#ice plumes | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

acourtofwhatthefuck · 11 months

Text

Practice On Me — Part Eight — Azriel x Reader

Summary: Everything is starting to get on top of reader and tensions rise. Azriel takes a trip to Fenlaros and comes away with a headache. Cassian does what Cassian does best. A friendly face swoops in to save the day.

Word count: 8.3k.

Warnings: A little freaky deaky 18+, NSFW, smut, minors dni.

Azriel’s kiss is a burning brand.

It’s fire and ice and earth and rain. It tastes like freshly set snow, and it feels like the refined touch of a steeled warrior.

He kisses you like he aches for you. He pulls his hands away only to remove his gloves and chuck them aside, and then he’s clasping your face once more, skin on skin. He’s always so warm — a part of him you’ve missed.

And a part of him that drives you to kiss him back with barely any hesitation.

This — his mouth on yours — feels like the answer to a riddle you’ve been puzzling out for days, weeks, months, years. You’re gasping for air, and his tongue is sliding between your lips, and his taste overpowers you so thoroughly that you think it could break something inside of you.

There isn’t much furniture left in here. A few scattered tables, a shelf or two hanging off the wall. Not much to work with, and yet it doesn’t matter, because you and Azriel will have each other however you can. You’ve spent a lifetime making do with whatever you’ve got. This is no different.

Azriel’s hands fall down to your hips, and he’s lifting you so abruptly that a yelp leaves you and lands straight on his lips. Your arms loop around his neck, and he’s fastening your legs at his waist and stumbling with you — stumbling towards one of those old tables. A plume of dust erupts around you as he sets you down and slots himself between your legs.

“I fucking miss you.” He groans, grabbing your face. “I miss…us.”

You feel so many things. There’s no chance to sort through them, verbalise them, before his mouth slants over yours again. He’s hungry, needy. Hot and sinful. This Azriel is a far cry from the one who coyly confessed to his inexperience. This Azriel writes poetry onto your lips and paints masterpieces on your tongue. He kisses like eternal happiness depends on it. He kisses as though he’s been an artful lover for centuries.

He’s been practicing, the thought pops into your head.

Not with me, the realisation follows.

And that feels like being thrown stark-naked into the snow. It’s not a nice feeling — to realise that Azriel may be treating you to skill refined elsewhere. Not when you think about kissing him more than you’d like to admit to yourself. Does it make you a gods-damned hypocrite after what you did with Cassian? Perhaps.

But none of this — not one bit of it — is reasonable, or rational, or logical.

All you know is that your stomach lurches suddenly, violently, at the thought of where else Azriel’s lips might have been. And that’s all it takes for you to shove him away.

He stares at you, wide-eyed. Perplexed.

“I needed you.” You pant, the words tumbling from you in a flurry of charged emotion. You’re not sure you planned to say it. “On Solstice — I needed you.”

Azriel’s face changes in the blink of an eye. The hunger is gone, replaced by…something else. “Y/N—”

“I needed you, and you weren’t there. You promised me.”

“I know I did. And I’m sorry—”

“Did you even think of me?” It’s awkward, but you try to scramble back on the table. You just…need that distance right now. “Did you not wonder how I might be doing, how my day might be playing out in that hellish house, before you jumped into bed with Kaeda?”

“We didn’t—”

“Did you think of me?”

“Y/N, of course I thought of you.” He tries to clamp down on your legs, but you’re moving further away, damn near falling off the table in your efforts. “But you — you said you would come and find me. I waited for you—I—”

You’re really not sure if it’s a strangled sob or a choked laugh that fights its way up your throat. Perhaps it’s both. The sound of it is jarring, and it echoes around the armoury and reminds you of where you find yourself right now. The situation you’re in. How different things might be had Kaeda not come onto the scene.

“You waited for me?” You repeat, righting yourself. “And—what? Did you get bored? How do you think it felt, Azriel, when I came to find you — the only person I wanted to fucking be around in that moment — and you were busy with Kaeda on top of you? As if I needed my heart breaking any more that night.”

You hate it — hate it so viscerally that the words won’t stop coming. That you’re bringing your heart into this and allowing it to be stomped on again. Your eyes are watering, and you turn quickly before Az can see.

For a moment, he says and does absolutely nothing. And then he takes a step closer to you.

“I’m sorry that I wasn’t there when you needed me. Believe me, I am.” He says. There’s another step. Another. He’s hovering at your back and you know he’s wondering whether he should reach out and touch you. “But, Y/N…you encouraged me to pursue things with Kaeda. Am I to apologise for that?”

You blink at his words so abruptly that your tears spill down your cheeks.

Now you’re laughing.

It’s a humourless laugh — a hysterical one. It breaks from you in a series of fractured, incredulous noises. At least the emotion boils your blood so thoroughly that it warms you from the inside.

“Apologise?” You round on Azriel, balling your fists at your sides. “No. You don’t need to fucking apologise. But you also don’t need me to practice on anymore, do you?”

He clamps down on his jaw, a telltale muscle moving. “I didn’t kiss you for that—”

“You kissed me because you miss me. Because I am…I’m just a security blanket, aren’t I? I’m what’s familiar, and you’re used to being around me, and having distance between us has fooled you into thinking that you want to kiss me.”

“No—”

“But you’ll kiss me…and make me feel good..and then the novelty will fucking wear off, and you’ll be running straight back to Kaeda because she is who you’ve wanted all along. Not me. Never me.”

“Cauldron, Y/N, will you just let me speak?!”

No.

You will not.

You can’t.

You can’t do this. You can’t break in front of him. You refuse to.

You want to sound strong, and sure, and unbothered, but you open your mouth, and the words are watery and broken. Weak.

“No.” You swallow a lump down. “No, I won’t. Just…just go, Az. I need some time.”

“We’ve spent the last week apart. That’s plenty of fucking time—”

“Go! Go back to Kaeda. Stop…stop pretending like this could play out any other way. It can’t. It won’t.”

“I’m not leaving on an unresolved fight. You and I don’t do that.”

You are far too beaten down to discuss this any longer. You shrug, and the gesture is an effort in itself. “I’m not sure I know what either of us do or don’t do anymore. Things have changed. Go.”

“Y/N—”

“Go!”

Finally, it seems to dawn on him — the realisation that you’re serious. You won’t be discussing this tonight. You’re not strong enough for that yet.

He falters a moment longer, so clearly not wanting to walk away. The two of you have never been like this. You can fight like the best of friends do, but you’ve always made the effort to resolve things, to not part on a bad word.

But things are different, now. You know it. Az knows it.

“…Fine.” He rasps after a long stint of silence. “I’ll go.”

You nod. If he’s expecting you to suddenly change your mind, he’ll be gravely disappointed.

His eyes sweep you once more, and then he’s turning. Dragging his feet to the door like a kicked animal.

“Az?” You call quietly, and he stops.

The hope in his eyes as he looks over his shoulder almost breaks your resolve. Almost, but not quite. “Yes?”

“Send Cassian next time.”

He doesn’t deign to reply.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Azriel is not well-versed in the world of dinner parties and propriety.

He has a few decent shirts he reserves for special occasions — like when Rhys’s mother cooks a nice meal, and he and the others dress up out of respect.

Y/N would laugh herself hoarse if she could see him right now.

A thought that stings almost as much as the intense, burning gaze of Tathaln Baralas, Lord of Fenlaros.

He’s a mammoth, domineering presence at the head of the dinner table, seeming to command every bite that each person takes of their food, every sip of their wine. It’s silent unless he speaks. It’s tense because he makes it tense.

He watches Azriel as though he’s going to finish his food and then take a bite out of the shadowsinger himself. Az’s shadows are taut around him, not wanting to make a spectacle of their brilliance. The dinner so far has felt like one big, held breath.

But finally, Tathaln clears his throat, and Kaeda and her brothers sit up straight. Az does the same.

“I trust your friends have fared well since your little adventure in my camp.” The Lord addresses Azriel. “I hope the punishment wasn’t too severe. I did many similar things in my youth — though I can’t say I was ever quite so bold as to venture into a rival territory.”

Azriel inclines his head slightly. “I wanted to apologise again — for what happened. Things got out of hand.”

“I’m partly to blame, father, as you know.” Kaeda adds. Azriel damn near jumps out of his seat as her hand lands on his thigh beneath the table. “It was my idea to invite my friends from Windhaven. An oversight, perhaps, on my part. I was eager to show Azriel what Fenlaros has to offer.”

Tathaln seems to think on that as he chews his food. He washes it down with a gulp of wine and reaches for the carafe to refill his glass. The whole thing feels like somewhat of a performance, and nobody speaks a word as it plays out.

This family dynamic is…odd. Not that Azriel has much experience where normal family dynamics are concerned. But there’s a formality with which Kaeda and her brothers — not that the two males have breathed a word this entire meal — address their flesh and blood. Like he is their Lord first, and father second.

And that isn’t unusual for Illyrians — not at all. Offspring are, more often than not, treated like a prospective trophy to be paraded in front of competing families. The fiercer, more ruthless the child is, the prouder the parent will be. It’s a brutal, ugly way of living that never changes, no matter how many generations stack up.

But perhaps Azriel is at fault for having too high an expectation. Perhaps he shouldn’t ever have been fooled by Kaeda’s wings and spirit being left intact, unlike most females around her.

Tathaln is a puppeteer, and Kaeda and her brothers are his dutiful puppets.

“There was no particular harm done.” The Lord eventually says — rather reasonable, for an Illyrian. “I imagine you received a stern talking to. Revoked privileges, perhaps?”

“Lord Devlon saw fit to lecture us, yes.” Azriel concurs with a nod. “But besides that, we weren’t really handed any punishment. It was my friend, Y/N, who bore the brunt of his wrath. She’s been forced into homelessness as a result.”

A sudden, sharp kick lands on Az’s leg from beside him. He glances at Kaeda in his periphery, eyes the fierce expression with which she looks at him. It seems to be communicating, don’t bring this up now.

But Az wants to bring it up. He’s pissed off; more so than he initially thought. At himself, mostly, and at Devlon, at Rhys’s father, maybe even a little at Kaeda — at everyone really.

Tathaln pauses, his fork mid-air. And then he sits back. “Right — the girl that was here. Why has she been made homeless?”

Girl. It’s a sneer of a word in Illyrian mouths. Azriel has to clamp down on his jaw and remind himself that confronting the sexism that runs through their veins is a fruitless task in that moment.

And Kaeda sighs at his side. As if she’d rather be talking in great detail about the roasting of a boar, than about Y/N.

But it answers a question that’s been rattling around in Azriel’s mind all evening — that no, Kaeda had clearly not mentioned Y/N to her father, as she said she would.

“Her father kicked her out on Solstice.” Az explains. “He’s not a good male, to say the least. Y/N was living with myself and my friends, but after the events that unfolded here in Fenlaros, she was sworn off having any contact with us, because Lord Devlon seems to think that she’s the driving force behind any and every bad choice we make. She has nowhere else to go. It’s…worrying.”

“Perhaps she’ll think twice before wandering into rival camps.” Finally, one of Kaeda’s brothers speaks. Arlen, Azriel thinks his name is. Clearly the idiot doesn’t see the irony of his statement.

Or perhaps Kaeda doesn’t have to adhere to the rules that every other female is strictly held under.

“Arlen.” The Lord shoots him a warning glance. He turns back to Azriel. “I would argue that Lord Devlon is full of shit.”

Azriel stops. Blinks. That…that’s not what he was expecting.

“How so, father?” Kaeda’s brow furrows.

“It’s his job to keep the soldiers under his command in line, no?” Tathaln’s dark, feline eyes are assessing Azriel as he speaks — seeming to read his response. “If he finds that a single female is the cause of such disruption, perhaps it is himself he should look at. He can’t be a great leader if he has to resort to such extremes just to keep his soldiers under control, now, can he?”

Az stares back at him. The question is meant for him, but it all seems too…too easy. Reason and logic are simply not a common thing among these people. The words sound almost…false. Forced.

“No.” Azriel agrees. “I suppose not.”

“Do you find him to be an adequate leader?”

“I’ve never known any different.”

Tathaln’s mouth tips up. “That isn’t what I asked.”

No, it isn’t. But this is a fine line Azriel is treading. He positively despises Lord Devlon — thinks him an arrogant brute who uses his title to flout camp laws and customs and turn everything in his favour. Not to mention the fact that he and his cronies are so clearly threatened by Az, Rhys and Cass — an undoubtedly formidable trio. Azriel is sure that if Devlon had his way, the three of them would be slung out by their necks. Or hung by them.

But his personal feelings towards the Lord of Windhaven doesn’t change the fact that openly disrespecting him — and to the lord of another camp — is a huge dishonour. One that could blow up in Azriel’s face if this conversation were to somehow make its way back to Devlon. He has to choose his words carefully.

“He has a method of leadership that I can’t say I’m in agreement with.” Gods, he is the epitome and personification of diplomacy, if he does say so himself. Ten points to the shadowsinger. “I’m not sure that using his power to target vulnerable females was ever part of his job description. I’m sure, as a father to a female of the same age, you can see where I’m coming from.”

Tathaln takes another pensive sip of his wine. He inclines his head. “Indeed, I do. I think it’s terrible leadership. And I think you’re wasted in Windhaven.”

“I appreciate that, my lord.”

