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the-writer-arrived · 7 months

Text

Voice lines and habits that give me unholy thoughts

Synopsis: it doesn't need much for your cute little brain to go haywire with desire for him... (un)fortunately for you, he's quick to catch on the signs and use them against you.

Characters: wriothesley, alhaitham.

Warnings: afab!fem!reader; explicit smut; established relationship; a bit of plot since i like the build up to the horny part; use of handcuffs, oral f!receiving, fingering & overstimulation (wriothesley); semi-public/office sex & oral m!receiving (alhaitham).

A/N: wrio's teaser and web event messed with my brain :D hoyoverse def knew what they were doing when they created him.

This work has sexual themes and is not suitable for minors. If you click on read more, I am not responsable for any discomfort you may feel reading this. You have been warned.

"...Sweetheart, did you hear me or were you too busy staring intensely at my hand?"

"...Oh! I, uh... was just thinking about an answer to your question!"

"Does my question of whether you want more tea or not need that much pondering over?"

Wriothesley rests his cheek on his hand, not even trying to hold back a smirk as he watches the redness of your cheeks becoming more proeminent.

Shit. So much for thinking you were being discreet about it.

You decide to exercise your right to remain silent, taking the teapot and filling your own cup, promptly ignoring the chuckle coming from the man before you.

At the corner of your eyes, you see the handsome bastard has the audacity to return twirling and moving that dastard pen again, as if to taunt you.

...Is feeling jealous of an object too concerning of a sign?

----------

Wriothesley was seeing you out of his office, a stack of documents in your arms that needed to be delivered to Neuvillette about the recent happenings of the Fortress, a task that you were more than happy to do for him.

As you were finishing your conversation, you hear a commotion coming from the Coupon Cafeteria. With a shared glance between you two, the warden walks towards the scene to investigate, you following a few steps behind.

There, you see a group of inmates-- no, it's more like one inmate is causing a ruckus while the others are trying to cool him off... without much success apparently. In fact, things are quickly getting out of control when the riled up man begins to fight anyone opposing him.

Your boyfriend is known to be level-headed, always trying to resolve internal conflicts by talking things out to reach an agreement. Cases like this one, however, require a more... on hands approach.

It all happens too fast. The prisoner turns around to hit the next person that dared to touch him so casually, only for his sloppy attack to be dodged with ease by none other than the Duke himself. One could easily see the color draining from man's face, any trace of his anger disappearing in a flash.

You gasp at the scene ahead of you, having to lean on the large pipe next to you as your legs suddenly feel weak.

Make no mistake, your reaction isn't fear by the violence you witness, far from it. Rather, it is because of the sudden wave of arousal you feel as you watch Wriothesley pin the troublemaker underneath him, pulling his arms behind his back to cuff him.

Fuck. For a split second, you wish you could trade places with the inmate.

'...What in the world. Get a hold of yourself!'

You shake your head in an attempt to clear the indecent thoughts... Which proves to be futile at the way the stern and cold look of your lover melts into a soft and warm one when his eyes turn to you. All while 'adjusting' his loose tie, aka pulling it lower and revealing a bit more of his scarred skin that you adore kissing it.

"Are you okay, sweetheart? Sorry, did that scare you?"

His duality makes you crazy horny-- t-that is, deeply in love with him!

"No! No, no, I wasn't scared! I was just, um... feeling a little faint due to the heat, yes!"

You wave a hand in front of you make it more believable... which don't seem to be working very we'll, seeing the frown on Wriothesley's face. So you start your plan B: run away.

"Ah, I-I better go deliever this documents to Monsieur Neuvillette then. Seeyouathomeloveyoubye!"

Wriothesley watches as you scurry off to the elevator, clutching the files in your arms like a lifeline. He shakes his head, a hand covering the grin.

"Oh darling, you're too easy to read."

----------

"Y-You mean-- ahh, that you k-knew all along?!"

"How could I not, when your eyes were almost begging me to fuck you? You should reward me for my self control, sweetheart."

Any retort you had dissolve into a shaky moan when Wriothesley curls his two fingers inside your core, hitting that deep spot that turns your brain into mush.

You want grasp the sheets, you want to scratch his back, you want to cover your face, ANYTHING. But you can't, not with your hands locked with his handcuffs to the bedpost. You hate it and you love it.

"Wrioooo..."

"Now, now princess, don't tug the handcuffs so hard, it'll hurt you and we can't have that." His free hand trails up your arms, lightly dragging his nails to make you shiver at the ticklish feeling, until he holds your wrists in place. "Be a good girl and focus on me, yeah?"

Jokes on him, that's what you've been doing the whole day. Thinking about your dear boyfriend, his sweet personality, his cute adoration for tea, his godly body, his great strength and how you wished for nothing more than to be bent over his desk and--

"C-Close, close... Gonna-!" Your babbles are interrupted by a gasp, Wriothesley's fingers speeding up and his palm brushing against your clit over and over that it takes just a few seconds for you to see white, body taut, eyes squeezed shut as pleasure washes over you.

The Duke slows down his movement until his hand stops completely, kissing your temple and cooing at you when you whine at his fingers leaving you empty.

You sigh when his mouth meets yours in a languid kiss, helping your heartbeat return to normal... until it races again when you realize his lips going down, down and down your body...

"W-Wrio... what are you-- Ahh!" You squeal at the sudden cold sensation in your sensitive pussy, attempting to wiggle your hips away. Your very mean lover just chuckles, wrapping his strong arms around your thighs and drags you back to his face, the asshole shooting you a smirk after he uses cold tongue to lick your folds again.

"Surely you didn't think I'd stop at one round, after you used your bedroom eyes at me the whole day, right? So..."

"Don't run away now, sweetheart."

"W-What did you say?!"

"...I said, don't let any of it, the treasure, roll away now."

Your lover looks at you with a quizzical look, not comprehending your unusual reaction to his words. You, on the other hand, are silent praying to all the Seven archons for your face to not be as red as you think it is.

In any case, you decide to turn your back to Alhaitham to get the rest of the treasure inside the chest, while he keeps on look out for any other hilichurl or abyss monsters lurking around.

You see, it's not common for you two to go adventure together around Sumeru, much less to see the scribe in action with your own eyes. So, you can't be blamed when you've been too distracted by the way his toned arms flex as he swings his sword(s), his cape gracefully flowing at each movement, the focused expression as the Chisel-Light Mirrors cut down the enemies...

Anyway, you were far too busy gawking over your boyfriend and how unfairly hot he is to actually notice the chest spawning right in front of you. And those words that he had said? It's no surprise your mind went to the gutter.

You just hope you weren't acting so obviously down bad for him as you fear...

----------

"So good... Always so good to me. Fuck, I'm getting close...!"

You really don't know how you got here. The memories from returning to Sumeru City from adventuring in the wilderness to being on your knees, sucking on Alhaitham's cock while in his office are a blur.

But, honestly? You can't bring yourself to care about these minor details.

You drag your head back slowly, torturously forcing the man above you to feel every inch of your mouth until only the tip, angry red and drooling pre cum, remains inside.

The harsh suck you give at the sensitive area earns you a groan, a growl almost, that leaves you rubbing your thighs together. Looking up at your beloved, you watch his chest rise and fall rapidly, a pretty flush on his cheeks and eyes sending you a glare.

A side of you wants to be mean, to give him a taste of paradise before taking it away, just like he so adores to do with you. You want him to be frustrated, to beg you for release, a taste of his own medicine...

But you can't. You shouldn't.

Regardless of the locked door, anyone might come knocking, requiring the presence of the scribe for some unimportant business and, archons forbid, hear what is happening inside the office.

You try not to acknowledge the dampness of your panties from this thought.

And then you feel it, three taps of his fingers on the back of your head, the sign you two came up with to tell the other when you're about to cum.

You release his shaft with a "pop" and Alhaitham is ready to question your cruel actions, but whatever words he had wanted to say get thrown out of the window when you swallow him again without warning, taking as much of his cock as you can.

With one, two shallow thrusts of his hips, he paints your throat white with his release, head thrown back, eyes tightly shut and a moan that most certainly would be heard by everyone in the Akademiya halls had the scribe not covered his mouth.

You try, you swear to Celestia that you try your hardest to swallow every single drop of cum, but there's too much and you can control your breathing only for so long. With much dismay, your mouth lets go of the slowly softening member, covered with a mix of his seeds and your saliva.

Chuckling at your dejected look, Alhaitham raises your chin to make you look at him, thumb gathering the very same mix that has escaped from your mouth to smear it over your lips, his next words making you shiver in arousal but also embarrasment of the knowledge that he had known all along what had gone through your mind during your adventure earlier.

"Don't let any of it roll away now, my love."

thanks for reading <3 likes, reblogs and comments are very appreciated <3

heart divider made by @/cafekitsune

red wriothesley and alhaitham banners (smut) made by @/the-writer-arrived aka yours truly ;)

#blue.writes: genshin impact #blue.writes: smut #blue.writes: wriothesley #blue.writes: alhaitham #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact smut #genshin smut #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley smut #alhaitham x reader #al haitham x reader #not suitable for minors #minors dni #alhaitham smut

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rafeandonlyrafe · 3 months

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gamers

words: 800

warnings: vague descriptions of video game violence and gore, established relationship

“is it scary? i don't wanna play if it's scary.” you pout as rafe places the controller into your hand.

“ill protect you, promise.” rafe says, reaching over to flick the lamp on the side table on, that way more than just the light from the tv is illuminating the room.

“fine, but you can't get mad at me if i get your character killed.” you watch as rafe navigates the game easily, opening it up to the character customization screen, just doing default settings for himself.

“oh my god, im gonna make my girl look so cute!” you gush, taking your time to carefully choose her hair and outfit, even though none of the options are stylish, you create the best look you can out of the post apocalyptic clothing choices.

rafe doesn't care that he has to sit and wait for you to perfect your character, not when he finally got you to agree to play with him.

“okay, done.” you nod as you choose a pair of pink sneakers, practical but still cute. “so what's this game all about? just running from zombies?”

“basically.” rafe says with a light chuckle. “we gotta get to the safe house for this round. just follow me, gonna pick up some weapons.”

you pick up the hang of the controls easily, concentrating on the tv as rafe drops a knife and gun for character to use to protect yourself just in case.

“this isn't so bad.” you hum, pausing to admire the scenery in the background of the game, mountain peaks poking up into the sky. “where are all the zombies?”

“they give you a few minutes to get weapons before the storms start.” rafe says, eyes scanning the screen as you head into a building, rafe knows there's med packs in there that he will need when he sustains damage keeping your character safe.

“storms? that sounds scary rafe.” you scooch so you’re closer to your boyfriend. “and it's getting dark.”

it's already dark outside your actual window, but you can tell that it's getting darker in the game as well, the sun setting as you follow rafe down the desolate street, crashed cars and trash strewn about just like if it was a real apocalypse.

“here they come!” rafe warns, clicking the buttons quickly as his character shoots at the zombies moving slowly towards you. your eyes widen upon seeing the gore, cringing and turning to hide your face in rafes shoulder once your character is hidden behind a stopped car.

“i don't like this rafey!” you whine once the gunfire stops, peeking up to see a literal pile of dead zombies. “it's scary.”

“i know, but i kept you safe, didn't i? we are almost done with the first level, just gotta get to the safe house then we can take a break, okay?” rafe offers, keeping his eyes on the screen but turning his head to press a kiss to your cheek.

“fine.” you groan. you like playing games with rafe, but your preference is him watching you dress your sims or decorate their houses after using a cheat to get them more money, only wanting your sims to have the best furniture.

you navigate your character to follow him down the sidewalk, occasionally stopping to kill the zombies. you even manage to shoot a couple.

“wait, baby, be careful.” rafe warns. “dont go that way.”

but his warning comes too late as a zombie jumps out of a dumpster that you’re standing directly next to, making you scream as it takes up your entire screen, not just attacking your character but also jumpscaring you.

“i got you, hold on.” rafe is pressing the sprint button as hard as he can, as if that can somehow make his character get to you faster. rafe manages to kill the zombie before it has the chance to bite you.

your chest is heaving up and down like you were the one to get attacked. “come on, the safe house is just around the corner.” rafe wraps an arm around your shoulder, using one hand on the controller until you’re both behind the barbed wire fence, the game switching to a cutscene.

“i hate this.” you look to rafe with a pout on your face. “can we play stardew valley instead? please?”

rafe sighs. he should have known better than having you play with him. you are extremely adverse to any sort of shooting game. “yeah, sure.” rafe saves his progress, just in case he can convince you to play with him again before switching to stardew valley and handing you the main controller.

“yesss, thank you.” you smile, pressing a kiss to rafes cheek as your character wakes up. “you’re the best boyfriend ever.”

“you just say that because you need me to go into the mines for you.” rafe says with a laugh.

“well, its scary!”

