannibal exit the opera house, the swell of applause still echoing behind you, the tension between you is palpable. You trail after him through the opulent lobby—your pace unhurried despite the stony silence radiating off his shoulders. Outside, the Bentley gleams under the streetlights, and Hannibal unlocks it with a snap of his wrist that betrays his simmering mood.

He slides behind the wheel, and you settle in the passenger seat. There was no music playing, not even the subdued hum of classical radio that Hannibal often preferred. He eases the car away from the curb with smooth precision, but his knuckles stand out white on the steering wheel, his maroon eyes fixed ahead. In the hush of the Bentley’s interior, you can almost feel his anger swirl like a tangible thing. Where others might quake at that quiet fury, you find yourself quietly amused. You’ve seen the beast’s temper before; this is just another piece on the chessboard.

The drive home feels longer than usual, the only sound the rhythmic hum of the tires and the low purr of the engine. You steal a glance his way every so often, noting how his jaw tightens, how his lips press into a line. He’s stewing. But you allow the silence to remain unbroken, letting him feel the full brunt of his own jealousy. If Hannibal truly wanted this result—wanted to provoke or be provoked—he can drown in it for a while. A small, satisfied smirk forms at the corner of your mouth before you quickly wipe it away.

When the Bentley glides up the winding driveway to your home, Hannibal parks with more force than necessary. The headlights cut off abruptly, and for a moment, neither of you moves. You can sense him hesitating, perhaps wrestling with the possibility of speaking first. Then he sets his jaw and steps out, slamming the door behind him with quiet aggression.

Inside the house, the familiar warmth of low lamps and the faint aroma of polished wood greet you. You shrug off your coat and hang it neatly by the door. Hannibal’s own coat is flung onto a nearby chair with none of his usual precision. He’s already stalking through the foyer, shoulders rigid, making a pointed show of ignoring you. That’s how you know he’s furious: Hannibal never leaves his clothing in disarray without intending it as a message.

You follow him into the sitting room, where he has paused in front of the fireplace, one hand curled at his side. “Was it fun?” he asks without turning around. His voice is taut, every syllable thick with petty jealousy.

“Surprisingly, yes,” you reply, taking measured steps toward him. “Given the circumstances.”

He swivels to face you, maroon eyes narrowing. “I suppose I should be pleased you enjoyed yourself.” There is no pleasure in his tone—only an accusation, a reminder that his own orchestrations haven’t played out the way he intended.

You hold his gaze, refusing to rise to the bait. “I’m not the one who spent half the evening being clung to by someone who didn’t know how to keep her hands to herself.”

Hannibal’s lips twitch, and for a moment, you think he might admit to his mischief. Instead, he inhales slowly, as though collecting himself. His voice drops. “I want to see that business card.”

A short laugh escapes you. He’s come straight to the point, then—jealousy still raw. “What business card?” you ask innocently, already knowing he saw the whole exchange.

“Don’t pretend with me,” he snaps, more sharply than usual. “This—this Adam, or whatever he calls himself. Why would you need to keep his details if you have no intention of—?”

You step closer, crossing the room until you’re mere inches away, resting a hand lightly on his lapel. “I assure you—I merely think he could be a good friend,” you say, your tone calm, soothing. “And please don’t pretend it doesn’t suit you to have me cultivate connections. You’ve pushed me into social circles all this time; was it only acceptable when you pulled the strings?”

Hannibal’s eyes flick to your hand on his jacket, and in that micro-moment, you sense the conflict in him: the desire to shake you off versus his need to feel your touch. When he speaks again, his voice is clipped. “You don’t need a friend like him. I know his sort.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Considering you barely spoke to him, that’s quite an assumption.”

His expression darkens. “I’m not asking for your opinion. I’m telling you. Give me the card, and forget about him.” He’s trying to reassert control—like a child demanding a toy be taken away so nobody else can play with it. You let the silence stretch, your fingers sliding up to smooth the lapel of his suit. You’re not trying to antagonize him, not exactly. But neither are you in the habit of rolling over for his demands.

“Hannibal, you know that I love you. But no, you can’t have the card.”

His nostrils flare; he’s on the precipice between fury and something else—hurt, maybe. You lean in, pressing a kiss to his jaw, an unspoken assurance that all his insecurities don’t need to exist. He’s still yours, and you are his. “I’m not keeping it from you to be cruel,” you murmur. “But I do enjoy his company. Don't kill him just because you felt threatened."

His response is a quick, sneering exhale. “Threatened,” he repeats incredulously, as if the concept is beneath him. But the tension around his eyes says otherwise. You guide him backward until his legs meet the edge of the armchair, urging him to sit. He settles, still bristling. Standing before him, you slide one hand through his hair, letting him feel your affectionate calm.

“I don’t want to fight,” you say quietly, “especially not about something so small.”

“There wouldn’t be a fight if you would just—”

“—hand it over?” you finish for him, smiling ruefully. “Let it be, Hannibal. If you want to grill me about Adam, do so tomorrow. Right now, we’ve both had a long day.”

He looks up at you, and for a moment, the flash in his maroon eyes reminds you of a predator debating whether to lunge or retreat. But then his gaze softens, ever so slightly, and he exhales. You recognize this as a truce—a temporary surrender in a war of wits and possessiveness that defines your relationship.

Slowly, you lean down, capturing his lips in a quiet kiss meant to soothe. After a second’s hesitation, he kisses you back, and you feel the rigid line of his shoulders relax beneath your touch. The two of you remain that way for a breath or two—locked in a silent détente—until he finally pulls back. The storm in his expression still lingers, but there’s the promise of a calmer tomorrow.

You trace your thumb along his jaw. “Come to bed,” you suggest gently. “We can talk in the morning if you still feel so strongly.”

Hannibal nods once, gaze flickering with unresolved emotions. He stands, tugging you closer by the waist in a gesture that speaks of both affection and ownership. “Just remember,” he murmurs, voice low and controlled, “you belong to me.”

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