“There is no need for modesty, Azriel, the shadowsinger.” As he speaks, the Lord’s eyes inch towards those very shadows. He studies them with a strange expression that looks almost like…hunger. “Do you know why I sent my Kaeda to your camp? I may as well admit, I have an agenda.”

Azriel glances at Kaeda. She’s staring at her plate, shoulders squared. “Oh?”

“I sent her there to scope out the quality of the units that are being trained in the Windhaven Camp. My sons were sent on similar missions to other camps — Camp Theriel, Camp Steelshore, Camp Aruin. The consensus of what was reported back to me regarding each camp was that potential is not being filled. Quite frankly, a mockery is being made of Illyrians by the poor training of these legions. If war was waged tomorrow, half of our race could be wiped out.”

Bold, bold words.

Azriel finds himself stunned silent.

“We are Illyrians, no?” A thick, callused finger traces the rim of Tathaln’s chalice. “We are a warrior race. We have birthed some of the fiercest warriors in Prythian’s history and decimated tens of thousands across battlefields. And yet, it would seem, these days, that our camps are producing fewer warriors, and far more lazy, unambitious brutes who care only about drinking and fighting and fucking. Our reputation could be destroyed yet.”

This is…bizarre, Az thinks.

He also thinks that it’s a little unfair. He’s the last person to ever defend the creatures around him that are supposedly his brethren, but he also thinks that Tathaln’s assessment is wildly exaggerated.

Illyrians drink, yes, and fight, yes, and fuck, yes. But they do so in between harsh, gruelling training. They drink to forget the brutal nature of their life’s work. They fight each other because they’re just as angry as one another, and that needs an outlet. They seek pleasure, because it’s one of the few good things to be found in these parts.

Their training is not for the faint of heart. You train well, or you die. It’s that simple.

And if Tathaln, Lord of Fenlaros, truly has such concerns, Azriel doesn’t understand why the fuck they’re being presented to him, of all people.

“Is this something you’ve raised with the High Lord?” He asks — he isn’t sure he even means to say it.

Kaeda tenses beside him, and Az wonders if, perhaps, he’s overstepped the mark. But Tathaln seems somewhat pleased by the question — seems pleased that Azriel is engaged in the discussion.

“It is.” The male answers. “And I think he finds himself agreeable to what I’ve had to say. However, I haven’t yet presented my solution — what I believe to be the right course of action.”

Az takes the bait. “Which is what?”

“Eventually,” Tathaln says, “I would do away with the individual camps entirely. I would have one, sole camp to train Illyrian warriors, overseen by the most powerful members of our race. Members with rare, unique powers who can draw on the Illyrian potential and make our people what we were always supposed to be. What we once were, before we became too complacent. Better, even.”

And just like that, it makes sense that Tathaln is sharing such things with Az.

Rare, unique powers. Powers like that of a shadowsinger. So incredibly unique that Azriel has never met another of his kind.

Tathaln has ambition — he covets power. He has a vision that needs backing.

It’s like everything suddenly clicks into place in Azriel’s mind.

He finds himself looking at Kaeda, not her father. Finds himself wondering if she ever had genuine interest in him, or if that interest came entirely from Tathaln. Finally, she lifts her gaze to his, and she wears a strange, pleading look.

“Don’t get me wrong, shadowsinger.” Tathaln says. “This is not a goal that could be achieved overnight. Power takes time to build. I couldn’t take this idea to the High Lord without something to back it up — something to get him on side.”

Azriel shrugs. “But what would you have me do? I’m just a soldier in training—”

“You are a shadowsinger. Do you even realise what an asset that makes you? Perhaps your poor start in life, your mistreatment, has caused you to downplay your potential. But I see it. Your power could be a lethal weapon on a battlefield. And off a battlefield. There is so much you could be doing, and yet Lord Devlon has you landing punches on a sparring dummy and calls it training? You are made for better things than that.”

Praise is…it’s a rare thing, in Azriel’s world. And he doesn’t care about that, because the little praise he does get comes from the people who matter, and that’s all he needs.

But hearing somebody other than his close friends — his family — speak so highly of him, is…new. And he’d be lying if he claimed not to like it.

Still, Tathaln is clearly beating around the proverbial. Azriel almost doesn’t want the discussion to go any further, because his head is already full to the brim with swimming thoughts and close to exploding. But they’ve come this far already; he may as well learn what his role in this bigger agenda would be.

“What is it you want from me, my Lord?” He asks.

A small smile plays on Tathaln’s mouth. His eyes, yet again, are on Azriel’s shadows, rather than Az himself. “As I said, change cannot be made overnight. It would take years — generations, perhaps. I would need enough males — strong males — backing my cause, before the High Lord would even hear of it. But I am a patient male. I know what I want, what is right for Illyria, and I will do everything in my power to make it happen. Starting with strengthening my camp. Being known as the strongest of all camps. And strengthening my influence, too.”

“And what does that have to do with me?”

“Having your power on my side could be a good thing for me. And I could hone you. I believe this mission starts with you. Abandon Windhaven and take up residence in Fenlaros. Train under my command. Come and see exactly how wasted you are in that place. Come and see what we could build together.”

“You want me to be your pet?” Azriel raises an eyebrow. “Your project?”

“I want to hone your potential and show you what an asset you are. I want Illyrians to be a feared people once more. I want to build the strongest, most powerful army in all of Prythian and make Illyria what it was always supposed to be.”

In the wake of the impassioned speech, silence sweeps in. Azriel is staring at his plate, and he thinks he might be feeling cold all over. There’s a strange tingling at the back of his neck — like a warning sign.

He still doesn’t understand why he’d be integral to such an agenda. He’s a shadowsinger, yes, and that is not to be downplayed, but he’s just Azriel. He’s just an Illyrian who trains to fight, and fights to kill, and to one day be killed. That is simply how it is.

And Windhaven — ugly and cold and harrowing as it is — is his home. His family is there. A cottage that is far too small and cramped to house a group of adults but is always a beacon of light and hope and warmth. A place in which he’s made wonderful memories and felt genuine happiness. He’s happy to tolerate the hellish ways of life around him, because he has beautiful things in front of him.

Beautiful things that wouldn’t follow him to Fenlaros. Yes, he may have broken a rule and breached a camp to attend a party — but doing so under casual circumstances is wildly different to doing so under official ones. As a soldier of Fenlaros — as one of Tathaln’s puppets — he would be expected to adhere to the strict rules and standards that he metes out. Fenlaros would be his territory, and there would be no blurring of those lines.

But could Tathaln really be seeing more potential in Azriel than had ever been noticed before? Could it truly be that Fenlaros has more to offer him? More to be done for him?

“I would be turning my back on everything I know.” Az says, the mere words tasting sour in his mouth. “My loved ones. The family I’ve built. They would be left behind. I’m not under any illusion that you’d allow our two camps to interact if I came here.”

Tathaln dips his chin. “I am not going to sugarcoat that. It would be an adjustment, and a painful one at first. But there is far more for you here, shadowsinger. I simply ask that you consider it. Just as I believe your two brothers would consider it, if I were to present the offer to them.”

“And why haven’t you? Presented it to them? Why me?”

Those dark, calculating eyes swallow him up. “I need a shadowsinger. It starts with you.”

Azriel isn’t even sure what that means, and he doesn’t want to think about it any longer. There’s a lump in his throat. His appetite is well and truly gone. He might even be sick.

He couldn’t possibly leave his family. The thought makes him violently ill.

“As I said, all I ask is for your consideration.” Tathaln watches him. And then his eyes slide to his daughter. “As this meal is clearly over, perhaps Kaeda should show you around Fenlaros. Show you what this place might have to offer. Give the shadowsinger a tour, my sweet.”

Kaeda smiles broadly. “Yes, father.”

Az wants to refuse, but he can’t find the words. Too much is going on in his head. He wants to get out of there and go straight back to Windhaven, where it’s familiar and where love waits for him. He doesn’t want to be a component in a greater agenda.

When he met Kaeda, it was simply about…exploring attraction. About experiencing. Not about this.

But he can’t fucking speak. He stands without telling his body to stand.

And for some reason, when Kaeda slides her hand into his, murmurs a soft “come, Azriel”, he doesn’t protest.

Numb and stunned and sick to his stomach he may be. But he follows.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Azriel isn’t sure if he’s heard a single word that has left Kaeda’s mouth.

She speaks, and yet it’s simply background noise. He can’t hear around the screeching in his head.

He should really just take to the skies and fly home, but perhaps he’s already a puppet — his feet stay on Fenlaros turf. Kaeda guides him around the camp as though the conversation at dinner never happened. She shows him her favourite haunts and introduces him to people whose names he forgets instantly.

It's up on a viewpoint overlooking the camp, just he and Kaeda alone, that he finally releases a slow, weary breath. He folds his arms against the railing and welcomes the cold air biting into his skin. Kaeda stands just a short distance away.

“We call this area the Widow’s Watch.” She says, daring a step closer. “It’s said that centuries ago, at the end of battle, the camp wives would gather up here with firelit torches and await their husbands’ return. If their husband returned, they’d extinguish the torch. Those that were left burning signified who did not return from war.”

Azriel says nothing; isn’t sure he’s capable. He digs his fingers into his arm.

Eventually, Kaeda stops at his side, also bracing her arms on the railing. She looks out over the camp wistfully, as though she can see hordes of wounded soldiers returning home. “I can’t imagine how eerie that sight must have been — the beacons of the dead painting the sky with fire.”

“No,” the agreement leaves the shadowsinger unexpectedly — surprises even him. “Neither can I.”

It’s then that Kaeda angles herself towards him just slightly. He meets her gaze. She’s so very beautiful — the kind of female that artists beg to paint. Her cheekbones are high and defined, her lips full. Her eyes look like shards of glimmering green rock. Never is there a hair out of place. Never a stray lash or smudged rouge. She is, quite simply, a vision.

But Az finds himself wondering if he’s ever known any part of her, or if she’s just following orders.

“I know you must have questions.” She eyes him cautiously.

“So many that my brain can’t keep up.” He takes a small step away. “Have you ever been genuinely interested in me?”

“I have.”

“Your father literally sent you to cozy up to me.”

Her eyes shutter, thick lashes fanning against her skin. “It wasn’t like that, Azriel. I mean — it was, to some degree. You’re right that my father sent me, and that he already had his sights set on you. I work for him. I’m training as his spymaster.” She opens those eyes again — wide. “Yes, he told me to get to know you. But he didn’t say romantically. That was all me. I just…like you.”

Gods, it should feel good, feel like a positive thing, to hear that. To know that the beautiful female he’s been getting to know these past months has genuine interest in him.

But he feels…nothing. No sense of relief. Only the anger that’s still simmering at this entire thing being orchestrated by her father.

“Does it not bother you?” His tone is brusque, sharp, as he stares Kaeda down. “That your father has you do his bidding? You’re a pawn in a game.”

“My father has a vision. It is an honour to serve him, and to be a contributor to that vision eventually coming to fruition. I will not apologise for that.”

“A vision. To create…to create one fucking super camp that he is to oversee? It sounds to me like your father has a hunger for power. Things have worked this way in Illyria for millennia. Why should they be changed now?”

Kaeda shakes her head. “You’re wrong. Things aren’t working. That’s just the problem.”

“You—”

“Are you proud to be an Illyrian, Azriel?” She steps closer to him; perhaps too close. “I’m not. Not with how things are right now. But I want to be. We are a warrior race. We are supposed to train, and fight, and protect. We’re supposed to be formidable. We’re supposed to be feared. But with the way things are going, fewer and fewer of those things are remaining true. If we don’t change how things are run across these camps and light a fire under our soldiers’ asses, half of our people could be wiped out when the next war comes. The Illyrian race could cease to exist entirely, and our legacy will be left at the mercy of rhyme and tale. We can’t allow that to be the case.”

Azriel studies her.

Her passion is…intense, yes, but also strangely beautiful. There’s a ferocity in her eyes that is so rare among a people who live and breathe misery; whose lot in life is to die.

That doesn’t mean, of course, that he appreciates Tathaln’s scheming, nor Kaeda’s. But they’re not exactly wrong in that ambition is a rare commodity these days. Those who can train for the Illyrian army do so because it’s what is expected of them. Those who aren’t cut out for it make do with everyday jobs around camp. Nobody has pride or passion. Nobody is prepared for war.

So Azriel’s shoulders relax just a little, even though his scepticism remains very much present. “I still don’t understand why I am being scouted for this cause, though. Why not take it to the High Lord? Or why not get Rhysand on side?”

Kaeda shakes her head. “As my father explained, we simply don’t have enough backing to go to the High Lord about this idea — not yet. He knows of my father’s opinion and even agrees that things need to change, but such a complex idea requires careful handling. And conspiring with his son about it would surely not put us in his favour.”

“So…what? I’m the next best thing?”

“After Rhysand, you’re the most powerful, yes. Your influence could aid us greatly. I don’t think you realise how highly coveted you are. Every other camp is aware of the fact that Windhaven has a shadowsinger. And they’re equally aware that your abilities aren’t being put to their full potential under Lord Devlon’s command. Changes will be made whether you accept my father’s offer or not, Azriel. But the changes we’re proposing are the best ones. The right ones.”

“I don’t see what’s right about having to leave my friends — my brothers—”

“Gods, Azriel, just…just take the emotion out of this for five seconds and listen to me.”