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scorpioriesling · 26 days

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Random Tropes HC (pt. 2)

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

Pairing(s): Lucien / Eris x reader

Warnings: slight sexual suggestions

Summary: Random tropes, and how each would play out, depending on the character... and you, of course.

SR’s Note: I saw a filter on Tik Tok where you can rank book tropes, and this idea came to mind. I am using my top 6 (not in order) for the purpose of these posts -- enjoy! Part 1

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

Lucien - "Only One Bed"

You were definitely crushing on Lucien -- who wouldn't?

You were close with him and Tamlin, working at the Spring Manor until you became more than an employee, but a friend.

Well, a friend to Lucien anyway.

Tamlin took note of how well you were able to spy, and turned you into his own personal Spymaster.

You didn't mind too much -- after a while, Tamlin warmed up to you. He also appreciated how you made Feyre feel more comfortable when she first arrived in the Spring Court.

As fate would have it, you and Feyre were a lot alike.

It didn't take long to see what was going on. She was planning to run.

Over the last few months, Tamlin grew more enraged, more angry at the world. You couldn't stay, you knew you had to get out.

And Cauldron be damned, Lucien was coming with you.

He wasn't happy about it at first, especially when the two Night Court warriors winnowed Feyre away and left the two of you to walk the rest of the way to the Night Court.

"Do you think he will change?" Lucien asks you, the cold wind ruffling his hair. You shiver against the wind.

"No," you say after a long moment. Lucien pulls you close to him, heat radiating from his body against the chill.

"I don't know if we could ever go back." He says. You sigh and bury closer to him, trying to keep in step with his long legs.

"I don't think he'd allow us back." You say. Tears prick the back of your eyes, but you blink to keep them at bay. Lucien changes the conversation, happier topic chosen this time. He is talking about all the delicious food the Night Court must have when you finally spot a motel in the distance.

"Our salvation!" Lucien gasps. He grabs you by the arm, pulling you with him as he breaks into a jog. You're panting trying to keep up, but you finally make it to the building.

"We're just about sold out." The stocky female behind the desk murmurs. Lucien sighs and runs a hand through his hair. You're standing behind him, and you place a delicate hand on his shoulder. He turns to you, gaze softening.

"Ma'am, we'll take whatever you have left." You say. She rummages through her drawers, presenting a single golden key on a long corded string.

"Floor 2. Last door on the right." She huffs. You anxiously take it from her, looping the string around your neck. The key dangles like a pendant on a necklace as you take Lucien's hand in yours and lead him upstairs.

Some salvation this is.

There's only one bed.

A blessing in disguise.

"Cauldron..." he sighs, slinging his bag to the floor. "I'll just, take the floor." He says, moving into the room. You furrow your brow.

"Lucien, do you think I've never had a sleepover before? We can share." You say. You rifle through your pack for extra clothes, and with a wave of his hand, the candles and fireplace are alight with warmth.

"Well... only if you're okay with that." He says. You nod, realizing then that you have no sleepwear. Lucien seems to realize the same thing as his hands come up empty.

"You can shower first, if you were wanting to." You offer kindly. The firelight is painting his features beautifully, and you force yourself to look away. But Gods, was it hard.

"Thanks!" With that, he was heading for the bathroom. You sighed, flopping down on the bed. You hadn't expected this level of comfort from a motel bed, but the soft silky blankets, the plush pillows...

You sighed a breath of contentment, fingers toying with the gold key laced around your neck.

You stripped down to your undergarments, as your clothes from the day were filthy. Folding them into a neat pile beside the bed, you slipped under the sheets, goosebumps erupting over your body as the blankets had not yet warmed.

Lucien finally came out of the bathroom, his eyes raking over your bare shoulders not concealed by the covers. He choked down a cough, and you kept your eyes closed as he slid into the bed next to you.

His bare arm brushed yours, and your eyes flew open. You readjusted to lay on your side, and so did he at the contact. However, now you were face to face.

"Are you... cold?" He asked. His sweet gaze held yours as his fingers timidly grazed your shoulder. Fresh goosebumps appeared, and you shivered.

"Yes." He frowned.

"Comere." His hand gripped your waist, fingers over your hip bone as he pulled you flush against him. You pretended not to notice the growing buldge pressing against you as his hand traced small patterns over your back.

"I can give you some of my body heat, if this is okay?" He asks, voice low and raspy. Maybe it was the way his lips were inches from yours, the small candelight illuminating his perfectly sculpted face...

Or maybe you had finally decided to be honest.

"It's more than okay." You said. Heat returned to your cheeks, and a small smile danced on his lips as his gaze flicked between your eyes and mouth.

He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered, trailing down your neck to the small key still looped around it. He toyed with it for a moment, before his lust-filled amber eyes met yours once more.

"I can give you more, if that would be okay too." He whispered. You shook again, this time the excited, anxious, energy rolling from you.

"It's more than okay."

Eris - "Who Did This To You?"

Reading was one of Eris' favorite pass times.

In fact, it was one thing he had in common with you.

The only thing, he swore.

One of many things, actually.

In fact, Eris was doing just that when he heard a commotion outside. Usually, it was his father. He'd learned not to get involved, but this time...

This was different.

His heartstrings tugged as he strained his ears, trying to listen beyond his windows for any indication of what was happening.

"Please... please..."

He snapped his novel shut, flying to his feet and racing outside. He wasn't sure what had come over him -- but he knew. He could feel it. You were here, and you needed him.

He'd thought over and over the last few years how you'd cry. How he would and could make you do it. Thought about killing you himself, once. Using his fire on you in ways he'd done only once before. You were acting like a lap dog, sitting with the Inner Circle at one of their meetings. Rhysand didn't let you talk, of course. You didn't even challenge him. You always let him walk all over you.

Maybe that's what pissed him off so badly.

You were packed full of good ideas, talents, advice; but you bowed to Rhysand, and that was that. You never spoke up for yourself.

You were worth so much more than that. You could offer so much more than you were allowed.

He tore through the hedge maze, snapping branches, feet thundering around every corner. His breathing was heavy, eyes searching in the night to find you.

"Please, Eris... someone..."

He followed your pained whimpering until he found you in the middle of the maze. You were slumped against the large water fountain, breathing unevenly as blood stained your neck, dried flakes throughout your usually vibrant tendrils. Your hands braced over your abdomen, tears creating tracks down your dirtied face.

"Oh my Gods..." He rushed to you, and you looked at him in desperation. His heart broke in two, seeing you crumpled and hurt in front of him.

His sadness turned very quickly, to anger. He felt... violent.

He ran his hands over your face, seeing blood pouring from your lip, and he reached up to move some hair from your forehead -- a huge gash the cause for the ever growing pool you sat in. Well, one of the causes. He was fuming, hands trembling as he tried to stay gentle with you, but absolute rage filled his every vein at how this could have happened to you.

Who could've let this happen to you.

"Eris, I..." you coughed, more crimson drops landing on the stone pathway below. "I... I didn't mean to... this is the first place I thought of..." another loud sob wretched from you, and Eris cupped your cheek. His whiskey eyes were dulled to a deep bourbon, his jaw clenched.

"Come with me."

He scooped you up, carrying you as carefully as he could back to his wing of the Forest House. You let out small yelps, the searing pain in your stomach too much to handle.

"Please, stay with me Y/N," he pleaded, looking down at you sorrowfully. He felt as though he was carrying a small, injured deer -- that is what you were. A gentle, wise, doe. His gentle doe.

He finally made it inside, sitting you on the sofa in front of the fireplace as he ran to the washroom and returned quickly. He presented a small wet cloth, taking your chin in his fingers and beginning to wipe away the red stains over your delicate skin. He tried so hard to stay gentle with you, trying to replicate the softness you'd always offerred others.

But, that's one thing you didn't have in common. He wasn't soft, or sweet like you. He tried to steady his breathing, gazing into your round, watery eyes instead. It only caused him more pain, seeing you like that. His head dropped, and he raked a hand through his hair.

"Put this in here," he grabbed a clean cloth, folding it and raising it to your mouth. You opened, usually defiant towards your enemy, but, really... you'd do anything he asked. He placed it between your teeth, and his hands covered your bloody ones, still clutching your stomach.

"Y/N... you have to move your hands." He says. Your eyes screw shut as you groan, removing your hands shakily. He breathes a sharp gasp, shaking his head.

"Hold onto me." He says. You look to him in confusion, and he places your stained fingers on his shoulders. One of his hands lingers on your for a moment, and he pressed the inside of your wrist to his lips. He looks back to you, eyes already asking for forgiveness.

"I'll be honest, I've thought about hurting you before as you've hurt me," he says, voice deep with ... something. Something you couldn't place. You could barely focus as your mind started to fog, vision clouding with black spots. "...but never like this."

He sighs one last time, a hand coming into view, fingers ablaze with fire. You sit up, or try to anyway -- a sob racks your chest, muffled by the cloth, and Eris holds you down, hand splayed over your sternum.

"Hold onto me." He says again. His hand meets your bubbling would, fire searing the skin as a scream tears through your already dry, cracked throat, only quieted by the cloth you’re biting down on. Your eyes blow wide, and you squirm under his hold. He looks at you with regret, pulling back for a moment only to press heat onto your would again.

Your hands rip and claw at the collar of his shirt, red already smeared over most of it. He huffs an apologetic sigh, continuing to carterize your open would.

Over. Over. Over again.

You lean back, knowing the familiar weightless feeling. You were going to black out. His once-white collar slips from your fingers, and your eyes meet his one last time before you slink into darkness.

When you come to, you're wrapped cozily in silken sheets, a pair of fleece pants covering your legs. Soft sunlight streams in through... a window. You blink, widening your eyes and looking around. The mahogony sheets were an unusual replacement to your lilac ones, and the four poster wooden bed was a change as well. Your eyes caught on a bookshelf, one with many titles like yours, at least. One book sat on the window seat, basked in sunlight. It was a title you'd already read.

You were in Eris' room.

You lean to sit up, but cry out in pain and lay back down, head flopping against the plush pillows under your head. Your hands instinctively reach toward your stomach, tugging at the hem of the tank top you bore. A bandage was wrapped around your midsection, concealing any injury. Your mind went to last night, what you'd endured, winnowing to the Autumn Court, the burning...

In moments, Eris is passing through the doorway, concern threading his brows together as he looks you up and down.

"Is everything alright?" He steps to the bed, sitting on the edge of it. He pulls the covers up, tucking them around you in comfort. You shake your head, silver lining your eyes as they meet his.

"I... they took me last night." You manage to get out. Eris readjusts to face you, a hand stroking through your hair. He bites on his lower lip, eyes searching yours.

"Who. Who took you Y/N." He says. It sounds like more of a demand than a question.

You shake your head, a tear slipping free as you remember being kidnapped from your bed, and tossed onto the mountainside. The feeling of snow under your knees, rocks in your palms only the beginning of the pain you'd endure before somehow winnowing away.

"It was... they wanted me to partake in the..." you stifle another cry. Eris brushes his thumb against your cheek.

"The fucking Blood Rite." He bites out. Anger radiates off of him, the small fire in the fireplace near the window growing with each passing second.

Again, he asked, eyes boring into yours. "Y/N, who did this to you?"

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

#a court of silver flames #acofas #acotar #acotar smut #a court of thorns and roses #acosf #lucien acotar #lucien vanserra #a court of frost and starlight #lucien x reader #eris vandaddy #eris vanserra #eris acotar #eris x reader #acotar series

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gffa · 5 months

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Star Wars: From a Certain Point of View: Return of the Jedi | "Brotherhood" I NEED YOU TO UNDERSTAND THAT I STRAIGHT UP CRIED REAL TEARS AT THIS MOMENT. IT WAS EXACTLY WHAT I HAVE ALWAYS WANTED TO READ AND IT HIT ME RIGHT IN MY EMOTIONS. I was so wary going into this story, because the concepts of Force Ghosts are deeply important to me on a narrative level, that the Force and Lucas' philosphy in the movies and for the worldbuilding is that the message is: You need to let go when it's time. You can't hold on beyond anything or anyone's time, it will only cause you and others suffering. So, when Anakin's fiery determination seemed to be what kept him around as a Force ghost, I sighed a bit and kept shouldering on. I did not expect to be hit by the one-two-three-four punch of Obi-Wan's gentle guidance to get Anakin to the other side of the Force, Anakin's regret for what he'd done and the heart-wrenching way he instinctively turns to Obi-Wan and listens to him, Anakin looking on over his children with pride and faith in what they would do next, and then the ultimate message: "Finally, Anakin Skywalker let go." I AM EMOTIONAL. MY BOY FINALLY GOT TO THE PLACE THAT GAVE HIM PEACE. It was a perfect build-up to where Anakin needed to be in this moment, that this story is centered around the depth of his connection to Obi-Wan, that it's instinctual for him to reach out and grab onto the hand Obi-Wan is holding out to him, to turn to Obi-Wan and listen, like a flower turns towards the sun, now that he's out of the worst of the haze of the dark side. To seeing his children, seeing Padme in them, seeing both of them in the twins, and finally, finally letting all that noise in his head go. Trusting that Luke and Leia and their friends would make their own way forward. "It just took one final nudge from Obi-Wan to get there. Finally, Anakin Skywalker let go." What a perfect summation of Anakin's character and his difficult journey, his relationship with Obi-Wan, and one of the most central themes George Lucas intended for Star Wars. Becoming a Force Ghost is about letting go--Qui-Gon said that in the original ROTS script, he said it in TCW, the OWK show basically had the same message, and now Anakin has gotten there, too. That it acknowledged his part in everything that happened and did it with tremendous compassion, because that's what Jedi are all about. Obi-Wan has let go as well, he doesn't hang onto the hurt or the suffering, especially not when he will gain so much by letting go and embracing compassion for Anakin. He gently guides Anakin to understanding that he wasn't solely responsible for everything, only for the choices he made. Those choices were terrible, he bears that mark, they aren't erased just because Anakin is sorry, but holding onto all that guilt and pain is just more suffering. Obi-Wan has let go and, through that, he can guide Anakin to let go as well, and regain his friend. This is everything the Jedi have always taught coming to fruition. So, I'm emotional for my baby boy, that he finally got there after a lifetime of struggling, that he's finally at peace, and I'm emotional as a Star Wars fan, that the themes of my favorite franchise were just knocked out of the park.