Az’s jaw clenches. “I am listening.”

“Then hear me clearly. Change is coming. It’s inevitable. And one thing I can tell you with absolute certainty is that even if you weren’t to come to Fenlaros, you would still be separated from your friends, or your brothers, or whatever you call them.” She hovers close enough to touch, now, mere inches from him. “One thing I’ve picked up on in Windhaven is that Lord Devlon is very intimidated by the strength of you, Cassian and Rhysand being together. The older you get, the more powerful you’re becoming, and people are growing aware of that. Devlon intends to separate the three of you, and by any means necessary. He can’t risk the threat you pose to him. He’ll tear you apart.”

The information doesn’t surprise Az one bit. He’s sensed a growing panic amongst Devlon and his cronies. They don’t stand a chance against the future High Lord and his two closest friends. And Azriel doesn’t doubt that if physical separation didn’t work, the callous bastards would resort to something far, far worse. Or try, at least.

But still, none of this is making any fucking sense to him. He needs a stiff drink. Or twenty. “How would coming to Fenlaros solve that in any way?”

“Beating Devlon at his own game — separating yourself from your brothers — will lure him into a false sense of security. With you gone, it’ll be one less problem to worry about. He’ll let his guard down. Meanwhile, we’ll be building our influence here and forming a case that can be taken to the High Lord. With his support of our changes, we’ll have the power to do more. And then eventually…eventually, your brothers can join you here. When we have more ground to work on. My father would never begrudge the bond the three of you have. He’d see it as a positive…having three such powerful Illyrians under his command.”

Too much to think about. Way, way too much. Azriel just wants to get out of there. He wants to lie down in a dark room and pretend nothing and no one exists.

But he stares at Kaeda. And he asks, “And what of Y/N? Could she come here, too?”

There’s a very slight hesitance — small, but certainly there. But then she purses her lips, and she shrugs. “Whatever you want.”

He’s not sure she means it. And that…that’s a whole other rabbit hole he’s not sure he can face going down right now. Another situation entirely.

Before he can say anything else, Kaeda closes the gap between them. She cups his face and leans up, close enough that their mouths are almost touching.

“Just think about it. That’s all I ask.” She says. “I really do like you, Azriel. And I really do think we could have something. Think of what we could do here, together. Of what we could be. We could make history. Just…promise me you’ll think about it.”

His lips part with a response he hasn’t even thought of. But there’s no chance to speak it as Kaeda slants her mouth over his and kisses him slowly, softly. Deeply.

Her fingers sink into the strands of his hair, and she breathes a muted hum into his mouth. She tastes like peppermint and sugar, and she kisses as though she hasn’t just laid the weight of the world on Azriel’s shoulders.

And that weight might be why he’s stiff as a board, barely reacting. Or it might be the horrible feeling of dread that this is all wrong. He kissed another female, earlier today — and that kiss had felt like burning, eternal sunshine.

This one feels like…like a ploy.

“Just promise me.” She pulls away just enough to whisper. “Promise me you’ll think about it.”

There’s no way he can’t think about it. The seeds have been sown. And perhaps he feels a little slither of guilt for how rigid and cold he currently is, because he doesn’t shoot her plea down like he should.

He sucks in a slow breath and inclines his head.

“Okay.” He says. “I’ll think about it.”

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

The fucking wall is Azriel’s fucking face.

At least, that’s what the fuck you tell yourself as you send a dagger hurtling at it and watch it bury its point into the surface. Another scuff mark to add to the growing smattering, all courtesy of you.

Fuck. Him.

You’re not sure you’ve ever felt so angry in your life, and Cauldron knows, you’ve had ample reason to. But this anger is…it’s consuming. It’s violent and jagged and nauseating. It’s claws sinking into your heart and your brain and dissecting everything that plagues you in both sleep and consciousness.

And it’s this severe because you care. You care so very much.

You’re sick of caring.

Why would he kiss you, after all that has happened since the last time? To taunt you? To grab your feelings in his fist and twist them? To practice on you?

And to think you almost gave in to that strange, carnal need to have his hands on you again. You cannot — will not — allow yourself to think about which deeper emotion or desire that need is rooted in. Thinking will lead only to realisations that may destroy you yet.

And he’s probably with Kaeda right now, too. Perhaps losing himself in her, forgetting all about you with the aid of her touch—

You scowl and march to the wall, yanking your dagger out. Your anger and your need to just…move, is keeping you warm, at least. Nighttime in the old armoury is about as pitiful as can be imagined, but the relentless cold is actually a strange…relief. It hurts in a satisfying way.

How fucking dare he, your mind chants, not for the first time, as you stalk back to your spot. How dare he treat you as though you’re nothing? You brace yourself and send the dagger hurtling towards the wall once again—

The door is suddenly bursting open, and the weapon only just misses Cassian’s face on its journey as he strides in, arms full of items you don’t care to look at.

He stops abruptly. Blinks. “Did you just throw a dagger at me?”

“No.” You immediately scowl, stalking over to retrieve it yet again. “Fuck you.”

“Ouch. Fuck you right back. I brought blankets and food.”

“Shove them up your ass.”

“I’d really rather not.” He kicks the door shut behind him and strides over to the pile of your scant belongings, dropping his items and freeing his arms. He turns back to you with raised eyebrows. “Is there a particular reason you’re acting like a little storm cloud, or is it just a way to pass the time?”

Finally, you sheath your blade — partly because you’re not sure you trust yourself with it right now. You face your friend, fully aware that you’re out of line and fully resentful of the fact.

“I had an argument with Az.” You admit, not even certain you mean to.

Cassian’s eyebrows raise. “Well, that explains why he nearly bit my head off earlier, too. What did you fight about?”

Do you tell him? Do you confess all your complicated, messed up feelings — the bizarre circumstances that brought them about — when you haven’t even sorted through them yourself? No. You can’t. It’s a bit too soon for that.

“It was…nothing.” You stalk over to your things. “Just nothing.”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing—”

“Thank you for bringing me these.” You toe a thick blanket with your boot.

Yet again, Cassian’s eyebrows go up. “Are you hinting at me to leave?”

“Just because I have to face the night in this hovel, doesn’t mean you should be subjected to the same fate. I wouldn’t expect that of you.”

“Well, fucking expect it, because I’m staying—”

“Cass—”

“Come here.” He opens his arms. “Right now.”

You stare at him. And in that instant, with him seeing you — seeing everything you are, everything you’re feeling, what you need — your anger simmers, and it threatens to turn into tears.

“You clearly need a hug.” He points out softly. “And I’ve missed you this past week. So come here.”

In an instant, you crumble. You’re stepping forward and damn near falling into Cassian’s arms. He catches you, just like he always catches you.

His arms band around you, warmer and more secure than any blanket. He pulls you tightly against him, and you allow your arms to snake around his waist. It’s only then that you realise how much you need the firmness of his body to hold you up. He’s like a huge, supporting wall that stops you sinking to your knees.

“I’m so sad.” You whisper, nestling your face into his chest. His scent and his warmth permeate his clothes, and they combine and wash over you in a soothing combination.

“I know.” His broad hand cups the back of your head. “Everything is a huge mess right now. But we’re going to get through it — together.”

You hate that you can’t believe him; not right now. Everything is too up in the air, too uncertain. A dark mass has followed you around this camp for the entirety of your life, and it’s closer than ever to closing in and snuffing out who you are.

“How can you be so sure?” You ask. “I don’t think I have the strength to fight anymore, Cass.”

He pulls back to study you. To cup your face and look into your eyes. “Yes.” He says firmly. “You do. You always have and you always will. There is nothing — nothing — you can’t face. I truly believe that, Y/N.”

Staring back at him feels just like…like the night in the cottage, when you lost yourself in him. Him being there for you, speaking the words that are so hard to believe and yet so what you need to hear. The same urge arises in you to give over to those feelings. Do something for yourself for once.

You think Cassian might read that thought on your face. Perhaps you wear it shamelessly.

He studies you closely — studies you hard. And his throat bobs as his eyes flit down to your lips.

“Y/N.” He says. “Let me make you feel good.”

You swallow, also. And you don’t need to think about it. “Yes.” You nod. “Yes.”

In a flash, he’s closing the gap between you, his mouth finding yours. The hot and heavy weight of his lips is a relief. One that makes you release a soft sigh.

You don’t let yourself think about the fact that you were kissing Azriel in this very building only earlier. Nor about the fact that it could have gone much further than that. Cassian gives you himself, and you take, your hands bunching in his jacket as you haul him against you.

His hand fists in your hair, tilting your face up to him. And as his mouth stains yours with his urgent need, he’s backing you up, walking you back and back until you collide with that very table that Az kissed you on earlier. Cassian picks you up in an easy sweep and places you on the tabletop. He parts your legs and slots himself in between, his mouth never once leaving yours, never once faltering.

Until he parts from you and says, “Lie back.”

With his hand guiding you down, you do just that. You sprawl out on that table, anticipation coiling in your stomach. It warms you from the inside, makes your skin too hot and your clothes too heavy.

Cassian doesn’t mess around with teasing or taunting. He drags his hands over your breasts, your stomach, and down to the laces at your breeches. You don’t care about the cold air. You lift your hips and wish only for him to undo those laces faster. You want your skin bare, and his touch marking it.

“I didn’t get to taste you last time.” Your friend pants, pressing a kiss to your abdomen. “Will you let me now?”

Goosebumps erupt over you skin. You grip onto the edges of the table and breathe, desperately. “Yes. Please.”

So boldly, he yanks your breeches and undergarments down in one go. His fingers find the very centre of you, already soaked, already ready for him. What he finds there makes him groan.

“Here? You’ll let me taste you here?”

“Please.” You pant again. “Just…please, Cass. I need this.”

“I know.” A kiss lands on your skin. “I know.”

His hands drag down your legs at the same time he sinks to his knees. You bow your head forward — just to watch the predatory grace with which he aligns his face with your sex. He licks his lips like you’ve presented him with his most carnal desire.

He inhales slowly — breathes in your scent. A growl rips from his throat.

And then he dives right in.

His tongue licks a stripe up your centre, from your entrance, up to your clit. Your hips buck at the contact, one hand moving to bunch within his hair. As his tongue swirls over your clit, pleasure barrels through you that ends in a cry.

“Your taste is fucking divine.” Cass groans, and his hands pry your legs further apart. He wastes no time in lapping at your juices, damn near fucking drinking you down. He drinks and drinks like a male parched. “Gods, Y/N.”

“More.” You gasp, thrusting your hips towards him. You grind your cunt against his face, and you can’t stop your body jerking, your head lolling back. “Gods, Cass, more.”

“More?” His teeth graze against the sensitive nub. “Tell me what you need.”

“Your mouth. Fingers. You.”

A delicious, sinful chuckle, so incredibly deep and lilting, breaks from Cass and vibrates against you. He lands a harsh suck on your clit. “I love how filthy you are.”

And he shows you how much he loves it, as one finger suddenly gathers up your wetness and teases your entrance. You moan, plead, beg him to slip it into you. He does so at the same time that he fastens his lips to your clit and strokes at it with his tongue.

You feel him smile against you. Your responses seem to provide him with almost as much pleasure as your touch would.

“Just like that.” He growls the words onto you, sliding his finger out and back in — adds a second one. “Take what you need. Fuck my fingers.”

You need this pleasure. This release. He has no idea how much you need it. Nobody does. You need to feel like somebody else, feel like you’re somewhere else. You need to feel something other than…blinding pain.

And so you take what you fucking need, undulating your hips and moving yourself on his fingers, against his tongue. Cassian follows your lead, keeps up with your pace. As your moans pick up, so do the thrusts of his hand.

“Going to come for me?” His hand moves faster. “Come around my fingers?”

“Yes.” You throw your head back. “Fuck—Cass.”

“Come.” He growls. “Want to feel you.”

It’s as if your body is fully under his command, because the words have your climax bursting through your body and chasing you from every negative feeling that’s been plaguing you. It feels beautifully catastrophic, fucking mind-altering. It feels like an out of body experience.

You know, somewhere in your mind, that you’re being loud, but you don’t give a single damn. You welcome your orgasm and allow it to consume you. You allow your loud, gasping noises to echo around the building.

But perhaps it’s the loud volume of those noises that prevents both you and Cass from hearing the door open behind you. Perhaps it’s the heat of your passion that makes you immune to the sudden gust of cold air.

Whatever it is, neither of you notice a third presence until a voice bellows behind you.

“Cauldron fucking boil me, my eyes!”

Both you and Cass rise with a start, you scrambling to cover yourself. A horrified expression stares back at you both.

“Roza.” You both say at the same time. Both blink in shock, too.

Rhysand’s mother covers her eyes with her hand and turns her back to you.

“Please correct yourselves before you traumatise me any more.” She says. “Can’t turn my back on you idiots for five gods-damn minutes.”

azriel tags: @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @sirenpearldust @queercodedcharacter @azriels-shadowsinger @ruler-of-hades @demi03 @magicaldragonlady @abrielletargaryen @ralsieq @v3lv3tf0x @achase2002 @feyretopia @hayrunnwr @don’t-feed-the-hipsters @brekkershadowsinger @piceous21 @bloodicka @acourtofinkandpapyrus @riri-is-agirlie @siriusement @4valyries @socmono @azriels-mate123 @acourtofbatboydreams @katherinearcheron @nesemi @lupinswolfsbanes @dreaming-unafraid @dxnniiix @cyrygher @liddyr03 @lmllsl @nightless @teenageeggscissorslawyer @brighterthanlonelythoughts @blitz-fall @maybefoxysouls @mschanand1erbong @juiceboxreads @bangtanbecks @florencemtrash @hyemishii @obixix @thenovarose @meshellexplosionmurder @angzlxna @lissy31xoxo-blog @supernatural99 @positivewitch @art3-m1ss @milfhunter-pdx @bbuckysbeardd

1K notes · View notes

heartfullofleeches · 1 year

Text

Table 9

Yan Customer + Fast Food Worker Reader + Yan Entities (Mascot, Bathroom Succubus) [18+ mdni]

Summary: Tired of a frequent customer's daily attempts to ask you out, you take your spite to the next level

Warnings/Tags: Food/Cum Play, masturbation, handjobs, rimming, Reader's gender unspecified but they have a peen(amab), aphrodisiacs, slight crack

"Pick up for table seven!"

Morning rush - the calm within the neverending storm. Not even a full twelve hours since you've been away from your job, and here you were manning the front as usual. You weren't scheduled to come in until noon, but somewhere around dawn your coworker made the mistake of opening the drive-through window. Pickfork or not, an angry customer banging on the glass was a safer choice that whatever resided in there. While hectic and overwhelming at times, you welcomed the morning hustle with open arms and as big a smile your weary spirit could muster. The distraction kept your mind off what was to come. The dreaded hour and number that itched at the back of your mind with each passing customer. You don't know if you have the strength today.

"Next!"

"Good afternoon... Y/n~"

Oh no. No. Your head snaps towards the clock. 12:00pm. You duck beneath the counter to check the number of table markers left. There's only one remaining - the identifying curve of the digit in the shadows a mocking grin. Spinning to your feet as if nothing happened, you will the smile of someone held at gun point at the familiar face. A well dressed individual stood before you; neat suit, manicured nails. If you had to guess, they were about your age if not a couple years older, but the twinkle in their eye and lack of wrinkles gave them that youthful patience this job was draining you of. All in all, they appeared to be just another business person grabbing a quick meal on their way to work - but you knew better.

"Afternoon! What can I get you today?"

"Oh, I'm sure we know each other well enough by now to know what I want. I'll have the usual." They point up at the menu, but their sight lingers upon you - the only feast they sought after.

A chill worse than a night in the meat locker courses down your spine as their tongue draws over their pearly whites and smooth lips. Table 9 - whereas the number marker of most booths changed with a new order, there was only one that retained its title and customer. A tiny, two seater in the right corner of the establishment - the perfect view point for the various crimes you committed on their assorted beverages.

The first indication there was something truly wrong with this person came when they had reported finding one of your hairs in their food. When you offered to replace it, they merely thanked you for your hard work and placed the stray lock in the locket they currently wore around their neck. You later found your hair to be uneven on one end when you took a shower. The limits of their depravity had no end. You once spat in their cup in viewing range out of retaliation for their insistency on joining them on a nice walk to their van for a nice reward for all your efforts. You came to your senses as soon as the spit flew, but they beckoned you and their treat over before you could throw it out - downing half of it right in front of you. You can't help but repeat the action everytime they enter despite the joy and hunger in their eyes when you pass it off.

"Right - one small vanilla ice cream in a sundae container. Will that be all?"

"Actually, I was hoping you could make it extra special for me. You see, today is my birthday and while I enjoy everything your fire establishment has to offer - I fear I am craving something... different. I do pray I'm not being greedy by saying this, but I simply can't get enough of you."

Something different? If they're referring to you spitting in their cup - what else could they want?

"They want you to jizz in their ice cream."

The plume of heavy perfume and medical herbs assaults your nostrils in the same time that her voice has on the rest of your senses. Your coworker nibbles on the straw of her beverage, offering you a wave and a wink as your eyes shift between her and the customer. They wouldn't want that.

"Ignore her - I'm sure whatever you need won't break anymore health code violations than we already have." You slowly eye the customer up and down. "I'm seventy percent sure whatever you need won't break anymore health code violations than we already have."

Gentle blush dusts their hollow cheek. They hide the curl of their lips with their fist as they glance elsewhere. "W-well.... I wouldn't be opposed to it.

They definitely want that.

Your coworker gently nudges your arm. "Eh, I say you should do it. It's their birthday after all and your break's still an hour away. I'll handle business up here until you get back."

You raise an eyebrow. "Normally you and the rest of them are quick to get rid of anyone who so much as breathes at me after I take their order." Your shoulders slump as the realization hits you. "You predicted this somehow and want to watch me on the security cameras during your next break."

"I totally did - and do. Plus, I'm fairly certain that guy isn't human either and after seeing what those hands in the ball pit can do, I really don't want to get my ass kicked unless you're in real trouble."

"Figures.... Alright, fine - I'll do it." Taking off your apron and setting it on the counter, you smack the customer's hands away from it as you finish their order. You grab the dreaded number from beneath the desk and hand it to them. They wait patiently for your command - you roll your eyes. "Don't just stand there - you know where to go."

"Hm, true - I just wanted to hear your voice longer. To picture the blessed sounds you'll make for me back there."

"Don't push it."

Your coworker thrusts her cup into your hands. "Drink some. It'll help you finish quicker."

You mindlessly wrap your lips around the bitten draw. "How is watered down diet cola supposed to help me?"

"Infused with my spit."

Oh...right. It's fairly easy to forget your coworker is a succubus when she wears contacts to hide the blacks of her eyes and your uniform hat already comes with horns. Your head swims: vision spotty as your breathing grows ragged. Startled and aroused by the soft flesh pressed against your arm, your eyes dart to her as she nestles your arm in her chest - lacey black bra poking from her unbuttoned shirt.

You shutter as she blows against your neck. "If....we ever get that priest out of the ball pit, I'm giving him your address first."

"And I love you too - now get going."

You stumble forward as she pushes you on - shaking legs and a heavy body tugging you through the kitchen; the waypoint task of grabbing a sundae cup near impossible with the weightlessness of your limbs. You tumble your way into the empty break room, dragging your work pants down to mid thigh and your shirt over stomach as you relieve the building strain in your underwear. You flinch as the drooling tip slaps against your navel; hand firm around the base. You fist your cock to full mass as the cup flies across the table; your back hunched as you lurch across the wooden surface. Swallowing the end of your shirt to stifle your panting breaths, the cold, ventilated air nibs at your bare torso and thighs.

The stimulant in your coworker's saliva taking full effect - your mind floods with crude imagery as your cock throbs painfully in your hand. Pressing the plush of your palm to your girth, your thoughts draw back to your dear coworker and her innocent ploy of placing your arm against her breast; how they spilled out of her top daily and the way she battered her eyes when she caught you staring. Rutting your cock between her tits and waiting tongue would be too much for you right about now. You thought about that annoying customer taking her place on their knees before you; eyes cloudy with love-struck awe and desire as you stroked yourself to completion and came down their eager throat.

"S...shit...hah..." You groan loudly, the shift of the table as your hips snap against your wrist perfectly masking the creak of break room door as it glides open. The figure cranes its large body and neck to peer in at you as you attempt to fix the table while still fisting your dick in one hand. You linger in your agonizing high, unaware of its presence - until it begins to whistle.

The mascot.

You turn back in time to see that hulking figure maneuver its curving horns through the doorframe as it enters the room. Its chest extends with a stale breath; unblinking eyes training on your smaller stature and leaking member. The lack of bloodstains on its apron and leather gloves tells you its been unsuccessful with its daily hunts, but something warns it wasn't after human flesh in its preferred cut.

Lambchop the goat demon. Obviously not your choice in naming, but you settled on just calling it what it was. The humanoid devil had been responsible for majority of the disappearances around the restaurant and number four on your headache list. Whether as it met your fellow coworkers with butcher knives and their fallen companions in nugget containers, it greeted you with bouquets of flowers and signals to braid your hair as you worked. It wasn't the most annoying entity, but you'd prefer to have the extra hands it keeps chopping off. You'd never seen under its mask, but considering everything else that went on here you didn't expect to see much.

The Mascot stalks towards you, lowering its clever to the floor and its head in curiousity. You chew your lower lip as its hands come up to your sweaty, quivering thighs. The skin beneath your teeth breaks as it pads a finger to your balls - eyes worked back up at you.

"Make it quick."

You don't need to tell it twice. Gripping your shoulders, the mascot spins you on your heels and takes your cock into its leathery hand, pointed finger tips curling against your abdomen. It tucks its claws into its palm as it rubs your length; the harsh, yet tender pressure to your dick making your head spin as it did the first hit of the aphrodisiac. You hear the tear of fabric and soon find the mascot's slimy tongue coursing the vein lines in your neck - teeth locking around the sensitive flesh of your collar. You whimper at the spill of your blood over its fangs and the shameful ecstasy as it suckles the area and teases your nipple between its fingers. The mascot looks down to see the bounce of your ass against its thigh as you fuck its fist with another bout of sinful cries - suddenly pushing you over as your stomach twists in knots.

"the hell are you.....ngh!"

You grit your teeth as the mascot tanks your pants and shorts down to your ankles. Its long, heavy tongue darts out and licks the precum glazed head, dragging up the underside of your twitching cock to your balls and finally pressing against your asshole. You claw at the table for mercy as the thick appendage works its grithy slime into your tight hole; large hand gripping your cheek and spreading them apart as it wriggles against your walls. Its saliva drips down over your balls as it explodes; staining your cock black as it smears the drool into your shaft as it continues to milk you off your building worth. You clench around the muscle, legs close to giving out before its strong arms and shoulders catch - tongue fucking back atop the creaking table. You reach back to grab its horns with your noodly limbs, all remaining strength lost as you cry out.

"Fuck!... slow...slow down. I can't-"

"Y/n! You almost done in there!?"

You blink away tears as you call out. "Y-yea! I'm...ah- coming... I'll be there soon!"

The mascot slams its tongue into your ass; mixture of its length and thickness reaching deeper than you could with your fingers and hitting all the right spots that made retrieving the cup a feat. You nearly forgot about it, and the whole reason you came in here with your mind void of all thoughts beyond your impending climax. You tug the mascot's horn, begging for pause so you can fit the plastic container beneath you. It completely ignores you and swats your hand away, leaving you to struggle getting it under the table as you rock back on its tongue and snout. Your tip hits the bottom of the cup as your vision whites; full body trembling as you shoot ropes of your milky cum into the container. The mascot drills you vigorously through your earthshaking orgasm, ripping another out of you before you're able to call it off through whines. It stands up and takes the cup lose in your sweaty hands, aiming your dick at its rim as the dribbles of your spend run down its interior. The mascot pulls you up against its clothed chest, patting your head and praising you with soft hums as it picks your pants up off the floor and loops the buckle around your waist all with one hand. It stares, unblinking at you glance back - awaiting its reward. You kiss its cheek as you lower your shirt.

"Thanks."

The mascot nuzzles your cheek with its nose, watching and licking its stained hand as it leaves the way it came. It looks back at the cup - almost remorseful in its stare. Looking down at the cup, you see it filled roughly halfway with your spunk - likely increase by the effects of the naturally produced drug. You cringe as you pick it up, stumbling your way back out the break room and to the ice cream machine. You glare down the dreaded box and the spirit inside as you grab its handle.

"Do not.... fuck with me today."

The machine quietly dispenses the ice cream, the creamy white mostly masking the translucent fluid at the bottom. The machine let's you go about your day with no further issue - ghost hover off, disappointed. "A kiss would've been nice."

You wobble your way to the front; clothes wrinkled and hanging off your shoulders, body sweaty and hair clinging to your face. You fix your hat as you straighten yourself against the counter, slamming the container down - clutching your chest as you breath. "Order for Table... 9..."

"Ah!" The customer snatches the ice cream up, lips aimed directly for the freezing rizz on the edge of the cup. They sight in delight, stiff posture relaxed in favor of their newfound taste of paradise. "Heavenly~ I do pray this will be on the minute in the future."

The customer takes their spoon and another bite as they hum happily to themselves, skipping towards their table. You call up the next customer who points at them.

"Can I get whatever they had?"

".....might want to rethink that decision."

#yandere oc #yandere #yandere imagines #yandere x you #yandere headcanons #yandere insert #yandere scenarios #yandere blurb #yandere x reader #yandere smut #yandere teratophilia #yandere drabble #tw yandere #fast food reader

1K notes · View notes

fuckyeahfluiddynamics · 9 months

Text

Flipping Ice

In nature ice is ever-changing -- growing, shrinking, and shifting. This poster illustrates that with a cylinder of ice floating in room temperature water. (Image and research credit: B. Johnson et al.) Read the full article

#2023 gofm #flow visualization #fluid dynamics #ice #melting #physics #plumes #schlieren photography #science

96 notes · View notes

hairmetal666 · 1 year

Text

Eddie's hanging out with Steve at Family Video when Robin stomps in like a whirlwind.

"Oh, god, I did something so dumb. You have to help meee."

They straighten from where they lean over the counter towards each other, and Eddie takes a big step back, sure that all his big gay feelings for Steve are on display.