#lumi.txt #star wars #obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #meta #novels #novels: from a certain point of view: return of the jedi

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love-lilly02 · 3 months

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The Challenge pt. 5

Authors Note: this one is gonna make yall mad, i already know it. Also i think i'm gonna have to create a schedule of posting on weekends as apperently all my ideas for this story hit on fridays.

Chapter warnings:

minor character death, mentions of suicide

“You can’t do that!!”

“I can and I will.” Laswell said, closing the file. “She’s on a solo Op and that’s final.”

The boys all rolled their eyes, sighing heavily.

“Let one of us go, Las. We can’t just let her walk into the lions den-“

“Price, that’s enough. She has her assignment, you have yours.”

“But we don’t have an assignment.” Price stressed.

“Exactly.”

Another round of complaints.

You had left the room long ago, departing as soon as you had received your mission. A solo op, just an intel gathering. Get in, get the information, get out.

Get out of one of the most heavily guarded buildings in all of Russia.

What could go wrong?

“Okay, I’ll be the one to say it.” Kyle stepped up, leaning forward in his chair. “I don’t trust that she’ll be able to get out of this place. Even with her level of skill, that’s something no one’s been able to pull off without dying.”

“If you’re worried about her, you can say that you know.” Laswell said simply, raising an eyebrow.

The whole room went quiet.

“Alright, look. I don’t know what’s going on between you four and her, but get it under control. I had enough of it when you lot-“ she points to Ghost and Price-“ wanted those two-“ She points at soap and Gaz- “to join your… whatever this is. I’m not dealing with four children mooning over my best asset.”

“We are not moonin’-“ Ghost protested at the same time Price said “I thought I was your best asset?”

Laswell just rolled her eyes.

“I’ll put you boys on cam duty. How’s that?”

“It’s enough.” All the boys agreed.

You could feel their eyes on you as you adjusted your weapons for the fiftieth time. The suit they had you in was very different from the gear you normally wore, instead of cargo pants and a vest you had on a completely black bodysuit with a matching hood and shoes. Various knives and fewer guns than you would like were hidden among your body, and you kept anxiously touching them to be sure they were actually there.

You looked like the Black Widow from the Avengers. As far as you could tell, the boys thought so too, with the way they kept sizing you up.

You weren’t entirely sure if you liked that fact or not.

You knew exactly why they had chosen you instead of Ghost or Kyle for this mission- you were a lot quieter. They could think quickly and kill faster, but at the end of the day you moved around quieter, left much less noticeable tracks than they did.

This stupid challenge supported that idea.

“Keep touching ‘em and they’re gonna rust, lass.” Soap called over the comms, and you shot him a glare. For the sake of the mission- and your life- you had decided to temporarily cast aside your feelings for their last behavior, allowing them to talk to you again. Some people, like Gaz and Price, understood you would need space after what happened. Ghost and Soap, however, did not get the memo.

“She’s allowed to touch ‘em, Johnny. They’re her knives. ‘Sides, I don’t suppose knives can rust by just touching ‘em anywho.”

“Awh yea they can! I’ve seen it ‘appen me self.”

“Drop it,” Price warned.

Both boys responded with a simple, “Sorry captain,” and the helicopter was silent again.

“Okay. One more time, what are you doing?” Price couldn’t help but be nervous as your drop zone crept closer and closer.

“I get dropped off and enter through a side window, go through some rooms and get to the main center to put the information on the computer with a red chip into a flash drive.

Price nodded and ran his hand along his beard, a nervous habit you noticed he developed.

“Okay, good. The boys and I will tell you where to go and when it’s safe over comms, and-“

“Price. I’ve heard the debrief over fifteen times now. I got it.” You said, doing one more quick pat down to make sure all your knives were in order. “I trust you. Now you need to trust me.”

“Drop zone approaching!” The pilot called, and they all watched as the plane opened to reveal the darkness of the night.

“Wish me luck,” You said, pulling the hood over your head.

“Luck,” they all chorused back weakly.

And you jumped out of the plane.

Anxiety coursed through Ghosts veins as he watched you jump. A while after, thirty seconds as planned, you deployed a parachute, barely visible in the night. It was dangerous to have a black parachute in the dark but it was a risk they needed to take.

There was complete radio silence the entire time you landed. That was another rule, unless you were receiving directions or telling them something important you were to be radio silent at all times. To “make sure no one hears or picks up anything,” as Laswell said.

Ghost thought it was a load of bullshit.

Simon agreed.

Truth be told, he worried for you. Both of him did. This was something he wouldn’t be able to pull off, not even with years of training for it. And they were sending you in with less than a few hours notice?

A suicide mission.

He hadn’t asked, if this was what you wanted to do. He didn’t ask if you were okay with risking your life, possibly dying, for the “greater good.” He honestly wanted you to disagree, he wanted you to protest, say they were stupid for sending you on this mission.

But you had just listened quietly and took the file.

“At the drop zone, headed to the entrance.” Your messages were short and to the point, and he could see the others relax at your words.

“Right, stay on standby,” Ghost said, loading up the cameras.

“Copy.” Then silence.

Once he got the feed loaded he quickly scanned the cameras for you, his eyes flicking back and fourth.

“There,” Kyle said, pointing to one screen. You were kneeling behind a bunch of crates, watching the entrance carefully.

“Okay. Move left, there’s a side entrance, you might have to pick a lock or two.”

“Copy,” and you moved towards the door. They watched as you crawled, seemingly gliding across the concrete floor. Once you reached the door, it took a total of three seconds for you to slip inside.

“Door’s are locked. What’s the next move?”

“Shit, that was locked?” Soap asked, even though his comms were off.

“Suppose so. Two desks down to your right.”

And so it continued. They gave you directions and watched as you absolutely flew though the levels of the building. Till finally, you were where you needed to be.

“Okay, transferring the information.” It shouldn’t take that long, Ghost told himself. He watched as you stayed crouched behind a wall, nervously tapping on your thigh as the transfer commenced.

“Done!” They could all head the relief in your voice, even if you tried to hide it. You put the computer back where it belonged, tucking the flash drive in your pocket.

“Good job, now head out the way you came, it’s-“ Ghost stopped short when he saw two men walk into the room. They were soldiers for the enemy team, the Russian flags in the middle of their vests displaying that. To your credit, you heard the voices and stayed pointedly in place.

The two of them spoke in gruff Russian to each other, monitoring the room carefully. They were going a bit too slow, getting a bit too close for Ghost’s liking. And, based on the way Kyle was gripping his shoulder, for him too.

They kept snooping, till finally one of them jumped out into your hiding spot.

It was absolute chaos after that.

You stabbed the one who found you, using his body as a shield when the other started shooting. You fired your own shots and landed one with rough time to drop the guy you were holding and run out of the room.

By this point, multiple alarms had been tripped, and you abandoned all sense of decorum, flying down steps quickly.

“Get the fuck out of there!” Ghost yelled over comms.

Apparently that didn’t warrant a response.

The cameras he was using to track you were being taken over, and he was quickly loosing visuals.

“Mirage, do you copy?”

“Mirage, what is your position.”

“Damnit Y/N, answer me!”

But he was met with silence.

And for the first time since Las Almas, Ghost felt truly afraid.

For what it was worth, you had heard Ghost yelling over comms. And you had wanted to respond to him, but the current circumstances made that harder than you would have liked.

There were soldiers shooting at you almost constantly, and maybe about two or three snipers on other buildings. And you had about five more stories to get down, not to mention an entire parking lot- which was swarming with soldiers, you checked- and somehow get back on the evac vehicle alive.

One step at a time.

Having cleared two floors already, you burst through a nearby office, breathing out a small sigh of relief when no one occupies it. Over the comms you hear a voice saying something, but it’s Price now instead of Ghost.

“Mirage, there’s a supply drop headed your way, what’s your location?” He doesn’t sound as worried, and you can’t help but wonder where Ghost went.

“I’m hidden in an office, sir. If there was a drop there would be no way for me to reach it without being ambushed.”

You’re met with silence for a moment, before Price comes back into your ear.

“Copy that, just get to the parking lot in one piece. We’ll take it from there.”

You just roll your eyes. As if that wasn’t your plan to begin with.

The stairs seem endless as you run, down flight after flight after flight. You seriously considered taking the elevator but decided against it- they were Russian, not stupid. Once you make it to the room you entered the building through you’re throughly disappointed to find it’s occupied by a few armed guards. Nothing you couldn’t handle, so long as you went out quietly.

Carefully, you made your way behind the first one, pulling one of the longer knives out of your thigh holster. In your other hand, you slip a throwing knife, crouching silently.

It takes a good few minutes before you’re able to make a move, throwing the knife in the eye of the guard at the door before you stab the one in front of you in the neck. The other two load their guns, but you’re faster, flinging two more throwing knives across the room into their heads. You allow yourself the time to collect your knives and slip out of the door, just in time to hear more gaurds enter behind you.

Close calls that just keep getting closer.

You’re able to see the parking lot now. And as you expected, it’s absolutely swamped with enemies. There were small cracks in the defenses, however, just small enough for you to slip through if you were careful.

You stuck to the shadow of the trees, figuring darkness was your best cover. Carefully, you picked your way through the ranks of men receiving instruction, having to duck to hide behind cars multiple times. Finally, you were close enough to make a break for it and just test your luck.

And that dammed supply drop just had to show up.

Immediately, it set off widespread panic, and in the chaos one of the soldiers stumbled over to your hiding spot. Before you understood what was going on you were being hoisted up by multiple soldiers and brought into the center of a light, surrounded by angry Russians who were yelling at you in one of the few languages you couldn’t understand.

Finally, one man walked up to you and said simply, “Where is the band of coonies you work for?” He looked kind of familiar, with almost a dad bod and dark eyes to match.

“Don’t respond, that’s our target.” Price insisted, and as if he could hear him, the target looked up to your ear.

“American.” He spat out the word like a curse, and looked at you with an even nastier scowl. “A shame, you are very pretty.” He said something in Russian, and the men all raised their guns and pointed them at you.

“Wait!” You shouted, and to your surprise, the target stopped. He turned to you slowly, and raised an eyebrow, signaling for you to continue. Carefully, you moved your hand to where the flash drive hid, pulling it out. It glinted red in the bright spotlights, and the target stopped dead in his tracks.

“What is that?” He asked, stalking closer to you.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” You teased further. God you had a bad habit of teasing men. Maybe it’s what got you into these situations.

“Give it to me,” He said, practically running at you.

“Mirage, whatever you’re about to do, don’t. Do it.” Price was yelling, and you could hear the chaos of the helicopter behind you.

“Listen to me, American girl. I will give you one chance to give me that flash drive. And maybe we will let you out alive.” The target stopped a good distance away from you, holding out his hand. You just smiled.

With a flick of your wrist, the flash drive was replaced with a pin. “Over my dead body.”

And a grenade went off- right where you were standing.

Authors Note: this is completely random but i've decided to open my inbox for requests, not just COD but across all fandoms, and i'm doing a bit of blog reorganizing so i'll get to them fairly quickly (tonight that is)

also don't hate me lol the next chapter will be out next week if all goes well

My Masterlist

#cod x reader #poly 141 x reader #task force 141 x reader #poly 141 #simon riley x reader #john price x reader #simon ghost x reader #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick

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undercoverpena · 1 year

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trouble keepin' my eyes off you

john 'soap' mactavish x f!reader wc: 4k | warnings: angst, jealous!soap, pining summary: soap has been aware of it for longer than he’d like to admit. each time his eyes land on your mid-smile, each sound of your laughter—all he thinks is, I want this, I want it all with you. an: prequel to yours to keep and a thousand — and dedicated to @guyfieriii who i adore, and dedicate all my soap too. teehee.

soap masterlist

It’s uncomfortable, the heat. It clings, wraps and drapes over everything, smothering any breeze or fresh air.