"What did you do this time?" Steve smiles with exasperated fondness.

"It's so bad." Robin faceplants with a dramatic wail.

"What happened?" Eddie asks

"I--I'm so sorry!" She looks at both of them, and a tingle of panic works it's way up Eddie's spine.

"My parents started going on and on about me and Steve and why we won't just admit we're dating, and I started to freak out because they won't accept that we're just friends, and I'm not ready to tell them that I'm a lesbian, even though I think it would be okay, so, I told them you were dating someone, Steve."

"Well, that's not so bad, Rob. So, what, they think I have a girlfriend? Who cares."

Her shoulders slump and she frowns. "I wish that's what they thought. They kept asking who, and I panicked!"

"Robin." Steve looks alarmed now, his pretty mouth pulled into a grimace. "What did you tell them?"

"Okay, please don't hate me," she begs. She's looking at Steve, but then she's looking over at Eddie. And oh, god, oh fuck, this can't be happening.

"You've got to be kidding me, Buckley," he says. He keeps his voice light but the touch of panic has become a punch.

"Wait. How do you know--how does he--? Who am I dating?"

"Me, Harrington. She told them you were dating me."

"Oh," Steve shrugs. "Sure."

Eddie chokes on air, plays it off. "For you maybe, Stevie. We in the Munson household have standards."

Steve doesn't meet a beat. "I'll have you know, Edward, that I am a catch."

"Yeah, for the lovely ladies of Hawkins," Eddie winks, even though every word, every gesture aches.

"Oh, c'mon! I'm a great boyfriend. Defend me here, Robin"

Normally, Eddie finds these antics to be charming, but confronting his crush on Steve so forcefully has ruined his mood.

"Need a cigarette," he says to escape.

He's only alone for a few minutes before Steve is sidling up next to him.

"What's she need us to do?"

"Dinner."

He grimaces, exhaling a plume of smoke. "I'm so bad at meeting the parents."

"Shut-up." Steve pokes him in the chest. "Everyone loves you. It's kind of obnoxious, actually. Plus, I think this'll help her feel more comfortable about coming out."

He snorts if only so he doesn't have to think about Steve talking about him and love in the same sentence.

"Fine. For Buck, I'll do it." But he doesn't know how he'll get through pretending to date his biggest crush with out spontaneously combusting.

"Love the enthusiasm," Steve laughs. "You know I'd treat you right, Munson."

The blush that rolls over his face is crimson. "Alright, big boy, calm down. We're not actually dating."

The bark of laughter Steve lets out is a burst of pure adrenaline to Eddie's heart. This is going to be a disaster.

---

The night of the dinner arrives and Eddie almost blows the whole game when they walk in the Buckley front door and Steve's arm wraps around his waist. The night is all casually intimate touches and Steve leaning into his personal space; calling him "baby" in a soft, warm voice; eyes drifting to Eddie's lips as they flirt and banter.

It's almost like they're a couple; almost like Steve could love him.All of his senses are overwhelmed with Steve Harrington and it fucking hurts. But Eddie lets himself indulge, finally running his fingers through Steve's gorgeous hair, tracing the moles on his face and neck, outlining the sharpness of his perfect jaw, calling him "sweetheart" with heartbreaking fondness.

It's intoxicating.

They're helping Mrs. Buckley with the dishes when it happens. When Steve leans over and casually presses his lips to Eddie's, tasting like vanilla ice cream and spiced apples and something indefinably warm. Eddie is helpless not to crumple, leans into Steve, wraps fists into the perfectly fitted polo, drawing them closer.

The night ends and Eddie thinks he's finally free, except the Buckleys love them. Keep inviting them back.

He goes for Robin, he tells himself, but he knows that it's for the hope of it. Knows that he's a ship breaking himself against the rock that is Steve Harrington, and god help him, he can't stop.

---

Of course, of course, the wires get crossed. The kids have a pool party, leave Steve and Eddie to ice cream clean-up duty. Of course, he can't stop himself from smearing some melted mint chip down Steve's face, and Steve retaliates with chocolate sauce.

They giggle and flight and make mess until Steve's eyes are bright, cheeks red, and Eddie can't look away. He clocks Steve's eyes drifting to his mouth, is helpless as the distance between them closes, as Steve captures his lips.

It's not the brief, chaste things from the Buckley's; it's hot, all tongues and teeth and desire, and it's not fucking real.

Eddie lurches back, making Steve stumble. "Stop," he snarls.

"Eddie--" Steve's eyes are wide.

He's panting, can't catch his breath. "You can't just fucking kiss me like that when it doesn't mean anything to you."

"Please," Steve begs. "Let me explain."

"Save it. We're done with this. Robin is good now. And I'm out."

He turns away, heads towards the front door, but Steve pulls him back.

"Let me explain. Please. Please, Eddie. I didn't mean--"

And it's too much. Steve's plaintive voice, his big eyes wet with tears.

"Of course you didn't mean it," he spits. "It's nothing to you, pretending to date me. Touching me. Kissing me. Acting like you love me. It doesn't matter to the Heartthrob of Hawkins. But have you or Buckley ever taken the time to think that it's everything to me?" Hot tears spill down his cheeks and he can't even be embarrassed because all of this has been so humiliating.

Steve gapes at him, face slack and stunned. "Eddie, I--I'm so--"

"Don't. See you around, Harrington," he says. Then he runs.

---

He doesn't leave the trailer for a week. Refuses to pick up the phone.

It's Saturday, early evening. Wayne just left for his shift when there's a knock on the door.

Eddie is content to ignore it, to wrap himself in a quilt on the couch, but the knocking doesn't stop.

"Eddie, I know you're in there. Your van is here. The lights are on. I can hear you," Steve calls.

Longing clenches at his heart, but he's not in the mood for the gentle let down.

"Go away, Harrington." He starts towards his bedroom, thinking maybe he can lock Steve out.

"Please, Eddie."

"I don't need anything from you, Harrington."

It's silent for long enough that Eddie thinks it works. And then, " I have so many things I should tell you, Eds. If you still hate me at the end, I'll go. I'll never bother you again. But please, please listen."

Resigned to having a conversation he never wanted, Eddie opens the door. "Okay, Harrington."

Steve steps inside, twisting his hands for a few seconds before blurting out, "I've had a crush on you for months."

The confession briefly steals Eddie's breath from his lungs before he scoffs, "and you never said anything? C'mon, Harrington, when have you ever hesitated to ask someone out?"

Steve blinks a few times, before he answers. "I've been terrified to say anything because I didn't want to lose my best friend."

"And what, Robin asks us to pretend to date and you think that's the perfect time to make your move?" Eddie grips at his hair, pulling it in front of his face.

"Yeah, a little bit!" Steve raises his voice. "I tried but I was terrified you only wanted me as a friend."

"You know I'm gay, Harrington!"

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Of course I wanted you!" Eddie's yelling now, has closed the distance between them so they're almost nose-to-nose.

"I didn't know! How could I? You could've said something!"

"I thought you were straight! Fucking look at you! You've slept with 75% of the available girls at Hawkins High!"

"Who cares about them, Eddie? I want you!"

"Funny way of showing it, Harrington."

"What do you want me to say? That I'm sorry? Cause I am."

"Is that why you kissed me at your house? Making your move?"

"It wasn't supposed to be. I got--" Steve's throat bobs as he swallows. "Caught up in the moment. I know I shouldn't have kissed you like that. I know."

"Then why did you?" Eddie's voice breaks. "Why then? Why not any of the other nights we spent together?"

"Because that's when I realized that I'm fucking in love with you!" Steve shouts.

They're both breathing hard by the end, Steve's eyes too bright, face too flushed. They stare at each other, unmoving, Steve's confession ringing in his ears.

"You done?" Eddie's voice waivers, his heart pounding, stuttering, flipping in his chest.

Steve nods, but Eddie doesn't give him a chance to move. He brings their mouths crashing together, Steve not even hesitating to slip his tongue between Eddie's lips. They kiss hard enough that they draw blood, but that just makes it more frenzied. Eddie grips Steve's hip, presses him against the trailer door, grinding against him with abandon.

Eddie breaks the kiss to finally pay some attention to the delightful moles on Steve's neck, working his way up to his jaw. "I'm going to have so much fun taking you apart, sweetheart," he whispers, mouth pressed to Steve's ear, delighting in the way he shivers at the words.

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #ficlet #one shot #fake dating #mutual pining #angst #friends to lovers #unrequited love that's totally requited #robin buckley #platonic stobin #eddie munson's big gay feelings for steve harrington #they're in love your honor #they're just bad at the talking part

3K notes · View notes

miguel-owhora · 10 months

Text

SNYOPSIS — i hate this stupid bitch

TYPE — drabble

WARNINGS — 18+ , deepthroating , blowjobs , power imbalance , being mean to the little cunt , vomiting , hurt no comfort

FEM-ALIGNED READERS AND MINORS DNF, YOU WILL BE BLOCKED.

COMMENTS AND REBLOGS ARE HEAVILY APPRECIATED.

TAGS — @sweetcorpse , @tophamhat-kyo , @villainousdelicacy , @realitylemon , @gayaristocrat

The sound of König choking on your cock is perhaps one of the prettiest of sounds you ever have ever heard. It's the sound of angels singing together, of wedding bells in the distance. It sends pleasant shivers done your spine, makes your grip on his head firmer. He's slobbering all over your cock, large hands gripping your thighs as a way to stabilize himself, his pale blue eyes so fucking stupid it makes you want to laugh.

"Mind your teeth, perro," You warned, eyes narrowing as the other man pulled off and turned to the side, coughing. His hand jerked your cock, spreading his spit all over. You reached underneath and gripped his face, grip harsh and bruising. You force him to make eye contact with you, and watched how he struggled to maintain it, pupils blown wide. "Or I'll blow your stupid face out."

Your words are not kind and instead lace with venom, with acid that burned König's soul. Your words are not empty, he knows this. He's worked with you far too long that he knows that you don't bark, you bark and bite, and he's turned several blind eyes to how brutal and cruel you were with your own teammates. You were as cruel as they came, to anyone and anything, and König was often time the subject to your cruelty.

You stared at him a moment later and scoffed, letting go of him and leaning back on your chair - well, König's chair. This was his chair after all, it was his office, but what was his was yours.

Including him.

"Mind if I smoke?" You asked and didn't wait for an answer as you pulled out a pack and then a stick, lighting it up. With one hand, you curled a hand around König's nape and brought him closer to your cock. He quietly whimpered, pumping your cock. He raised his mask a little, just enough to access your cock, and gave a feather kiss to your cockhead. You watched him with half-lidded eyes, pupils dilated and swallowing up your iris, dark pools of sickness.

"Keep the mask on, cunt, don't wanna see that face of yours," You grunted, lips curling into a mean smile. König softly whimpered and slipped your cock into his mouth, nevertheless, always a dutiful whore. You smoked as he slowly bobbed his head, his tongue swirling around your cock, lapping up the precum that seeped out like icing. Only the bottom half of his face, from his nose down, showed. You couldn't bare to see that face of his.

You let out a small groan as he took in more of your cock into his mouth. Your eyes crinkled in sick amusement as you heard him gag, feeling his throat constrict around your girth. What he couldn't take into his mouth, he stroke with his hand. He slowly bobbed his continue, drooling.

You blew a plume of heavy smoke to his face, watching him bat his eyes, tears forming. An idea struck your mind as you gave a quiet curse, feeling your core tighten, your balls constricting.

Without so much as a warning, you gripped the back of König's head with force and pushed him down onto your cock. It was a wonderful sensation, having his throat constrict around your cock, feeling him choke, hearing him gag as he frantically tried to pull off. But all you did was hold him down even firmer, nails digging.

You pulled your cigarette away from your lips, holding it in between your fingers, as you groaned, cursing. Your hips jutted up, unable to restrain yourself, as your cock twitched and pumped cum into König's mouth. König harshly gagged, and something inside of you told you to yank him off. Not one to doubt your intuition, you grabbed him and pulled him right off your cock.

König twisted around and retched his lungs out, pulling his mask up as he vomited.

"Christ almighty, Colonel," You sneered, scrunching up your nose as you watched him, not bothering to help him. There was a twisted sense of amusement that bubbled inside of you as you watched him, watching how he heaved and coughed, choking on his own vomit. "Fucking pathetic. Can't take some dick?"

"Entschuldigung...!" König coughed out, sobbing a little. You snorted, staring at him with distaste. He got so worked up he switched to his native tongue? You would never understand how he got the ranking, how someone so weak and pathetic, could become Colonel. You should've gotten it instead, not this little-

"Whatever." You scoffed, snubbing your cigarette on his arm rest. You flicked the cigarette to the side, uncaring of where it landed. You stuffed yourself back into your pants and stood up, staring down König who didn't look back up, still hunched over on the floor. You wrinkled your nose and scoffed again, turning on your heel and walking out the room, uncaring of what would then happen to König.

466 notes · View notes

sirenedeslily · 11 days

Text

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐒𝐍𝐎𝐖 ‎𐦍 𝐦atthew 𝐬turniolo

❛too tired to move, too tired to leave.❜

𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 a tormenting and bitter autumn fades into an even colder winter, unrelenting flurries shrouding two lovers in a painful veil of memories and grief. a girl, forever haunted by what was lost and what can only unfold beneath the snow, remains trapped in a ceaseless cycle of naive love and unyielding despair’s. she finds solace in the one soul who saw her, truly saw her and gazed lovingly upon her bare, scarred flesh.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠, heavy themes of grief, loss, and death. extreme violence, graphic description of physical abuse. intense emotional turmoil, including scenes of blood, domestic abuse, and parental neglect. dives into suicidal ideation and mental health struggles. little use of religious imagery, just the worst most tragic angst (i hope)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭, 5k !

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞, well !!! haha !!! lol !!! y’all wanted more of the “poison in the water” universe and i didn’t think the last one hurt enough so :p this is fully inspired by “hard times” by ethel cain aswell as jackieshauna from yellowjackets and also lilies + knuckle velvet by hayden again !!! i love our doomed in every universe lovebirds (,:

snowflakes drift from the sky, like tiny, crystallized secrets falling from a heaven that refuses to speak. they flutter around you, landing softly on your skin, kissing your cheeks like cold lips. you stare up at the grey sky, the winter clouds heavy with a weight they can’t hold, threatening to spill over. the air is biting, but the cold doesn’t bother you much anymore. your breath forms misty plumes that fade into the ether as soon as they appear—transient, like everything else in this world.

you turn your head slightly, and there he is—matt, smiling at you from just an arm’s length away. his face is serene, untouched by the frost gathering on his eyelashes. his eyes, usually half-lidded with that perpetual look of exhaustion, are now clear and focused on you. his lips part slightly, and he exhales a soft laugh, visible in the chilled air, and it almost makes you forget how cold you feel.

you both lie side by side, limbs sprawled like the delicate branches of the bare trees surrounding the both of you, creating a canopy over your makeshift resting place. for a moment, it feels like you’re both floating, suspended between the earth and the sky. you smile back, your lips trembling not from cold, but from something deeper—a desperate desire to hold onto this moment, this vision of matt that’s pure and unbroken.

“isn’t it beautiful?” he says, his voice soft as the snow.

“yes,” you whispers, though you’re not sure if you’re responding to him or the way the world seems to slow around you. your fingers twitch, aching to reach out and touch him, to feel the warmth you know won’t be there.

but then, something shifts. a shadow creeps over your consciousness, like dark water lapping at the edges of your mind. you blink, and suddenly, the snow is not so comforting. it’s biting into your skin, sharp and relentless. your hands are covered in something darker than frost—blood. your breath hitches, your chest seizes. matt’s eyes are closed now, his breathing shallow, and you remember—

it had all started with the letter.

the church was always cold, even in the summer, but that day it felt like ice. you stood at the back pew, your fingers trembling as you slipped the letter between the pages of an old, dog-eared bible. this was your spot, where you and matt would sit during the long sermons, half-listening and half-lost in your own world. you thought he'd come here, find it, and know everything you hadn’t been able to say out loud. you didn’t want to see the pity in his eyes when he read her words, but you needed him to understand.

you never noticed it, but you weren’t alone.

your father, the preacher, had come to the church earlier than usual that morning. maybe it was fate or bad luck, but he saw you. he saw the way your hand lingered on the bible, the way your eyes darted around as if you were afraid of being caught. later, when he found the letter and read the confessions hidden within, he didn’t need to guess whom it was for. rage twisted his features as he clenched the paper, the words like a poison seeping into his mind.

he didn’t confront you just yet. no, he waited. binding his time.

“stay with me,” you murmur, and you’re back in the snow again, your voice small, a thin thread against the wind. you reach out to matt, your fingers grazing his, and for a moment, he feels warm. his smile is still there, but there’s a tiredness to it, a heaviness that mirrors the snow pressing down on you.

“you know i’m not going anywhere,” he says, his voice steady and calm. his hand comes up to brush a stray snowflake from your brow, and his touch is so gentle, so tender, that you almost believe it’s real. “i can’t.”

but then you see it—a flicker in his eyes, a shadow that wasn’t there before. your heart clenches, and suddenly you’re falling again, tumbling back into the dark.

the dock had always been your sanctuary, a place where the rest of the world felt miles away. you both came here to escape, as you always did, wrapped up in each other, sharing whispers and stolen kisses. the lake stretched out like a silent witness to your secrets, its surface a broken mirror reflecting the twilight sky. you nestled into matt’s side, your head resting against his shoulder, feeling his steady breath against your hair. for a moment, it felt like the world was quiet—just the two of you and the water. but your heart was restless. you looked up at him, eyes searching his face as if you might find your future there.

“matt,” you began, your voice barely a whisper. “i’ve been thinking... thinking about leaving.”

his hand, which had been drawing lazy circles on your arm, stilled. “leaving?” he echoed, his voice neutral but his body suddenly tense.

“running away. far from this place,” you continued, your words gaining strength. “we could go somewhere new. somewhere no one knows us. you could write your stories, take it seriously, and icould run a little bookstore. just the two of us.”

you were smiling now, your eyes bright with the fantasy of it. you painted pictures with your words, of the city life and cozy apartments, of mornings spent writing and nights wrapped up in each other. you looked at him, waiting for him to smile back, to share in your vision.

but he didn’t. his face remained still, his eyes distant.

“no,” he muttered, almost too quietly to hear.

your smile faltered, but you pressed on. “we could make it work. i know we could. we just have to take that first step—”

“no,” he said again, louder this time.

you blink, your fantasy shattering like glass around you. “why not? why can’t we—”

“because i can’t just up and leave, yn!” he snapped, pulling away from you. his voice was sharp, tinged with an anger you hadn’t heard before. “i have a life here, a family. i can’t abandon them just because you want to run away from yours.”

your breath hitched, and you felt a burn behind your eyes. “they’d understand, matt. they’d want you to be happy—”

“happy?” he cut in, his voice rising. “you think this is about happiness? you think i can just throw everything away for some half-baked fantasy?”

“it’s not a fantasy!” you cried, your voice breaking. “it’s a chance—a chance for both of us to have something more!”

you were both standing now, facing each other on the dock. the wind whipped around you, and the lake seemed to swell with the tension between the both of you. tears spilled down your cheeks, but you didn’t care. you were desperate, pleading.

“please, matt,” you whispered, your voice raw and broken. “come with me. we can start over. together.”

he shook his head, his expression hardening. “no,” he said, his voice low but firm.

“why not?” you begged, stepping closer, your hands reaching for his. “why can’t you just—”

“because not everyone wants to run away from their problems, yn!” he shouted, his words like a slap. “not everyone wants to leave everything behind because their life is so fucking tragic and pathetic!”

you recoiled as if he’d struck you, your eyes widening in horror. he didn’t stop; the words kept pouring out, ugly and twisted with anger.

“you think i don’t know about your father?” he continued, his voice cold and sharp. “you think i haven’t seen the bruises? the way you flinch whenever someone raises their voice? i know, yn. i’ve always known.”

your breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe. you stared at him, your chest heaving, feeling like you might shatter into a thousand pieces. he knew. he had known all along.

“just because your life is miserable doesn’t mean you get to drag everyone else down with you,” he spat. “i’m not going to ruin my life because yours is a mess.”

there was a moment—a long, terrible moment—where neither of you spoke. the air between the both of you was thick with pain and anger, the silence louder than any scream. you looked at him, tears streaming down your face, your heart breaking in your chest.

you didn’t say another word. you just turned and walked away, leaving him standing on the dock, the cold wind biting at his skin.

“matty,” you whisper, back in the snow again. you don’t want to remember. you don’t want to see.

“stay with me. please.”

“i’m here,” he replies softly. his voice is steady, but there’s a fragile break beneath the surface, like thin ice over deep, dark water. and you want to stay here, forever, with the boy you love. even if you can’t truly feel him. even if you know you never will.

the snow falls thicker now, a suffocating veil that dims the world. it’s getting harder to see, harder to breathe. you can’t quite tell if his eyes are open or closed, but you know he’s there. you want to reach out, to touch him, to feel something other than the agonizing emptiness, the cold truth settling into your bones. this isn’t yours. it isn’t real. the edges of your vision blur, and the snow closes in like a shroud, heavy and relentless, burying you under its weight.

you want to stay here, in the not knowing, in the almost, but— you blink, and the world shifts again.

you’re back. back to the house that was never a home, back to the cold, accusing stares of your father—the man who looked at you like you were a blight on his very soul. your mind was a haze of pain and betrayal, and you moved like a ghost through the hallways, numb to everything but the weight in your chest. you didn’t notice your father watching you from the shadows, didn’t hear the way his breath quickened with rage as you passed by. you stumbled to your room, shutting the door behind you, and crumpled to the floor, your body wracked with sobs so violent they shook you to your core.

you didn’t know. couldn’t have known. not until he stormed into your room, his face twisted with something beyond rage. he’d been the devil that night. his eyes burned with a fanatic fire, a hatred that seemed born from somewhere far deeper than anger. “dirty, broken angel,” he hissed, his voice trembling with a fury that shook the walls. “do you think you can fool me with those innocent eyes? do you think I don’t see what you are?”

the words were venom, each syllable a lash. you tried to shrink away, tried to disappear into the walls themselves, but he was on you. his hands gripped your shoulders, shaking you so violently your teeth clacked together.

suddenly, the room dissolved, the walls melting away into a harsh, biting white. you were pulled back to that relentless winter, a chill that seeped into your bones, a cold you could never seem to escape. snow fell heavily around you, swirling like ash in a dying fire. matt stood before you, his face drawn and pale against the frozen backdrop. his eyes, usually warm, were unreadable, his expression soft yet distant.

he reached out, his hand gentle as he cupped your cheek, but you couldn’t feel it. his touch, meant to soothe, was nothing but a ghost against your skin. your lips trembled from the cold, a shiver running through you that wasn’t just from the chill. “i love you,” he cooed, his breath misting in the frozen air, words meant to anchor you, but they felt hollow, distant.

he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours, but even then—nothing. his kiss was as cold as the winter wind that cut through you, no warmth, no comfort. your eyes stayed wide, filled with fear and confusion, searching his face for something real, something to hold onto. but his face remained serene, his eyes boring into yours like he was trying to see something buried deep within.

then he whispered, his voice low and intimate, but the words were not his. they were familiar, dripping with venom, heavy with the weight of years past.

“this is your mother’s fault,” he murmured, and the world seemed to tilt, your breath catching in your throat. his voice, his tone, had shifted, morphed, becoming something more sinister. it wasn’t matt anymore; it was your father, the words twisted into something cruel. “your cursed existence is the reason she’s gone. a punishment. a living testament to sin.”

the snow, the cold, it all shattered like fragile glass around you, and you were back—back in your room, the air thick with dread. your father loomed above you, eyes wild and feverish, his face a grotesque mask of hatred and righteous fury. his words were still echoing, each one a branding iron against your skin.

“a punishment. a living testament to sin.” the mantra pounded in your head, searing into your very soul.

you were there again, your cheek stinging from his strike, but the pain was drowned beneath the roar of blood rushing in your ears. you scrambled to your feet, breath ragged and desperate, only to find yourself cornered against the wall. the splintered wood dug into your spine, cold and unyielding, a cruel reminder that there was nowhere left to go.

he loomed over you, his face a grotesque mask of hatred and righteousness. the stench of whiskey on his breath was sickly sweet, mingling with the cold sweat that ran down your face. his hands trembled, but his eyes—they were steady. they were locked onto you with a feverish intensity, the kind that burrowed under your skin and settled in your bones.

“you think you can be saved?” he spat, voice low and venomous, each word a curse. “you think there’s redemption for someone like you?”

his voice dripped with contempt, each word sinking into your skin like a brand. you could feel the weight of his words pressing down on you, crushing your ribs, making it impossible to breathe. and there, pinned between the wall and his hatred, you felt it—the cold realization that nothing you could say or do would ever be enough to erase the stain he saw in you.

you didn’t know what to say. you couldn’t speak; your throat felt like it was closing in on itself. you tried to slide along the wall, to find a way out, but he slammed his hand next to your head, trapping you.

“no,” he continued, his voice rising. “you’re beyond saving. you and that boy, both tainted.”

tears blurred your vision, but you looked up, your eyes red and swollen , yet you could still see the rage in his eyes, the way his lips curled into a snarl. his hand, still clutching the letter, the paper crumpled and torn. trembling with fury. his mouth foaming with scripture twisted into madness.

“please,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “i didn’t—”

“shut up!” he bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls. the letter fluttered to the ground, and his hands grabbed your shoulders, his grip like iron. “you ungrateful little whore,” he spat, shaking you. “you think you can defy me? disgrace me?”

his fist connected with your stomach, driving the air from your lungs. you doubled over, gasping for breath, your body folding in on itself. you felt his hand in your hair, yanking your head up, forcing you to look at him.

“i will not have a daughter who defiles this house,” he said, his voice trembling with a twisted kind of conviction. “you will repent, or you will suffer.”

his words were like ice in your veins, and you knew in that moment that there was no reasoning with him, no escaping the hell he intended to put you through. you had to get out. you had to run. he continued, his words a twisted sermon, each syllable a lash against your soul. you tried to fight back, but he was too strong, his grip like iron. the room blurred around you, and you felt yourself slipping away, drowning in the darkness.

the snow falls heavier now, each flake sharper, the cold seeping deeper into your skin, into your bones. you're back again, lying beside matt on the snow. his face is still there, just inches from yours, but it’s fading, the world around you closing in, shadows creeping in at the edges of your vision. you reach out, your hand trembling, desperate, and touch his cheek. His skin is cold—too cold, lifeless under your fingers.