The sweat builds on his brow, dripping down the back of his neck, leaving puddles at the base of his spine. Worst of all, beads drop from his hairline, sliding down his cheeks, dropping from his jawline as he runs his hand through his hair.

His hair has grown—the shorter sides having gained some length, beginning to conceal his very deliberate mohawk he had going. Which is another string to the bow of annoyance. It tells the tale of how long they've all been here, sweating, not sleeping, watching and waiting.

But the bow, the real thing which has been grating him is that you’re on the other side of a slightly ajar door, sparring—and it isn’t with him.

Soap has been trying not to listen.

But, they’re loud—you are loud.

Even his attempts of burying it have been futile. He's attempted to recall songs from home. Ones where there’s a scotch or beer in hand, swishing from side to side as his voice cracks as he screams the words—arms around a friend or two. The words which he knows are embedded into his soul—into the very fibre of his being—and yet, you’re making it hard for him to finish a verse, never mind a song.

He’s tried to focus on the quieter noises. The ones he wouldn't usually pay any fucking attention to—like Gaz tapping the keys of the laptop in the kitchen and the hot breeze trying to brush through the open window. The background noise, never loud enough to cause any impact—but he needs them to. He clings to hope that they will. He practically claws out for them, grabbing them with metaphorical hands—anything to drive the much louder noises away.

The ones coming from the door he’s forbidden from entering all because of stern words from even sterner eyes behind a balaclava.

On some level, he understands.

The whole place is small. Privacy is not something any of you are granted. But, he knows Ghost is trying to provide that for you in this case. Because you, little Squid, rarely ever ask for help—especially from him.

Gaz, yes. Price, maybe. Even him, occasionally.

Ghost—never.

But, he’s softened. He has jokes with you, purposefully having chosen to spend time with you on watch. Something rare, and very out of character for a man who initially didn't even show any of them his bloody face.

Soap knows you've done it again. Seeped under his layers, like you did with all of them, weaving your way, making it hard not to instantly take a shine to you.

He doesn't blame Ghost, he understands why. He can see that time was taken making you, carving each element of your personality, creating someone that is both good, clever and funny. You're strong-willed, giving-a-shit attitude is most likely the reason Ghost is helping you—training with you, offering guidance and support.

Handing you fucking praise.

Because he too has caught on to what they’ve all seen. He’s taken notice of how fucking splendid you are, how you’re capable and fucking gorgeous all rolled into one.

That’s it, Squidlet. Use your—perfect, that’s it, you got it. Atta girl.

He’s sure he’ll need bleach to burn Ghost’s words from his brain.

Even if it’s his fault—because he knows he shouldn’t be listening.

Having created his own personal torture chamber that he’s taken the time to design, construct, and build. Because there wasn’t a table and chairs here before—he moved them here. Choosing this spot so he could be close, just in case. Of what? He's not sure. But he needs to be here, something within him compelling him to be.

Under his jealousy, he doesn’t blame you, and he doesn’t blame Lt either. He knows the two of you can hardly be expected to spar outside, where every pair of eyes could be the enemy. Out there, the air isn't just thick with heat, but tension too.

Apprehension simmers as they come closer and closer to completing the very thing they are here for.

So, he's sat outside the room. Pretending to be interested in the latest report. Not wanting to move. Twisting and turning his emotions like playing cards, wondering why didn’t you ask him?

He bristles, chewing the inside of his mouth, breathing heavy, hating it—hating it all. His cheeks burning, coated in sweat as he stares at the words on the page, unsure why none of them are soaking in.

Why wouldn't you choose your lieutenant? That's the thought that gnaws, that sinks its pointy teeth into him. And it makes his bones ache.

Because he's so close, and yet so far. He almost has you, but not entirely. And it pecks at him, weaves into his insecurities, his need to prove himself—so much so he can’t rid the image of his lieutenant looming his big fucking frame over you. You under him, eyes staring up, lips parted, shredding your clothing for the man who rarely shows his face—

Your groan punches the air.

A sound he knows is from you being knocked on your arse, but it makes his fingers turn white. The sound so painted with frustration, and tiredness. He can tell—christ, he can even imagine the look on your face that accompanies it. Yet his brain twists it, morphs it, transforms it into something so ugly it almost breaks his heart.

It makes him want to claw at his brain, scratch out the images the tortured parts of himself keeps creating.

Because he knows you’re both sparring, that Lt is likely knocking you down, over and over again—not knowing that you’re stubborn, not knowing he should stop, that you’re running on nothing.

He’s your lieutenant, yes, but he doesn’t know you. Doesn’t know that you push yourself until you snap and shatter, leaving fragments of yourself in your hands. Pieces he’s tried to help guide back into place when he’s found you, lost and broken in such a way he’s not sure how to glue you back.

But, you didn’t choose him.

You chose Ghost.

Asked, practically pleaded with him.

So, he had to listen—even if he really fucking didn’t want to. He had to take the few sightings of you through the cracked door—the proof that you’re not on the floor, broken, breathing hard with sweat blending with tears.

Which means he also sees your body sheened with sweat, hair sticking to your face, neck and shoulders, and your tiny, tight shorts. It means he's seeing you looking ethereal, almost too good for this goddamn place.

And it nips at him—fueling his jealousy. It peels at his skin that Ghost is seeing you like this without a filter, without anything getting in the way.

All of it whisking against the vexation of the heat, the fear of failure and the growing tiredness. It makes his knuckles almost crack, his skin almost translucent as his wrists ache from the way he continually clenches his fist.

He’s down bad. He knows that.

Soap has been aware of it for longer than he’d like to admit. Each time his eyes land on your mid-smile, each sound of your laughter—all he thinks is, I want this, I want it all with you.

Not that he says those words. He just thinks them. Lets them swirl around his godforsaken mind until they try to drag him under.

Sometimes, he can’t even think because of it. The depths of his own thoughts like water, drowning him from the inside, made so much worse by the simple fact—he’s not the one pinning you to the floorboards. That he has barely seen you, spoken to you, been around you since they all landed here.

But Ghost has. His lieutenant has. The same Lt who is funny, witty, and even has his own nickname for you. The one who has height even on him, who is broader, and who your eyes land on immediately when briefs are given out.

Not his.

Each time he almost wants to exit the room, his teeth cutting the inside of his cheeks. Instead, he sits and silently stews. Bubbling away like a broth his mum used to make—hoping, waiting to get back to base where things feel easier.

And then, your squeal pinches the air, Soap unaware he's even standing until he blinks.

Then he hears the unmistakable gruff, Manchester twang of “Y’alright, Squidie?”

His heart pounds, attempting to crack his ribs and fly out of his chest. More so as each millisecond ticks on, as they add up into seconds and your voice hasn’t cut through the air—

“Not broken. Winded. But—“

You cough. Heavy. Chesty.

Soap’s mind fighting, urging him to push the door open more and visibly check you over himself. But, he hears movements, feet—boots.

“And. Stop callin’ me, Squidie.”

“Prefer Squidlet?"

"Fuck no."

"Get up.”

“Alright, alright,” you hiss, and the floorboard creaks again as you do. “Anyone tell you that you're the worst sometimes, Ghostling.”

Each night, he hopes the air will be easier to swallow. But, each night he wishes, it brings a new fresh hell he feels ill-prepared for.

Tonight, it’s sticky—the air clogged with thick, stubborn heat. There’s moisture, but it’s wrong. It smothers, makes his clothes chafe against his muscles.

All of it is made worse by you being difficult. You're kind, warm-hearted, and beautiful—but fucking difficult too. Especially on low sleep. Especially when you're woven so tightly, you're going to snap.

He’s heard Price order you to get some fuckin’ sleep—your back against the dingy wall, his palm flat against the wall, eyes close to yours. Soap watched as you lifted your chin defiantly, muttering back, I’ll sleep when you do, Captain.

Anyone else, he suspects they’d have their neck wrung. Sharing a look with Ghost—one he wasn’t able to translate—as you spit that you'll do the next watch, climbing the stone staircase and the ladder at the top before anyone can argue.

It reminds him of months ago, when you’d driven yourself to near exhaustion then. Your stubborn, difficultness being the backbone for you not to sleep, something always needing to be done—as if you’re the sole person who can stop all of this and put the world to rights.

You’ve always taken on so much.

The fire in your chest is both a blessing and a curse. He’s heard Price chew you out for the same reason. You try to do it all, not because you don’t rely on them or because you don’t trust them, but because:

“I care about you, all of you.”

Soap had been lingering, hanging outside the door of Price’s office when he heard his response.

“What makes you think you’re alone in that, hmm? You’re one of us, Squid. So, be one of us.”

When you’d emerged—tail between your legs—it didn’t take a genius to see you’d taken it hard. Not the berating, but the statement; the fact you fit in, that you were cared for.

And, even then you’d tried to shift the emotions dancing in your eyes from him. The mask not slipping down quickly enough, and the smile was not being presented fast.

“Y’alright?”

He always wondered if you’d have lied if he’d found you one minute later. If you’d have done so because you’d have known he hadn’t seen you undone, exposed—walls at your feet.

“No. Not… not really.” “C’mon, lass.”

It wasn’t the first time, but it was one of his favourites.

He’d held you against him, his sheets over both of your bodies, comfortable silence surrounding the two of you, clothes a welcomed barrier to anything else—as you held him like he was your rock in a storm.

Just like the two of them did on that first mission together.

I trust you. You know that, don’t you? Course, lass. Be bit awkward if y’didn’t? I mean, I don't do this with anyone else. Sleep with them... like this. I hope fuckin' not. You're special, Johnny. That's all I mean.

Sleep took you seconds later. Gently stealing you from him, breaths turning heavier and body relaxing and moulding around him.

Soap had found, in that space between reality and sleep, that’s when you were the most free. When your tongue is loosened and your heart is without chains. A side of you he sees in fleeting moments when he’s alone with you, but in a greater capacity like this—when you’re about to leave him for your dreams.

Now, though, it’s different.

You're weighed down by more than stress and pride, but rocks and fucking anchors. Whether because of the growing casualties or because you missed your bed, because it brought up memories you only ever half told him about.

He knows this because he's overheard Gaz ask you if you’re okay—Soap watching from the sidelines as you lie through your teeth. Something you’re getting better at, somewhat able to control your features, almost a poker face.

He knows you hate lying, to them at least. Each lie you spit opens a sore inside of you. It’s why he’s not asked himself. Not wanting to give you something else to churn and worry over, knowing it knots your insides and makes you spiral.

It’s not his turn to keep watch, but he follows you up the ladder all the same. He leans, the air coating his skin, making him already dream about the dribble they call a shower. Because even the rooftop wall is boiling, almost cooking him through his vest and clothes.

“Talk to me, lass. What’s keepin’ y’up?”

You don’t look at him, continuing your pacing, eyes trained in the distance. But your breath audibly catches, clearly startled, clearly rattled by his question—his presence.

“I hate losing.”

“We ain’t gonna lose, Mari.”

Your chin lifts, tongue swiping across dry, cracked lips. “I know… we’re the best of the fucking best. But…”

He knows.

He’s been feeling it too.

That thing. Unexplainable. The shadow in the corner, the one which has been haunting and hunting them since the wheels touched down. Sometimes, it’s easy, and sometimes it’s methodical—it’s torturous observing until the perfect moment. And when it’s the latter, it has a way of scratching at sensibility.

They all have a past. A failed mission that stands out from the rest—one that reminds each of them not to relax, to not let their guard down—what a single mistake can cause.

Your head turns, the moon casting a shadow across your features, and the hold you have on his heart tightens—nails digging in deep as the muscle tries to thump.

“Johnny, I’m just so t—“

But it’s stolen, your explanation.

Heavy boots and a masked face cut off whatever you were about to say. Eyes sitting around darkness, staring from him to you, bouncing, before frowning.

“It's not your watch, Johnny—"

"—I know—"

"You should get some sleep."

He wants to argue. Almost bloody does, too.

Wants to dig his heels in, and get you to continue, but he’s tired—his shoulders aching, his eyes stinging.

But, it's your words from another mission that come to mind. The ones from when you’d emerged like a phoenix—fire and smoke behind you as you stumbled into his arms—

Dunna do that, lass. Scare me. Need to stop worrying, Soapie. I always find my way back. I promise.

So he nods. He leaves. His palms descend down the ladder, half-stopping when he realises he left the window opening pausing.

He's not sure what he’s expecting—if anything at all. A confirmation, maybe? That the girl who drives him mad, has feelings for the more obvious choice. The brooding, big lieutenant who spits army jokes like he has an arsenal of them; the one you spend more time under, even if it’s sparring, than any of the others.

He’s about to move, shaking his nonsensical thoughts when he hears Ghost.