“matty,” you murmur, your voice fracturing like ice under pressure. “i’m so sorry.”

he doesn’t answer. his eyes are closed now, his chest barely moving. the silence is a vast, hollow thing, swallowing you whole. panic coils in your throat, sharp and jagged, a desperate, choking fear that clutches at your lungs.

“please,” you whisper, your voice a thin, ragged thread unraveling in the cold. “don’t leave me. not you.”

but he’s slipping away, dissolving into the snow like a ghost, like something that was never real to begin with. you try to hold on, to keep him there, but your grip is weak, your fingers numb and useless. the snow piles higher around you, burying you both, burying everything you tried to hold on to, leaving you with nothing but the relentless, empty cold.

and then you’re back there, in the backyard, crumpled on the cold, dead lawn. the grass feels like shards of glass under your bruised skin, the world around you spinning in a dizzying blur. the preacher’s foot slams into your side, and you’re thrown like a ragdoll, your breath torn from your lungs in a choked, desperate cry.

“daddy, please,” you gasp, the words breaking like glass in your throat, sharp and jagged. “i’m your daughter… i’m supposed to be your little girl—”

but he doesn’t hear you. his eyes are vacant, unseeing, lips moving in some silent prayer as if trying to exorcize you like a demon. another kick lands, and you hear the sickening snap of a rib, a sound that splits the night like a gunshot.

matt is pacing his room, the silence unbearable. your face haunts him—the way your eyes widened, pools of betrayal and hurt, the way your lips trembled as you tried to hold yourself together. his words, venomous and cruel, play on repeat in his mind, an echo that builds into a deafening roar. he has to see you, to make it right, to take it all back. he grabs his coat, the cold biting at his skin, and starts toward your house.

when he arrives, the front door hangs slightly ajar, the dim light inside flickering like a dying flame. his heart pounds, a sickening dread coiling in his gut. he steps inside, calling your name, his voice breaking in the stillness, but only silence answers.

then he hears it—a low, broken cry, barely a whisper, from the backyard. he runs, panic surging through him. and there, beneath the skeletal trees, he sees your father dragging your limp, bloodied body. time slows; his breath catches in his throat.

“let her go!” matt’s voice tears through the night, raw with terror and rage.

your father turns, eyes wild and unfocused. “you,” he snarls, his voice thick with malice. “this is all your fault.”

matt doesn’t think—he just charges, fists flying, his body a blur of desperation and fury. he has to get to you, has to save you. they grapple, slipping and sliding in the mud and blood, until somehow, he manages to pull you free. you collapse against him, your body broken, your eyes wide and glazed with terror. he can see the fear in them, the plea. he can’t fail you.

your father isn’t finished. he comes again, a knife gleaming in his hand like a shard of moonlight. matt braces himself, his heart pounding like a war drum. the blade slices through the air, and white-hot pain sears his side. he grits his teeth, using the pain as fuel, and throws himself at your father, knocking him to the ground. they tumble, crashing through the underbrush, the world a chaos of limbs and fury.

“take it out on me instead,” matt shouts, his voice trembling. “if you need to hurt someone, hurt me. i can take it.”

and your father does. the knife comes down again and again, each strike a white-hot burst of agony. you scream, a sound that tears through the night like a wounded animal, but he doesn’t stop. not until matt is a crumpled heap, his face unrecognizable, his breath ragged and uneven.

“Matt,” you whisper, your voice breaking on his name. You’re a few feet away in the snow, struggling to move toward him. his blood is staining the snow around him, and your heart pounds with every agonizing inch you crawl closer.“matt,” you whisper, your voice breaking on his name. you’re there in the snow,

“stay with me,” you plead, your voice cracking, barely more than a breath. “please, stay.”

his eyes flutter open, just for a moment, and there’s something there—something soft and forgiving, something that breaks your heart all over again. his lips part, but no sound comes out. you can see him slipping away, fading into the cold night.

the knife clatters to the ground, a dull, final sound, and your father staggers back, his face a twisted mask of rage and relief. the snow around you is stained with blood, an obscene, violent canvas beneath the indifferent stars.

your body is a symphony of pain, but you force yourself to move, to crawl toward matt. every breath is a struggle, every inch a battle against the screaming agony in your bones. “matthew!” you cry, your voice ragged, desperate. “matt, please!”

the wind howls around you, carrying your cries away into the night. you drag yourself closer, your hands slipping in the blood-slick snow. the world narrows to this moment, to him.

when you finally reach him, you collapse beside him, your hands trembling as you press them against his wounds. you can barely recognize him through the blood and bruises. his breaths are shallow, each one a fragile, fading whisper. your fingers tangle themselves in his blood-matted hair, tears freezing on your cheeks. his blood is warm, soaking through his shirt and into your skin, and you press your hands to his wounds, trying to keep him here, trying to keep him with you.

you press your hands firmly against his wounds, trying to stem the flow of blood, your tears mingling with the crimson on his face. “stay with me, matthew,” you plead, your voice cracking with desperation. “please, don’t go. we can make it through this. just hold on.”

but his eyes are distant, his breaths more erratic, slipping away like sand through your fingers. “my fawn,” he whispers, his voice a ghost of itself. “i’m sorry.. i would’ve loved to run away with you—”

“no, no, no!” you scream, your voice shattering in the cold. “don’t talk like that. you’re not going to die. you can’t. please, just stay with me. i need you. i need you.”

your sobs tear from you, raw and broken, echoing through the empty woods. you hold him tighter, pressing your forehead against his, but his skin is growing colder, his breaths fading until, finally, they stop. the light in his eyes dims to nothing, leaving you alone, utterly alone, in the dark, cold night.

the agony of his death seized you in its jaws, tearing at your insides with a cruelty so profound it almost felt unreal. your screams became the wind, your cries the haunting echo that would reverberate in these woods long after you were gone. blood, warm and dark, seeped into the snow, turning it a shade of sorrow, and the night seemed to grow colder, sharper, like shards of glass piercing your skin.

time twisted around you. seconds stretched into eons. you sank into the snow, cradling matt’s broken body, your hands trembling against his cooling skin. his eyes stared past you, vacant and unfocused, his lips parted in a silent goodbye. you pressed your forehead to his, desperate to breathe him back to life, to share your warmth and will him into staying. but his soul had already slipped away, leaving nothing but this empty vessel that had once held everything you loved.

the world dimmed around you, edges blurring into a haze. somewhere in that numb, drifting fog, you saw him again—not as he was now, but as he had been: smiling, his eyes soft and full of mischief, his hair catching the sunlight just right, as if touched by gold. he was running through a field, hands outstretched, laughter dancing on the breeze like a melody only you could hear. you reached for him, a breathless plea escaping your lips, but he remained out of reach, a ghost haunting the periphery of your fading consciousness.

the snow began to fall heavier, thick flakes descending like feathers, almost gentle, almost kind in their relentless descent. you were so cold. you could feel your own life ebbing away, the blood slipping sluggishly through your veins. the forest around you seemed to shift and sway, a cruel dance of shadows and snow. your limbs grew heavier, the weight of grief and exhaustion pulling you down into the earth. your breaths came shallow, and you could taste the iron on your tongue, the salt of your tears freezing on your lips.

“matt,” you rasped again, his name a prayer, a curse, a lamentation. you were collapsing inward, folding into the pain, the emptiness where he used to be. you pressed your lips to his temple, feeling the chill seep into your bones. “please don’t leave me here alone.”

and then, in your delirium, there was a flicker—a vision, perhaps, or a cruel trick of the mind. you saw him standing before you, whole again, untouched by death’s cruel hand. his eyes met yours, and they were filled with such love, such deep, abiding love. he reached out, his fingers brushing yours, and for a moment, you felt warmth. real, solid, impossible warmth. it seeped into your skin, a desperate gasp of air after drowning.

reality snapped back with a vicious bite, and you were left grasping at nothing. his body was cold and still beneath you, the snow swallowing you both inch by inch. you could feel the blood pooling around you, freezing in the night air, a red halo that bound you together in death.

the cold became everything. it seeped into your veins, slowed your heart to a staggered, final beat. you lay there, cheek pressed to his, your breaths shallow and ragged until they too were gone. the last thing you felt was the brush of his hand in your mind’s eye, the ghost of a touch, pulling you gently into that endless dark.

and then, silence.

the numbness seeped deeper, and you were too tired to resist its pull. the pain tethered you, wrapped you in chains you were too exhausted to break. a thousand whispered thoughts blurred in your mind like snowflakes in a storm, i’m tired of you, forever tied to me. bleeding whenever you want. each word was a throb, a pulse that faded, that grew quieter with every breath you let slip away.

you wanted to move, to leave, to rip yourself from the bone-deep ache of him. but your body betrayed you, too heavy, too hollowed out. the cold kissed your skin, numbed the raw edges of your grief, but the weight of him remained. always him. always this.

your eyelids fluttered, closing against the snow that stung like a thousand tiny needles. darkness edged closer, a heavy curtain drawn around the last flicker of your consciousness. you wanted to slip beneath it, to surrender to that deep, inviting sleep. i just wanna sleep. the words were a prayer now, mouthed against his frozen cheek.

each moment stretched longer, like the last taut thread of a fraying rope. your body trembled, but your spirit was drained, emptied of all fight. you wanted to sleep, to let go of the agony that bound you to him. please, can i sleep, can i sleep? the plea filled the hollow of your chest, a soft, desperate echo.

you were tired of the way his death clung to you, the way his absence seeped into every breath, every beat of your failing heart. you were too tired to cry, too tired to feel the tears that had already frozen on your cheeks.

your breaths came slower, shallower, until there were no more breaths at all—only the silence, the snow, and the darkness that cradled you. the cold was absolute now, and you could no longer tell where you ended and he began.

you were tired, he was all you had left, the only tether in a world that had gone dark. and so you clung to him in those last moments, not out of hope, but out of sheer exhaustion, out of a weariness so deep that it became a final, bitter kind of love.

too tired to move, too tired to leave.

and at last, in that unbearable stillness, you drifted into the long sleep you had begged for, the snow falling over you both like a curtain drawing shut.

the snow descended steadily, indifferent to the agony it buried. it covered you both in a pristine shroud, erasing the violence, the blood, the suffering. alas, the world went on. the woods stood tall and quiet, a witness to the horrors of love, what it would hold onto long after you were nothing but particles and forgotten memories.

in the end, there was only the snow—soft, unfeeling, eternal. it fell and fell, a cold, white blanket that erased the past, the present, and any promise of a future. it covered you and matt, sealing you away from the world that had betrayed you both, keeping you together in a final, frozen embrace.

and there, beneath that silent, bitter veil, you found peace in the way the living never could.

ᨳུ⠀𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ! @carvedtits @et6rnalsun @wovenribbons @flouvela @l34n @sturniolossss @eternaldecisions @lovingregulusblack @cl1tlover3000 @mattslolita @mattssgf @le4hsblog @brvtall @chratts-left-ball @fiowerbeds @fratbrochrisgf

my inbox is always open !!! pls feed it some content ꫶ࣺ᭮᭰ likes, comments & reblogs are highly appreciated. xoxo

#sirenedeslily ✶ ˖ ࣪#matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo angst #matt sturniolo imagine #matt sturniolo fluff #matt sturniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo x you

99 notes · View notes

unoislazy · 11 months

Text

Question, What Question? (Part 2)

Hiccup Haddock x Reader

Summary: You and Hiccup go out to figure out where that smokes coming from. You decide to return back to Berk to tell Stoick what you saw. However, Stoick had other plans in mind.

No warnings

Just fairly short.

————————————————————

You and Hiccup neared the large plume of smoke, both having no idea what it could be, and your concern growing. Once you had neared the fire, you saw what looked to be a broken up fort with large pieces of ice staggered throughout it.

You stared at the massive amounts of damage and immediately went to turn around,

“Not my circus, not my monkeys.” You said only for Hiccup to pop back up in front of you.

“Come on, let’s just check it out, what’s the worst that could-“

“Do not finish that sentence.” You warned, sending a glare his way. The last thing you needed right now was for him to jinx anything. Hiccup continued to stare at you pleadingly, not giving up on the topic before you sighed, finally agreeing to tag along as he went over to explore.

“What do you think could have done all this?” Hiccup asked, not taking his eyes off the teal ice structure before him.

“How would I know, you're the dragon guy.” You answered sarcastically to which Hiccup rolled his eyes and responded,

“Well… no Fishlegs would be the dragon guy. I’m more of a… dragon tamer.”

“Dragon guy, dragon tamer, dragon master, does any of that truly matter right now?”

“Yeah, Well the distinction is very important the dragon g-“ Before Hiccup could say anything else you had noticed trappers on deck of the dismantled fort below, aiming right at him.

“Hiccup, look out!” You shouted, trying to help block the netting that was sent his way, and instead you had gotten your own dragon caught. Your dragon was heading straight for the ground, and you could barely hang on as it was falling a lot faster than you were. You very quickly lost a hold of the leather pieces you used to steer it and you were sent flying into the air.