“Y’gotta stop fighting us all, Squidlet.”

“I’m not.”

“You fuckin’ are, and you know it.”

Silence. Horrid, fucking silence. So much so, his mind begins to fill with images of your bodies moving together, arms pulling the other close, ripping, shredding—

“You’ll be a piss poor shot if y’don’t sleep. Plus, you’re wearing Johnny out.”

His face flushes, bloody burns in the space between the second floor and the roof.

He doesn't miss you mumble that you’re not. All dismissive. Making his hands grip the spindle of the ladder, releasing a puff of air.

“If I sleep—“

“The world will keep turnin', trust me.”

“You almost sound like you care.”

His heart sinks, drops—and fucking plummets. Because you’re right. It does. It sounds exactly like that. The nickname. The way he’s come up when it’s not even his watch. All of it screaming that it’s something—all flashing lights and loud music accompanying it.

“Go to sleep, Squidie.”

“It’s my—“

“Go.”

He has to move.

He needs to move.

Even if he wants to pull you close to him. Even if it feels like you’re slipping through his fingers.

Just like he had done when he first realised how he felt, how he’d been feeling. When he’d almost told you. Rain hammering down, drowning you both to the bone. The two of you sent east, the rest west. Splitting a building each, finding his empty, and telling you as much. Your radio silence still haunted him. His blood thumping in his ears, ripping through each room, doing what he does best—cleaning fucking house. Finding you, bruised, bleeding, your knife in hand trembling under a dead body. The sound of boots drawing nearer to the opening they’d made—

“Thanks, Simon.”

He blinks in the present. The memory faded into nothing, vanishing like smoke—like it was never even there. Whatever held the last parts of him, snapped. His eyes staring up, pricking with the heat and the moment—stinging, aching.

You called him his name.

It left your tongue wrapped in intimacy, in care.

He’s unsure how he reaches the bottom of the ladder, his palms closed, fists clenched, nothing else in his head except getting to his room. Crossing the landing, passing the room with the others, only focusing on reaching his own room. The small thing—the cupboard with a single bed he’d managed to cop.

Everything he's squashed down, rises. They all begin to angrily fuse, mixing with the heat and his pent up frustration that he’s still here—so much so he almost slams the door. Almost.

His fingers instead press the thin wood into its frame. The click blessing the air like the first strum of a guitar, his heart beating like a drum—and then a knock, one belonging to a smaller hand, calloused, but still soft, the bass that sets the mood. All of it blending, creating a song he's not sure if he'll love or hate.

He knows it’s you. Knows it as he opens the door, watching you stare up at him, sliding your vest from your body, all defeated and knackered beyond belief.

Deep down, no matter what his brain says—what he hears, what he sees—he at least knows it’s him you choose to curl up to. That when you really need comfort, it’s him you look for. It’s him you pull close until your bodies almost merge into one.

“Hi.”

“Lass...”

You look troubled, more weighed down than he really noticed. Not even bothering to hide it, to plaster a smile over the cracks.

“Can I… Soap, I can’t…” you chew the inside of your cheek, avoiding his eyes as you sigh.

He tugs on your wrist, pulling you to him. Your body falling into him like it’s weightless, like you’re all attitude and feathers. Bringing you close, holding your head to his chest—almost swaying with you.

It always starts like this.

One, long hug. Rooted to the spot. Nothing—not a single thing able to penetrate the two of you. Frozen in a moment no one can ever take. And then, he’ll turn, finding shorts and a different t-shirt, hearing you undress before finding something more comfortable. Sometimes it’s your own, sometimes it’s his.

And fuck, when it’s his.

Your wicked, but sleepy smile is a picture for sore eyes and one he wishes he could take a photo of when you wait for his invite, as if you ever need one to climb into his bed.

Your bodies slide against the mattress. Usually, the springs protest, but the cot you’re sharing just groans in frustration as both of your sets of limbs find their place.

It should feel awkward, but it never does. He shouldn’t crave this, should be able to sleep solidly without a person on his chest. But, he finds he sleeps better with you. Finds that dreams are easier, that there’s more sunshine, more hope and fucking rainbows in the world when you’re on top of him, softly breathing.

“Night, Mari.”

He waits.

Your usual sleepy ‘Soapie’ or ‘Johnny’ blessing his ears. But none come, none. And he almost tenses, almost moves you to see your face.

“You… you don’t mind that we do this, do you?”

His hand tilts your chin up, staring into those eyes, begging them to give him a reason—either to close the gap or begin the process of getting over you. Something. Anything.

Because how could he mind this, when he wants something more?

He’d ask for it too. If he weren’t afraid. The big demolition man scared of losing you, of losing this, by being greedy and wanting more.

“Neve’, lass. I like being the person y’come t’when you need somethin’.”

He doesn’t miss the smile. The soft one. The one which you rarely show, but is bloody beaming for him now.

“It’s only you, Soapie,” you say, curling tighter into him, leaving no space.

And it takes all of his control.

Thoughts of his great-aunt with her harsh accent and wiry moustache to be able to pull you closer. Your head on his chest, fingers dancing up and down your arm as he feels you relax, muscle by muscle.

“Only me, y’say?”

You let out a soft breath, one that dances warmth over his t-shirt—almost over the hair on his chest. “You’re an idiot, Johnny. Course it is, who else?”

And he smiles.

Not at his name, not at the insult, but the fact you’re falling asleep—something you’ve not done for two full days. And it’s on him.

Only him.

He buries the rest of your words. The ‘who else’ and the instant answer that appeared on the tip of his tongue. He can unpack it another time.

There’s something about waking on top of him. Clothes are a horrid, but necessary barrier between the two of you.

You don’t want things to change, for them to spoil, to wilt and fade from grasp. So, you’ll put up with only having this, having him in this way. At least then, you'll always have arms around you that you know won’t hurt you. You’ll accept the hugs, and long for the cuddles; you’ll settle for sleeping alongside him, rather than with him.

And, you won't tell MacTavish that you think he’s handsome, no matter how much he dares you to drink. That even asleep he is beautiful, even minus the evidence of his smile, and the dimples you wish to trace with your fingers. He’s still everything, without being anything.

He’s your best friend, your safety, your person.

He feels like home, a soul that grounds you and keeps you rooted. He makes you better, helps you grow and—

Your fingers draw a circle on his chest. Watching his lashes flutter, his eyes slowly opening, and your throat going dry—like it does each time he looks at you with so much softness.

I think I’m in love with you, Johnny.

That’s what you should say.

Instead, you say, “Morning, Soapie.”

1K notes · View notes

staytinyville · 3 months

Text

Twin Flames

To: @flurrys-creativity

From: Your Secret Admirer! The moment I saw that HALAZIA was one of your favorite songs I just had to create this stroy from my original works. HALAZIA is my favorite song as well. It was the one that inspired the original novel in its entirety. So I wanted to make something within my universe. I do hope you love the world building. There is so much more I wish I could go over but one thing at a time!

↣ Summary: In a world where magic exists, you had creatures that were created in order to help those who were able to harness the power of the sun and the moon. Each creature has a special connection with their creators. Those created by Witches were followers of the moon. And those created by Faeries were with the sun. However for some creatures, they were connected to their creators on a much deeper meaning.

↣ Characters/Pairing: Seonghwa x Reader

↣ Genre: Fluff, Angst

↣ AU/Trope info: Vampire!Seonghwa, Witch!Reader, Historical!au, Twin Flames!au

↣ Word Count: 6.6k

↣ Warnings: blood (It’s a vampire fic lol), revenge killing, murder (Nothing too extreme)

↣ A/N: If you guys were interested, this is actually based in my original novel. There was a lot of world building I really loved in this and the main story is based on modern time vampire/witch romance. In the book though, creatures don’t exist because they gave up their powers. This takes place way before the start of the actual book but it is a good start to the approach on why people were giving up their abilities.

Staytinyville’s Permanent Taglist

↣ Affiliates: @pirateeznet , @cultofdionysusnet , @wonderlandnet , @cromernet , @monsterfvckersunited

↣ Special Thanks: Thank you @saradika-graphics for the amazing banners! Please go check her out if you have specific banners in mind. She is great!

You couldn’t remember a time when your family didn’t have their herbal shop. It was the shop that had been in your family for generations helping those who needed it. The long line of witches you came from hailed to be some of the best in the region. In your village the only two magical families were your own–and the Jung’s, who were faeries in their own respective rights.

There wasn’t much of a difference in what your family and Jung’s practiced–in fact there was none at all. If one was to get them confused it wouldn’t be a problem. The only reason that made witches different from faeries was their souls. It was common knowledge that witches and faeries were split from the same soul. However, the thing that made them different was chaos and order. One was the calm that connected with the soothing light of the moon, while the other was the disorderly that played in the sun.

In the village though, there was no harsh competition between the two families. Not when you knew that one of the Jung’s was connected to you on a cosmic level. He was your soulmate–the platonic kind. And your family saw nothing wrong with it so they practiced their own things on their own. You kept the middle Jung from trouble and he was the one who pushed you to go out of the norm. It was well balanced as the universe intended.

Now with your family's shop, you were in charge of it when they were gone–seeing as you were going to be the one to continue the legacy. You would often help customers find what they needed, create spells that would heal wounds, flesh out spirits that were attached to another person, banish entities that meant harm to others. It was the everyday life of a witch–one you cared for dearly.

It let you know that you still had the power of the moon behind you. You didn’t take them for granted. You didn’t overuse their gift or for personal reasons. Oftentimes you would turn to it when you needed guidance or help in learning something about yourself. It was the mother that had given you what you were. The reason you were a witch.

“Have a good day!” You smiled, bowing your head at the kind elven woman who had come to ask for a healing jar.

You handed her the glass, checking it over one last time to make sure the salve was sealed tightly and nothing spilled out. You allowed her hand to touch yours, closing your eyes and giving one last prayer to the moon to allow the salve to have the magical properties it needed.

“Thank you, (Y/N)!” The woman beamed, bowing her head in thanks.

You showed the woman out, waving your hand as she disappeared into the crowd. You turned to the other side of the road, hearing commotion as someone stopped at the small food stall that you often had food at. The owner was a mermaid, serving the best seafood dishes you could think of. While your village wasn’t that near water, there was still a large lake that had a lot of freshwater fish to enjoy.

The commotion was between said owner and a larger than life man. Ogres weren’t that common as mermaids were because of their origins. While mermaids originated from Asia, ogres came from the northern region of Europe. In this time and age, it was common to find creatures all over the world but it was still likely you wouldn’t see them often.

“We don't serve ogres here.” The owner sneered at the large man.

“Please, I've been traveling so far.” The poor man sighed, trying to make himself look smaller.

He glanced around at the patrons of the stall, taking note of all the looks he would get from them. Your shoulders dropped as you sighed deeply. Prejudice against certain creatures had always been around. Some got it more than others–if only because those who treated them poorly were scared of them. It hurt you inside to see how they treated each other. They were all created with the same magic. The magic that came from either the sun or the moon.

“Go somewhere else.” The owner waved the ogre off, looking away from him angrily. “I don't need you taking up more space than needed.”

The ogre man didn’t argue, only bowed his head and turned to leave the stall. He glanced around for a moment once more, trying to find a place to eat. Without thinking, you went into your store and gathered some mushrooms and herbs that were edible. They were used for spells but that was only if you chose to work with them. In the end they were just normal herbs that could be used in food.

Coming outside, you were lucky to find that the ogre didn’t go too far. So you rushed up to him, getting his attention as you held out your things for him to take.

“Here you are.” You spoke softly, bowing your head.

The man looked down at the things in his hand, glancing back up at you. Tears began to well in his eyes at how kind you were. It had been a long journey to reach the village for the man, and he was grateful that someone was willing to help him. He knew at that moment you were a witch, having the kind nature to help those in need.

“Thank you.” He bowed deeply, holding the mushrooms close to his chest.

And so you watched him continue on his way, shoulders dropping at the somber feeling that filled your chest. Things were changing when it came to the people who were on this earth. You didn’t know if it was for the better–or if it was for the worst.

“Another family came to ask my parents if they could reverse their abilities.” Wooyoung explained to you as he leaned against the counter of your shop.

You paused in your organizing for a moment before resuming what you were doing. It was few and far between that a new family had come to your or Wooyoung’s family shops to ask that they take away their abilities as creatures. It was them asking to reverse generations of DNA infused with one another.

Creatures weren’t alway created with spells, they could be born as well. Once the spells became worldwide and other faeries and witches would cast them, it called for new species that would procreate more. It had been a long while since the last spell was casted that created a creature, so the ones who were there came from generational families.

“They said there's hunters nearby.” Your friend added.

You felt a deep feeling within your stomach that clenched. Hunters were the humans who chose to willingly kill creatures. Humans were common like anyone else. However it became recent that they began to turn against the creatures.

It had been a long while since creatures themselves began to turn against each other. The humans had begun this fear, causing everyone to notice other things about each other that usually called for peace. They started to become scared of each other because they would assume others had more power. It was starting to bring about a war that would cause all creatures to be wiped out.

Whether from death because of another species or from them reversing their own abilities.

“Why would they be here?” You sighed, turning to look at the boy.

Everyone knew how close you and Wooyoung were. You couldn’t remember a time when you weren’t friends with the chaotic boy. You remembered the first time you had met him, back when you were both children learning to make friends in general.

He was a bit too much for you, often getting too excited over things that made you give him a questioning look. But you were often paired with him because the other kids didn’t like to hang out with him because of his excited nature. He was too much to handle, but you always knew how to do that.

Witches and faeries were soulmates, it was known. The universe had created them from the same soul so they were meant to be there for one another. And just like the universe planned, you were there with Wooyoung. You loved him as your other half–it was something the both of you could feel. But that didn’t mean you were lovers.

While a large majority of the village thought you were, you knew the kind of preferences Wooyoung had and the kind you did. The love you had for each other was platonic. You were his person and he was yours. You knew if either one of you were in trouble the other wouldn’t be that far behind to save the day.

“Maybe because our village is near the Park estate. I haven't seen them recently now that I think about it. Is it the hunters?” Wooyoung prattled off.

“I wouldn't assume so.” You told him.

The Park’s were considered like royalty in your town. It was known that they were one of the founding families, along with Wooyoung’s and some others. The Park’s however were the ones who knew a lot more about how to gather a community together. They were the ones who ran things and made sure to cater to the needs of its people. Mayors of sorts for the village.

However as of recently, it has been known that the Park’s don’t come down from their castle on the hill. It’s been a few weeks since you had last seen any of them, which you did find to be odd but you didn’t question it because your parents told you not to.

“They're probably up there staying young forever.” Wooyoung sighed wistfully. “That's why they stopped coming down.”

You frowned, glaring slightly at the boy for his statement. “They need to drink blood in order to do that.”

The Park’s were well known for being vampires. At least being known from what they tell other people. Vampires weren’t what the stories claimed them to be. They weren’t people who drank from people in order to feed. They were still human beings but with an ability that allowed them to drink blood.

A vampire could eat food, get sick, and die like everyone else, it was when they would have a drop of blood that would heal them both from inside and out. They didn’t have sharp fangs that sprouted from their teeth or pale skin that was sensitive to the sun. What others found out later on after so many were created was that drinking blood continuously made a vampire strong and live longer. Essentially making them immortal.

And once people found out just how powerful they could be with a simple drop of blood, greed easily took over the minds of the weak.

“Maybe they come down at night.” Wooyoung continued the joke, a teasing smile on his face.

“No one goes missing.” You rolled your eyes. “Wooyoung, they're not bloodsuckers.”

You finished what you had been doing with the herbs, moving along the counter to wait on the other side as you began to compile certain spell jars. Wooyoung turned around to face you, head placed in his arms that held him up.

“Wrong!” Wooyoung suddenly said. “They are! I hear the eldest son is 96. Can you imagine how wrinkly he'd be?” He giggled.

The boy watched as your shoulders seemed to have straightened out at the mention of the Park son. He pursed his lips to keep from saying something, already knowing exactly how it was you felt about the boy.

“Seonghwa is the same age as you and me.” You said, not making eye contact with him. “Mother delivered him. The Park's are not like those greedy vampires.”

Wooyoung rolled his eyes with a huff. “You only say that because you're a witch. Have you even met him before?” He asked you, looking at you expectantly.

“Once when I was a kid.” You smiled to yourself. “He was very kind.”

You hadn’t grown up to be his friend–something you regret a lot. You could only remember it so well because of the way you had felt that day. You didn’t know what you barely a teenager body could possibly have been going through but you knew you had never felt that way with someone before.

Years Before

You had been strolling through the village, making your rounds to scourge for herbs and the likes as you were on your way to find Wooyoung. You were passing by the wall that was stationed in front of the Park estate, frowning when you saw someone trying to walk along the top of it with their arms stretched out.

You continued on your way slowly, not wanting to disturb them in case they lost focus. However, it seemed you didn’t need to because the moment you started walking again the boy fell over, scraping his knees on the ground.

He hissed as he lifted his hands up to wipe them before sitting down on his bum to take a better look at his knee. The wall wasn’t that tall, probably reached your shoulders which meant you were able to see over it. So his fall wasn’t something that would majorly injure him. However since he fell wrong his knees did take a good hit on the dirt ground.

You quietly gasped out when you saw his wound bubbling with blood, rushing over to check on him. “Are you okay?” You asked out of instinct, kneeling down to take a better look.

The boy only looked at you with wide eyes, mouth closed shut as he watched you not even pay the proper attention to him. “I’m okay. I just scraped my knee.” He told you quietly.

You finally looked up at him, feeling your shoulder tense up as you felt a blush settle over your face from his gaze. You tilted your head to the side though, frowning as your heart skipped a beat for a moment. At that moment, you also saw as he frowned as well moving to rub at his chest.

Looking back down at his knee, you sat down your basket before rummaging through it to find what you needed. “I’ll heal your wounds.” You explained to him, taking your small knife to pick at the herbs you had.

Before you placed anything on him, you handed him a small cloth telling him to wipe at the blood so you could do your work. He softly took the rag, giving you a smile before nodding his head. His fingers felt cold to the touch, but your skin still heated up. It reminded you of all the candles your family had around the shop. Like a comforting hug that surrounded you. You blushed, smiling back at him before going back to the basket.

Your fingers moved idly over the herbs you knew are used to heal wounds. With only a select few that you had with you, you cut a piece of aloe vera and made sure to expose the gel inside. While you discarded the green part, you gathered a few sprigs of green tea leaves before turning to Seonghwa.

He sat up straighter, having been caught staring as you went about your work. You giggled quietly, scooting closer to his leg and looking over it to make sure there was nothing dirty. When you saw he had cleaned up the excess blood, you carefully placed the cool gel pad of the aloe onto the scrape and rubbed it in with the leaves.

“Hold this here, please.” You quietly told him.

He listened, holding the aloe to his skin as your hands hovered over him. He watched you close your eyes and began to move your lips as hushed breaths came out. Your fingers messaged into his skin as a tingle seemed to flow throughout his muscles. His eyes went wide as he had realized that you were doing a spell on him, so he quickly turned to pay attention to what you were doing.

Nothing came out from your fingers, in fact it didn’t even look like you were doing anything other than rubbing his knee. What he did feel though was a warming feeling that overtook his body. He was reminded of the times he spent watching the flames of a candle flicker back and forth as his nose breathed against it.

He looked back at your face, smiling softly as you made him feel content. Before he knew it you were sitting back up and taking the aloe off his skin. “Oh you’re done.” He said, looking down at his knee.

His eyes went wide again as he saw his skin had healed over and no more blood was coming out. The skin was pink though, a scar taking its place. Magic witches and faeries had was an amazing thing but not everything could be fixed completely.

“Yeah.” You said. “The spell only makes the healing process go faster. Scars are still going to be there.”

Seonghwa looked over his knee, moving it back and forth. “That’s okay.” He grinned.

You both stood up from the ground, dusting yourselves off from the dirt. Just as he was about to ask for your name, someone had called for you. Looking around Seonghwa, you saw Wooyoung looking around for you with a frown on his face.

“That’s my friend.” You told Seonghwa. “I have to get going.” You gave him a bow one last time, picking up your basket and skipping over to the faerie boy.

As you walked away, you smiled sadly as you looked behind you one last time catching Seonghwa’s eyes. He gave you a smile, waving his hand. You laughed, waving back enthusiastically. When you turned around, you felt something flicker in your chest as a warmth spread throughout it.

Present

“Sweet.” You added, remembering about the time you had met Seonghwa.

“And he made me feel all warm inside as if I was standing next to a burning candle.” Wooyoung mocked in a high pitched voice. “As does every witch girl who comes across him. You aren't special.”

“I never said I was!” You sneered at him, throwing a bay leaf at him for mocking you.

He began to let out a loud laugh that reminded you of a screech. But you couldn’t stand to tell him something about it. No matter how much he annoyed you and mocked you, you knew that you both loved each other too much.

Wooyoung grew quiet for a moment, making you look over at him. He had a somber look on his face that made you worry a bit. Wooyoung had his moments where he was serious, especially if it had to do with his beliefs. But even then you still worried about his mental state in those times. Whether it was out of anger or sadness, you would always be able to tell when something was bothering him.

“Do you think the hunters will come to our village next?” Wooyoung quietly asked. “What happens when they do?” He turned to look at you.

You licked your lips, sighing to yourself. “I don't know, Woo.” You quietly said.

That following night, your parents had left the shop in your care because they had something to attend to with the council. Wooyoung’s parents were also going to be out but they had placed their things in the care of Wooyoung’s older brother. The man himself was not going to keep the place from falling apart.

You were getting things ready for closing when someone knocked on the door and you looked out towards the door. A tall man stood at the entrance, bowing his head when he noticed you turning around to face him.

The candle light was too far from him for you to find out who exactly stood at the door, so you calmly raised your hand closer to some candles and whispered under your breath for protection just in case.

However as he grew closer, your shoulders dropped and your fingers stopped their movements. You began to feel dizzy from the warm feeling surrounding you. You wanted to close your eyes and bask in its warmth but you had a customer to attend to.

“I've come to speak to the head of this house.” He spoke, coming into view in the candle light.

He was the tall and handsome type most people would fall for. The kind that makes people stop and stare from how regal he looked. It was only heightened with the kind of clothes he wore. They made him look taller, stronger with how much everything seemed to fit him. He called for attention, and he clearly had yours.

“They're currently out of town.” You told the duke’s son.

He finally had reached the counter, coming into light as the candle fully lit up his face. Park Seonghwa was someone who smiled at those in passing. The one who was kind to everyone because that was just the kind of person he was.

To you though, he was the man who you dreamt of. The man who laid on a dying bed as your blood poured into his mouth to keep him alive. It wasn’t your memory–far from it. It was the memory of a witch who was losing her true love to some injury. The one who created the spell that would change the course of history for magic.

But it was all in your head. Something you could never explain to others because they wouldn’t understand. Like how Wooyoung had made fun of you for thinking of Seonghwa in any way other than he was a nice guy. You knew others might not make fun of you, but it was something that you wanted to keep to yourself because it was special.

“I see.” Seonghwa nodded his head.

He looked at you, for a moment, eyes glancing over your face as he tried to deduce something. “Is it alright if I can ask you what creature you are?” He asked you.

You opened your mouth just a bit as your breath got caught in your throat. You smiled bashfully, looking down. “Of course.” You nodded, answering him.

“I am a witch.” You explained. “My family owns the shop.”

He paused again, seemingly looking more confused as he scooted closer to the counter. “I’m sorry, have we met before?” He asked you.

Your eyebrows rose, as you took in his looks, seemingly sighing dreamily as you watched him. Your fingers began to tingle, causing you to flex them to relive the feelings. You could feel your blood rushing through your heart, and warming your body.

“I believe, so when we were children.” You answered.

Seonghwa watched you, feeling his blood warm up as you looked at him. He could feel himself start to fall asleep from how everything seemed to make him feel. He could remember the one time he had last ever felt that way. The time a young woman had come to help him fix his scraped knee.

He remembered it now, the time when someone had helped him and it made him feel like a little child who stood in front of a candle. And now, standing in front of you again, he felt that same feeling. The wick that was lit up, the heat that radiated from the small flame, the wax that would melt and he would dip his fingers into it.

Not a day went by that he wouldn’t think about it. Think about the girl who had helped heal him with her magic. About the story his mother would tell him. The story of how vampires came to be. How they were the creatures who were created out of love.

“Yes.” Seonghwa said, nodding to himself. “I remember now. You treated my knee scrape when I fell from the wall of the palace.” He began to smile bashfully. “Embarrassing for me really. Having a pretty girl clean my wound.”

“I'm sure someone else would have done the same.” You blushed.

“Yes but none of them would have been a witch.” Seonghwa smiled at you.

You smiled softly at him, understanding that what you were feeling was not only yours. You didn’t know how far it was that he understood your connection–you didn’t even fully know if he truly did. But something about him knowing now that you were a witch made things change.

There was so much you wanted to ask him. So much you wanted to speak about with him but you knew there were things he needed to get done. The night was young and Seonghwa must have important matters to attend to if he only came down from the estate this late at night.

“I guess not.” You spoke softly.

“I guess I'll come by another day then.” He whispered to you, not tearing his eyes away.

You smiled at him nodding your head. Before he got the chance to turn around and walk away you called out to him. “If you need help with anything, please don't be afraid to ask me.” You told him.

He gave you a dazzling smile, lips pulling over his teeth. “Of course, little witch.”

You felt your heart stop for just a split second. The endearing nickname felt like a stab to your chest. Not in a bad way, but in a way that made your blood warm up even more. A blush overtook your cheeks. But still you gave him a nod and a wave of your hand. You watched as he left with a small smile on his lips.