You screamed as you continued to plummet towards the ground but thankfully Toothless was able to catch you safely. You all quickly made your way down to the deck with the dragon trappers, attempting to run over to free your dragon, only to be stopped by the men who now surrounded you.

“Give me back my dragon!” You shouted, as a very muscular man walked over, gazing at your dragon with interest and a gloating smile. You weren’t gonna lie, he would’ve been a bit more attractive had he not just placed his entire foot on your dragon's face.

“Now what good would that do me?” He asked rhetorically, smirking as he finally looked towards you and Hiccup, realizing you were accompanied by a Night Fury.

“Well soil my britches, that there’s a Night Fury.” He stated, pointing his knife towards Toothless.

“Good job, you can see, now can I get my dragon back?” You asked, clearly not wanting to take no for an answer.

“Sorry love, no can do. Not after your friend from last night blew this place to bits. This dragon now belongs to Drago Bludvist.” The man claimed. You sneered at the mocking pet name he had given you, not even noticing the name he had mentioned.

“Drago who now? Does anything you say make sense?” Hiccup asked jokingly, gesturing dramatically with his arms and shoulders as he looked back at you.

“You think we did this? What kind of creature is even capable of this?” You asked, astonished that someone could even think to blame you for such a massive feat.

“Who even are you?” Hiccup asked, trying to figure out what was going on because at the moment you both were just an entire bundle of confusion and questions and this conversation was not helping.

“Where are my manners? I'm Eret, son of Eret.” He introduced, but you stopped paying attention to everything else he was saying as you watched his movements. You noticed as his eyes darted to somewhere just behind you, his hand pointing directly at you.

“Uh Hiccup… we might want to-“ you began to whisper to him,

“Way ahead of you.” He whispered back, backing up.

“You’re Eret, this is Toothless, and we’re leaving!” Hiccup said in a joking manner, hopping on Toothless, “Now!” He shouted, signaling Toothless to shoot a blast at the ice ledge just above the trappers, safely freeing your dragon whom you hopped on right away and rode off.

“What was that all about?” You asked, not really expecting an answer from Hiccup who seemed pretty lost in thought. You decided to just drop the conversation and let him think through whatever he was thinking about at that point.

You both made your way back to Berk, landing in front of the Forge with a multitude of people cheering that Hiccup had returned.

“Ah, the Pride of Berk!” Stoick cheered as he saw Hiccup, then he looked over and noticed that you were with him. His mind was clearly on a different topic than you two as he quickly asked,

“So… how did it go?”

You looked towards the man confused.

“How did what go?” You asked, there was no way he could’ve known about your encounter yet, and even if he did he would’ve known it didn’t go all that well.

“You know… the question? What did you say?” He asked jovially. One could almost compare him to a very intimidating red headed Santa Claus.

“What… question?” You asked, turning to Hiccup who seemed to just realize what Stoick was talking about.

“I- Dad, I haven’t asked it yet.” Hiccup butted in through a very clenched smile, he was clearly keeping something from you and it would be wrong to not want to know what it was at this point. You could make assumptions but most of the options you had in mind you didn’t want to jump to on the high chance you would just be getting your hopes up.

“Hiccup, if you’re going to be Chief you need to-“ Stoick began only to be cut off by Hiccup yet again.

“Dad, that’s not the focus here. I'm trying to tell you about something that happened. It’s really important.” He said, trying to deter his father from continuing the conversation.

“Well this is important too, son. If you’re to lead, you should lead with someone by your side.” Stoick laughed, pushing Hiccup into you in a very well meaning way. Hiccup was clearly very flustered by this conversation, but you were still a few steps behind.

“Dad I don’t think-“ Hiccup began only to be cut off by you,

“Is that… is your question what I think it is? Is that the question you were going to ask? You want me to-“ You began, only for Hiccup to cut you off instead.

“Listen, we can talk this out later… preferably with less people around. This is not how I wanted you to find out.” Hiccup sighed, dragging his hands down his face as he groaned, clearly stressed about the current situation. You stood still as Hiccup followed his dad into the forge, explaining what you both had encountered but you simply watched, unmoving, as if you were in a trance.

Was he going to ask…

To marry you???

#hiccup haddock x reader #httyd #hiccuphorrendoushaddockiii #hiccup how to train your dragon #hiccup and toothless #hiccup #hiccup x reader #hiccup haddock #httyd hiccup #x reader #fanfic #fanfiction #httyd fanfiction #httyd fandom #httyd 2 #unoislazy

642 notes · View notes

ohdeerfully · 5 months

Note

Can I request Alastor baking or cooking for reader? Maybe making one of his old mother recipes for reader while he wears a silly apron or something? I'm loving all of your one shots!

☀️ anon

short but sweet!! i made it a human al story, hope thats cool! i really enjoyed writing this one but now i want cookies (,:

btw tumblr is really lacking with human alastor gifs so sorry guys

Sweet Treat

Human!Alastor x Reader (fluff)

TW: reader is implied female but pronouns arent used/doesnt effect story much. other than that none!

join my discord!

◈ ══════════ ◈ ══════════ ◈ ══════════ ◈

Alastor was always aware of your wants and desires as if the glasses he wore helped him read directly into your mind. You were tired? Okay, the bedsheets were freshly dry and warm. You were hungry? He already had a pot of aromatic food cooking in your kitchen. Thirsty? Here’s some ice water. Headache? Oh, here’s a remedy that he learned from a traditional healer in the city.

You get the idea.

You had come home from a long day of work at the speakeasy you performed in, a hankering for something sweet filling your mind as your mouth watered at the idea of sugary goodness. You fiddled with your keys for a little, eyes slightly bleared from both a mixing of light alcohol consumption and just general sleepiness. No, those are your work keys… no, that’s to your office… Finally, you grasped your manicured fingers over the correct silver key and jittered it into the hole.

You slumped your body against the door dramatically as you pushed it open, a loud sigh escaping your lips to announce you were home. You knew Alastor was already home, seeing as his shoes were tucked neatly in the nearby rack and jacket hung up against the wall. Usually Alastor would join you when you were at work late, both to watch you perform and to walk you home, but he had been caught up with his own work and likely got home not long before you. A light smile dusted your face as you recalled how desperately sorry he sounded when he phoned you a few hours ago—it was sweet.

Your own heels were unceremoniously kicked off in the general direction of the shoe rack—you’d fix them up later. Right now, you were mostly focused on the sound of a spoon scraping against a bowl as Alastor was doubtlessly stirring something. Your interest was piqued, and your stomach growled at the idea of food.

“Ah, you’re home a bit early,” He said as you rounded the corner, your gaze immediately fixating on the mixing bowl propped against the junction of his elbow as he stirred with his other hand. There was a plume of flour resting against the left rim of his glasses. “A bit too early for my surprise.”

Your eyes then traveled down to the apron he wore, a black one that had a silhouette of a deer and text that read “best buckin’ cook.” You had gotten it for him as a joke for your anniversary due to his fondness for hunting and deer.

“Yeah, Ms. Ruby let me off early if I performed a couple songs in a row,” There was an eye roll as you said this. You pursed your lips as you approached him, gingerly taking his glasses off to clean the mess from the glass. His eyes held a slight squint as he looked at you, slightly unfocused without his aides. “I’m guessin’ you knew I’d want something sweet, then?”

A smirk crossed his lips as if you asked the most obvious question in the world. Which, considering how he always knew what you wanted, it kind of was the most obvious question in the world.

“What kind of suitor would I be if I didn’t know what my darling desires?” He leaned a little closer as he spoke, halting the stirring motion. His voice had dropped to a teasing husk, and your ears tingled at the hint of that Cajun accent you loved so much. It didn’t help that you were just a tad loopy with alcohol.

“And I love you for that,” You said, trying to ignore the heat in your face. You pressed the glasses back against his face, using your finger to push them up the bridge of his nose whilst simultaneously gently moving his face away from your own. “As soon as I wanted a treat I knew I’d come home to one.”

“It also helps that you always want one when you work late, love,” He mused, turning away and walking back to the counter that had a splay of ingredients. There was also a mess of flour—likely from the same incident that dirtied his glasses—but you bit back a comment. You knew he’d clean it up after.

With a hop you had sat yourself on a tall chair next to the kitchen counter, elbows resting on the cold granite top as you watched him work on mixing in the rest of the ingredients. He seemed a little nervous now that you were watching him, his stirring a bit stiff and measuring a little overanalyzed, but he kept working nonetheless.

The oven chimed when the preheating was done, and at that point Alastor was already in the process of portioning out little balls of dough. A proud smile donned his face.

“I think this is the fastest I’ve gotten to this point,” He claimed, not looking up from the task in front of him. You loved the way his brown hair fell in neat, light curls over his eyes. His glasses had begun to slip slightly down his nose, but he quickly pushed them back with a knuckle. “I nearly beat the timer.”

With an absent nod and quiet ‘congrats’ you eyed the nearly empty bowl and the discarded rubber spatula that sat nearby with velvety, doughy sweetness still clinging on the edges. You slowly raised your hand and inched towards it.

A hand snatched it up at the last second, and you slumped backwards in the chair with a defeated whine. Alastor waved it at you with a teasing grin.

“So greedy,” He chided, although he did so unseriously. “I can’t believe you would spoil the taste before I even finished baking them… after I worked so hard…” There was a fake pout in his voice as his lips turned down, one hand on a hip and leaned against the counter behind him. You rolled your eyes in response and folded your arms.

“You know it never even tastes the same when it bakes,” You pursed your lips as you looked away from him towards the oven. You could see the faint silhouette of the cookies he had put in just a minute ago, now slowly flattening. “C’mon… Just a sample… please?” You drew out your plea, pressing your face between your hands as you tried your best to look at him with wide cutesy eyes.

It didn’t seem to work on him in the slightest, as he only looked down on you with a raised eyebrow. There was, though, a soft change in his brown eyes as his gaze swept over your face, though you were sure it had nothing to do with your current charming tactics. He was just, in all ways you can imagine, insanely devoted to you—he would tell you, very rarely as he had trouble expressing tender words, how he found you to be the most beautiful being he had ever been lucky enough to see.

As corny as it felt if you thought about it too hard, you actually believed him when he said he would kill for you. It was something many men would exaggerate when courting, and they never truly meant it, but there was a glimmer of crazed obsession in his eyes when he had told you it one time. A look you had no choice but to take seriously—you tried not to think about it too much.

He sighed dramatically as he threw out his hand to bestow upon you… the spatula. You took it with a pleased grin and put a corner in your mouth to taste the dough. You could almost see the sparkles dancing around you as the light sweetness touched your tongue. You could see Alastor’s proud grin out of the corner of your eye but you chose not to meet his gaze and inflate his ego even more.

The two of you chatted idly about your respective days for ten or so minutes as you waited for the cookies to bake. You always had something to complain about considering the nature of your job—it was always either some drunk bonehead interrupting your show, or some drama between the other performers, or some hatred towards your employers… always something, and he always listened, equally attentive every time no matter how repetitive it was. He, on the other hand, never had much to say about his work. He was just a radio host, after all.

The little white timer finally went off, and Alastor cracked open the oven door to peek. He seemed satisfied enough with the result as he quickly removed them, gripping the pan with a small towel and carefully setting it down against the stove-top. The room was immediately filled with the warm, sweet aroma of fresh baked cookies.

Just a few more minutes of waiting, but you could barely contain yourself when the cookies had finally cooled a bit and firmed up outside of the oven. When Alastor presented one to you it took all your self control not to just straight up bite it out of his hand.

The cookie had a crisp, golden outside that gave way with a light crunch when you bit into it. The inside was soft and fluffy with a taste of vanilla and chocolate. You sighed loudly in glee at the experience, resting your head against your hand as you chewed.

“You really are the best ‘buckin’’ cook, Al,” You complimented, watching him as he cleaned up his mess from the process. “This recipe is new, right?”

“Ah, not really,” He admitted. You wanted to play offended at the fact he had never made these for you before, but the aura around him seemed to suddenly get a bit too serious for that. There was a vacant look in his eye, but his lips held a tender smile. You took another bite of your cookie as you waited for him to continue.

“It was one of my momma’s recipes, I actually found it today in the box of her stuff I keep,” He was washing out the dishes as he spoke. You could tell by the light glaze in his eye that he was reliving a fond but bitter memory. “She was the best baker I know.”

“If these cookies tell me anything, I would have to agree,” You were licking a glob of melted chocolate off your thumb as you spoke. “I wish I could’ve met her.”

Alastor nodded with a hum, agreeing with your statement. He told you many times before how much she would’ve loved you. You knew he didn’t like sweets, but you tried to prompt him to try one with you in an attempt to lighten the mood. He refused, as expected.

You stood from your seat and began to help him clean, much to his chagrin as he tried to push you towards your room to get ready for bed, but you forced yourself back towards the kitchen and stubbornly began rubbing the dough out of the mixing bowl. He sighed and yielded.

The two of you fell into a comfortable silence that was only broken here and there by utensils clinging and water splashing. You rested your head against his shoulder as you absently ran a dry towel over the now clean rubber ladle, and he pressed a featherlight kiss against the top of your head in response.

Maybe he could teach you the recipe later.

#ohdeerfully #☀️#hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #alastor #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor hazbin hotel #fluff #alastor x you #human alastor #human alastor x reader #i want cookies so bad #please guys give me one #please

332 notes · View notes