You didn’t know how long it was that you saw him again. But it was a sad day for the village. You read over the article with the news about the death of the Park family. At least the parents.

You hadn’t seen Seonghwa since he last came in looking for your parents. It made you sad, not knowing what he must have been going through. It was even worse when you didn’t know how to fix things.

“They said it was a hunter.” Wooyoung spoke, looking over the paper. “Now with both of them gone it only leaves Seonghwa in charge of the estate. I wonder why they didn't just take blood.” The boy sighed.

“Wooyoung, not everything is like a story book.” You told him, not looking at him.

You didn’t know how to tell him. How to explain what it was you felt for Seonghwa. Honestly, you didn’t even fully understand it yet. It was every witches dream to find the person they were destined for, but you knew there were a select few who were able to.

Twin flames were hard to come by, only one in every century. To get this kind of chance was something no one wanted to just pass by. But for you, it was hard. Times were changing for the worse. At least for the creatures who roamed the earth. And yet you still wanted to deny it.

“They are not creatures who guzzle blood like it's their dinner.” You defended.

“But somehow they were the reason this war against creatures started.” Wooyoung rolled his eyes.

“You can't blame them for everything.” You looked up at him, eyebrows pulled together. “Only the greedy ones deserve death.” You added.

“(Y/N), get out of your head.” Wooyoung exclaimed. “Vampires are the reason hunters came to be. The reason all the creatures turned against each other and started to go into hiding. The reason we can't practice our magic anymore!” He was breathing hard, trying his best to keep from crying.

You sucked in breath, wanting to calm your racing heart. “Don't make a fool of yourself, Wooyoung. We still practice it.” You denied him.

“Really?” He asked. “Then what was the last spell your parents taught you?”

It was a healing spell. Back when you were a little girl. They never really taught you anything outside of the everyday needs. Healing, protections, warding, divination–all the things anyone needed in their lives. Wooyoung was right, though. They never taught you the big kinds of spells. The ones that connected you to the other worldly beings or fixed a mistake in your life that ended up in major failure.

You were just the girl who worked in the shop and made simple spells and read simple futures with cards. You couldn’t save a person’s life from the brink of death. Couldn’t make a mother find what she needed in order to have a child. Didn’t know how to help a child who couldn’t hear or see. Those were the spells your parents knew because their own families had taught them.

Wooyoung took your silence as an answer. His lips trembled as he became angry with how you were denying the truth. How you didn’t want to come to terms that the world was not happy with the magic users that were meant to care for it.

“They stopped because they know everyone is reversing their abilities.” Wooyoung sniffled. “Even the Park's! They came to my family to take away their powers—”

“Am I interrupting?” Someone asked.

Both you and the faerie boy turned, coming face to face with Seonghwa. You pressed your lips together, feeling your blood warm up from standing so close to him.

“Not at all.” You spoke up. “Wooyoung was just leaving.”

You watched the boy give you a look, disappointed in what you decided to choose. Your shoulders dropped at the way he looked at you. It hurt to watch him walk away from you in a haste to get away.

No matter what, Wooyoung was always going to be your person. Even if you kind were the ones who created vampires out of love, the universe was the one who created faeries and witches from the same soul. No creature was going to get in the way of that.

You turned back to Seonghwa, feeling your chest burn from both hurt and familiarity. You walked around the counter, stepping to stand in front of him. “I'm sorry about your mother.” You told him.

“I am too.” He gave you a soft smile. “Little witch, do you treasure who you are?” He asked you.

Your lips opened and closed for a moment before you looked down to avoid his gaze. You felt your heart ache thinking about how he must have overheard Wooyoung telling you about the Park’s going to his family to take away their vampiric abilities. His question did catch you off guard. But the moment you understood his words, you knew what it was you wanted to say.

People grew up to be the person they were meant to be for a reason. Being a human, witch, faerie, vampire–whatever–was what made them just that. You couldn’t go on without knowing who it was you were or wanted to be. Being a witch was a part of you just as being a vampire was for Seonghwa. You couldn’t even begin to imagine what it would be like to give up a part of you. Especially because you knew it was the reason you were at risk of being killed at the hands of others who didn’t understand the kind of person you were.

“More than anything in the world.” You answered him. “It's what makes me the person I am.”

“And if you had to give it up?” Seonghwa’s lips trembled, his breath turning shallow as he grew closer to you. “To let others know that you mean them no harm?”

You were never going to be able to know how Wooyoung dealt with his struggles. How Seonghwa dealt with his or how other creatures did. But you knew that being a witch was part of you and losing that would be one of the most painful experiences you could ever know.

“I wouldn't know what to do with myself.” You whispered. “That would be taking away a part of me–a part of my soul.”

Seonghwa sucked in a breath hearing your words. You felt his hands brush against your own, your breath hitching as you suddenly saw a vision pass behind your eyes. It was like those dreams you had. You saw those bloody hands clasped together–watched as two candles flickered together in sync with one another. And like always, the moonlight shined down on those two lovers huddled together.

When the images passed you found yourself staring right into Seonghwa’s eyes. You were close enough to watch as his pupils grew as they watched you. You could almost feel his warmth seeping into your skin.

“And if your soul was connected to someone else's?” He whispered.

“Wouldn't that make them my soulmate?” You questioned back.

“No, not your soulmate.” Seonghwa shook his head. “That would mean that person was your other half.” He explained, his hand finally taking yours in his. “The half that was torn from you.”

His fingers pried yours open, closing around your palm as he clasped your hand. Your eyes fluttered for a moment as you glanced down at his lips, but you quickly looked up the moment he stepped closer, chest brushing against yours.

“I mean in a way that your soul mirrors another.”

Twin flames were what they called witches and vampires. They were called that because when a witch created the first ever vampire, the way they had cured their lover was by connecting their souls together. They prayed to the moon and called upon its magic to save the one thing that they had loved more than even their own life.

And when the moon answered, the witch lit two candles that were the bridge between their lover’s dying soul and their living one. When they fed their lover blood, it was meant to be the essence of life bringing them back from the river that would take them to the underworld. In doing so, the witches' life became one with their lover. This created their souls to be connected to one another.

“Then we'd walk side by side.” You swallowed. “Magic or not, our souls will always be the same.” You told him.

You watched how his Adam's apple moved, his throat feeling like it was closing in as he took in your words. His lip trembled, breathing turning harsh as he tried to keep from having tears fall.

“Are you alright, Seonghwa?” You asked, growing worried as you took in his state.

“I just wanted to check on something.” He whispered so quietly. “I had to make sure I wasn't wrong.”

Your lips slowly turned downward as you realized what he was talking about. The moment Seonghwa saw your facial expression take a turn, he leaned closer, forehead touching yours as he was a breath away from touching your lips.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” You asked, lips brushing against his.

“More than I could ever ask for.” He then pressed his lips against yours.

Your breath got caught in your throat once more, body leaning back as he fully pushed himself into you. You didn’t waste time to kiss him back with as much vigor. You could feel something within you swell. You could feel Seonghwa’s heartbeat against his chest. Tears pooled in your eyes as you knew it was beating in sync with yours.

You felt his tears falling down his cheek, touching your own and causing them to get wet. But you didn’t care. All that filled your head was the way his lips felt touching yours–the way his body reacted with your own. Everything was moving together, like it was one person who was in charge.

Everything felt right. Like you were meant to be in that moment with him. And the moon–you could feel it on your skin. You could feel it seeping through the windows and onto the both of you. It was watching you–knowing what it had been doing when it brought you together.

You began to feel Seonghwa move the tip of his tongue onto your lips. When you opened your mouth just a bit more, you felt his teeth scrape your bottom lip. You didn’t know what had gone wrong, but suddenly you felt a nick on your skin, causing you to pull back quickly with a gasp.

You licked at your lip, feeling liquid touch your tongue. You furrowed your eyebrows when you felt that it didn’t hurt. In fact, you could even feel the sting when Seonghwa had caused the wound. The only reason you had was because you felt him bite you.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to.” He pulled back, licking off the blood that had been left on his lips.

“It’s alright.” You shook your head, trying to wipe away the dribbles. “Nothing I can’t fix.” You smiled at him.

Seonghwa stepped forward again, moving a hand to your cheek as his thumb brushed to wipe away the blood. He leaned down again, giving you one last chaste kiss to avoid hurting you further.

“Forgive me, my little witch.” He whispered to you.

And then he was gone.

You watched, along with the rest of the village, as people tried to clean up the bodies of humans who were torn apart and left in the town square to rot. Many tried to shield their eyes, keep children from looking at the disfigured humans.

They were hunters. Everyone could tell from the weapons that laid at their sides. Weapons that could easily kill anyone if you used them right. But you knew they were used against creatures. Creatures who had turned themselves humans but still were ultimately killed.

Wooyoung was at your side, making faces and gagging as the morticians tried to clean up the severed body parts. There were only certain things that had the strength to do that to the body. And as far as you knew, they had reversed their ability days before the death of his parents.

“I thought you said the Park’s came to reverse their powers.” You mumbled emotionless.

“Not Seonghwa.” Wooyoung answered you.

He turned to look at you, seeing how your face remained emotionless. “Still don't want to believe me?” He asked.

There was only so much pain someone could take before reaching the breaking point. Finding out that the one person who was meant to be a mirrored soul to your own after being told that you were no longer going to be the person you were meant to be was heart wrenching. Watching as your family lost something that belonged to not only their mind but their soul as you chose not to go through with it. Then you truly find the person who was meant to be your one true love.

Only to remember that one day they too were going to have to give up what they were. Even worse for someone who was a witch. To have to grow old as they lost their connection with the moon. That was far worse than losing some silly ability to drink blood.

It only led them to want to fight for what was meant to be right. But was it in the end if power only caused war against one another? Maybe giving up those kinds of things was for the best. But that doesn’t mean there weren’t going to be people who fought for their life.

“Not at all.”

Permanent Taglist: @hecateslittlewitchling , @ldysmfrst, @rln-byg , @vampcharxter , @angieskzzzz , @puppyminnnie , @smilingtokki , @emtrades22 , @tinyelfperson , @0rangemilk , @jaerisdiction , @wooyoungqueen

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monstersandmaw · 7 months

Text

Male dullahan x gn reader (sfw)

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

OH boy, this is a personal one for me on a number of levels (which usually means it's gonna tank), but here's the first of my five new commissions - this one is for the incredibly supportive and sweet @doomfisthero.

It features one of the Supernatural Biker Gang I mentioned in this post, which a lot of you seemed to like, so I hope you're keen to meet the cheeky, goofball dullahan with a heart of gold! Not gonna lie, I went way over the agreed wordcount for this one because it's the world I've already started building, and it's got characters I've already been thinking of for a while.

Content: gender neutral reader who experiences severe anxiety around being pranked/practical joked, which occurs at one point in the story. There’s no malicious intent or bullying behind the prank, and it gets discussed afterwards. The reader is a writer, doing research for a story about bikers, and has no idea that there's something a little 'extra' about this gang. Their friend, Adi, is dating one of them already, and I hope to write their story soon too.

Wordcount: 9216

“God, this was such a stupid idea,” you muttered as you approached the only shop on that wide, empty side street. Its metal sign swung gently back and forth in a light, autumn breeze, displaying a full moon on a black background, with a cruiser-style motorbike silhouetted in front of it, and the white, artfully-distressed font underneath it read ‘Full Moon Motorcycles’.

A second later, your friend stepped out onto the pavement and you knew there was no turning back. Adrianne grinned at you, so you kicked your feet back into motion and closed the distance between you, offering her a small hug. Your leather messenger bag bumped against your hip with the movement, and you wondered if perhaps you should have left your notebook and stuff at home for this first time. It felt more like an interview than getting to know them, and you were worried the group of unfamiliar bikers might take offence that you essentially wanted to study them for your novel.

“Ready to meet the gang?” she laughed, sweeping her messy, dark blonde hair back out of her eyes. “God, you look terrified. Come on, they’re nice! Except maybe Pixie. Don’t mess with her, but she’s not here today. Or Demon, but even he’s ok when you get to know him, I swear.”

“Not helping, Adi,” you grumbled.

Ever since she’d started working for Dahlia Ink across town about six months ago, Adrianne had been hanging around with the group of bikers who all got their ink done there it seemed, and it had almost felt like serendipity in action when she’d told you about them over coffee last weekend. You didn’t tend to talk much about your writing, even with your friends, but you trusted Adi, and she’d always been supportive of your career as an author, so you’d shyly opened up to her about your latest idea for a story featuring a group of bikers. You did leave out the part where the bikers in your story were mostly vampires and werewolves, with a few other supernatural species thrown in as well. Fantasy had always been your comfort-genre, but people had snickered in the past and made you feel like it wasn’t a ‘serious’ genre that ‘serious’ writers pursued, so you’d omitted it this time while telling her about it.

“It’s the perfect excuse for you to come and finally meet Țepeș then!” she’d blurted excitedly into the foam of her cappuccino, her green-brown eyes going wide with excitement at the idea of including you in her group of new friends. They all had weird nicknames, and you had no idea if it was a ‘biker’ thing or just a ‘them’ thing, but you’d been burning up with curiosity about them ever since she’d first started dating the one called Țepeș. “I’ve been dying to find an excuse for you to come meet him. Plus you can ask him anything you want to know for your story, and — oh…”

Her face had fallen, and you’d frowned, heart dropping already. “What?”

“Eh, he’s… he’s not completely non-verbal, but Țepeș doesn’t exactly find talking easy. Maybe you could come to the shop and meet the rest of them instead though? I’m sure Pickle or Pumpkin would love to talk your ear off about their bikes…”

“I dunno, I don’t want to get in the way,” you’d said, trying not to let that tiny, kindling ember of hope in your chest wink out completely. “But if you wanted to ask them…?”

She’d run it past her boyfriend, and Țepeș had said he’d ask Hank. Hank, apparently, was the guy who ran the bike shop where they’d all met and first formed their group, and two nights later, you’d got a text in all caps from Adi saying ‘BASIC BIKER 101 FOR WRITERS IS ON!!!! When are you next free?!!!’

A week later, you and your messenger bag with notebook and pens had shown up outside Full Moon Motorcycles, with little clue what to expect, and a heart full of trepidation.

Adrianne giggled as she ushered you inside, and to your relief, you found there were only two other people inside instead of a shop full of strangers. An array of bikes for sale was lined up around the right hand side of the space, and against the back wall there was a wooden counter almost like a bar, where the vintage till and a few key chains were displayed, while the left side of the space appeared to be a more general spot for tinkering and hanging out. Even with the light flooding in through the two huge, picture windows on either side of the door, the lighting was soft, and the polished concrete floor created a mellow atmosphere. The scent of coffee and motor oil hung heavy in the air, and you found it oddly comforting as you soaked it all up.

Behind the counter, a stocky man with greying, wavy hair that wasn’t quite long enough to tie back but was too long to look tidy smiled you and raised a meaty hand. His blue tartan shirt stretched precariously over a hearty paunch, and he exuded a jovial kind of warmth as his honey-brown eyes crinkled. “Hey there,” he said. “I’m Hank, though most people round here just call me Dad —”

“— he adopts literally everyone who walks through that door, so congrats on joining the family,” Adi laughed.

“Take your pick on names,” Hank chortled. “I understand you’re a writer…” He seemed interested and a little impressed, which was a bit of a confidence boost.

“Yeah,” you croaked and cleared your throat. “Yeah… uh… thank you for letting me hang out here for a bit. I don’t know anything about bikes… I’m just looking to learn a bit so it makes sense for my novel, you know? I’m not going to get in anyone’s way.”

“Oh, you’re fine,” he smiled, gesturing dismissively with his massive paw of a hand. “You just ask what you like and we’ll do our best to help you out. You must know Țepeș already if you’re Adi’s friend?”

You shook your head and Hank looked across the room to where the other person was lurking at the back of the space. You hadn’t noticed Adi leaving your side, but when you turned around, you found her standing with both hands pressed fondly against the chest of the tall, imposing biker dressed all in black and wearing his helmet too, which you thought was an odd choice. But what did you know about the habits of bikers? You were there to learn after all; learn and observe.

Adi waved you over, and you swallowed your nerves and cast Hank a farewell glance before approaching. When Adi stepped back, Țepeș pushed himself off the wall and held out his hand to you to shake. It, like the rest of him, was covered in leather or padded gear. There wasn’t a scrap of skin showing on him anywhere, and with your own face reflected in his black visor, it was impossible to get a read on him.

As if she’d read your mind, Adi smacked Țepeș in the chest with the back of her hand and said, “At least put your visor up, you big, intimidating doofus.”

He snorted a silent laugh and lifted the catch on his visor to reveal a sliver of pale skin and irises as black as the rest of his leather gear. Like Hank’s though, his eyes were kindly, and he closed them briefly as he inclined his head in a kind of apologetic bow. You shrugged, and he laughed breathily.

Hank chose that moment to come over, and you jumped as he clapped you on the shoulders. How a man built like a grizzly in autumn had moved so quietly was a mystery. “Come on, Țepeș, why don’t we give our new friend a demonstration of how a bike works? Since your Ducati is in, why don’t we use that?”

Țepeș gave a quick nod, and ducked away through the door that stood in the centre of the back wall, and a moment later, he pushed an absolute monster of a bike out into the empty space. He jutted his chin towards the front door, and Adi nipped over to open it for him, and when you frowned, she laughed. “That Streetfighter is so fucking loud,” she snorted. “You do not want him starting it up in here.”

“And nor do I!” Hank called, now mysteriously back behind the till though you hadn’t heard him leave. You made a mental note to weave something like that into your story for the supernatural biker characters, and then nodded, feeling sheepish, and followed the two of them out of the shop and onto the quiet side-street outside.

Until six months ago, Adi hadn’t known anything about bikes either, so she used your introductory tutorial as a kind of test for herself, interspersed with little glances up at Țepeș to check that she’d got it right. He either nodded or pointed to correct her, but he didn’t speak. She hadn’t been kidding about him being mostly non-verbal.

After Adi had shown you the basics of the bike’s anatomy, Țepeș patted the seat of the bike and gestured to her to get on it, but she laughed and shook her head. “No way, babe. I’m way too short.”

He put his fists comically on his hips and shook his head, then patted the seat again like he was trying to get a wilful cat up onto a chair.

She made a noise of protest, but did swing a leg over and then hoisted herself evenly into the seat, both legs dangling freely a good way off the ground.

“Happy now?” she shot at him and he nodded emphatically, bringing both hands to the sides of his helmet in a way that mimicked a person losing their mind over a cute kitten. “You’re lucky I love you, you overgrown dork,” she muttered. “Anyway,” she said, turning back to you. “Since this beast has made me get up here, I’m going to start his bike. Not so funny now that I could actually fuck it up, is it?” she grinned.

Țepeș remained perfectly still, and you got the impression it was a comical warning.

“I can’t flat-foot it,” she said to you, “So I’m gonna rest my left foot on the curb after I’ve flicked the kickstand up,” she said. “You can’t start most bikes with the kickstand still down.”

You noted that down, and let her get on with the rest of the sequence uninterrupted, which seemed a lot more complicated than you’d imagined.

Near the end of your tutorial on how to start a bike and the basics of clutch control, and the apparent struggle to find neutral, the sound of a number of approaching engines tore through the quiet afternoon. You looked back over your shoulder to see three sports bikes round the corner and make their way towards you.

The three riders couldn’t have been more different. The one you noticed first was riding a big, brash, bright orange bike that reminded you a bit of a sporty looking dirt bike, and he was wearing, of all things, a black and white cow onesie, with a cow helmet cover complete with fabric horns and ears.

“Fucking Pumpkin,” Adi laughed. “Honestly. I think you’ll love him.”

“Pumpkin?” you asked, wondering how on earth he’d got that name. Then again, Țepeș was a pretty unusual nickname. Perhaps he was a vampire under all that leather, shielding himself from the fury of the sun with his biker gear just so he could spend more time with his human lover during the day… You yanked your over-active imagination back into the present and out of your fantasy novel, and watched the trio of bikers approach down the quiet side street.

“Yeah, Pumpkin’s his name. It’s because he’s a —” Țepeș elbowed Adi in the ribs sharply enough that she had to grab the handlebars to stop herself toppling off his bike. Her eyes went wide and she instantly clicked her jaw shut.

As an author, you were used to watching and studying people, and noting your observations for later. Another writer you knew online had called it ‘cataloguing the everyday’, and it was an apt description. Adi had very nearly given away something huge about Pumpkin, and Țepeș had given her a silent but stern warning.

“Because he loves pranks, like on Halloween?” she finished a little too quickly. “He dresses up with silly helmet covers all the time and he likes to play jokes on people.”

Maybe he wasn’t your kind of person at all. The very idea of having a practical joke pulled on you was enough to make you feel sick and shaky all over. You'd always hated them, and they’d always left you feeling devastated and on-edge if they happened to you. The more you trusted the person, the worse it felt afterwards.

Țepeș’ huge hand landed carefully on your shoulder joint and you looked up to find him smiling reassuringly at you. At least, you thought he was smiling reassuringly. All you could see were his glinting black eyes that were creased at the corners, and the way the apples of his pale cheeks were slightly more squished than usual behind the padding in his helmet.

You tried out a smile of your own, and then realised that Adi was talking again.

“He’s such a goofball, but that’s got to be his craziest outfit yet! You should see his other helmet covers; they’re all bonkers. My favourite is the pink rabbit one.”

Țepeș nodded once in agreement and let go of your shoulder. You swayed a little at the loss, feeling untethered.

“The guy on the red Ducati is Demon, and the short one on the Ninja in the middle is Pickle.”

When the newcomers spotted the three of you standing around Țepeș’ bike, Pumpkin revved raucously, almost seeming to make his bike laugh with joy at the sight of you. Then he hauled it up into a massive wheelie, only dropping back down once he’d torn past you in a near-vertical pose. Your heart was in your mouth the whole time, but he looked relaxed and even amused behind that absurd costume as he landed it and swerved the bike around to make his way back towards you while the other two came over in a more sedate fashion. In fact, they were so sedate it reminded you of two sharks approaching, and your mouth went dry. Adi had said they were cool with you being there and asking questions, but just then, it didn’t really feel like it.

The one riding the lurid, neon green bike was so short that you wondered for a crazy second if maybe they were a child. The owner of the red bike revved his something wicked as he cruised to a stop, and you had to fight the urge to step back. It felt like being roared at full in the face by a lion, and it didn’t help at all that the guy had curling ram’s horns adorning his black helmet. Even though it was a nippy autumn day, he was wearing a white t-shirt that showed off a golden tan and a truly impressive physique, and his black jeans had a rip in the knee that added to his tough-guy appearance.

Standing beside his own bike, Țepeș folded his arms and jutted his chin in a warning. Demon revved his deafening bike once more though, and the back wheel skimmed from side to side on the tarmac as blue smoke churned up into the air.

Țepeș shook his head and a few seconds later, Demon stopped his mini burnout, and instead leaned forwards on the bike, resting one arm casually on the tank. His whole attention was fixed on you and you tried hard not to regret all of this. It was research. You were here for your story. It was fine. His visor was tinted like Țepeș’ was, but you could feel the intensity of his gaze through the plastic just as clearly as if there had been nothing blocking his eyes from yours.

“Just giving a welcome to your new friend, Țepeș,” the guy purred in a silky baritone that made you think of teeth in the dark.

As the brief puff of acrid smoke from his tyres cleared, the short rider flipped their visor up and regarded you with beady, golden eyes that had to be contacts, surely? Even the pupils were slitted like a cat’s.

“Who’s this?” came a reedy, tenor voice from under the helmet. Definitely not a child after all, and their skin had a strange, greenish tinge to it that you initially took to be makeup until you realised it went all the way down their cheeks as well. Tattoos? Some kind of condition? You tried not to stare.

Before either you or Adi could respond to their question, the cow onesie rider screeched to a comical halt beside the other two, locking up the front wheel and making the rear of his bike kick up like a bronco, and Adi shook her head. “Pumpkin, honestly. What are you like?”

“I’m Legen-dairy!” he grinned, gesturing wide with both hands. “Oh, hey! New friend?!” he exclaimed, waving enthusiastically when he saw you standing awkwardly beside Țepeș’ bike. He had a lilting Irish accent and a playful intonation that warmed you to him immediately, despite knowing about his penchant for practical jokes.

“Don’t mind Pumpkin,” Adi smiled at you. “He’s… something else.”

“I’m highly a-moo-sing, is what I am,” the guy chuckled. His words sounded clearer than the others behind their helmets, and you wondered if it was something about the design that made it easier to hear him.

“Oh god, please stop with the cow puns,” Pickle groaned, casting him a withering look with those unusual eyes.

“But Pickle, I’m udderly fantastic!”

“Stop.”

“This is just plain bull-ying!” Pumpkin whined, and then he started to bop up and down on his bike as he sang, “My milkshake brings—”

“If you howl one more out of tune word, Demon will eat you for breakfast, and not in a fun way,” Pickle said, casting a glance at the biker with the horns on his helmet.

For answer, the biker in question cocked his head just a little to one side, and Pumpkin slumped in his seat, arms and legs dangling comically, head lolling forwards so that the soft horns on his helmet cover flopped. He let out a long, sad mooing noise sound that dissolved into giggles at the end, and Pickle punched him on the arm.

“Loser,” Pickle snorted with obvious fondness.

“Anyway, I want you to meet my friend,” Adi cut in, turning to you. “I’m sorry you had to meet Pumpkin when he’s in this mood, but —”

“Moo-d!” Pumpkin interrupted triumphantly and immediately burst out laughing. He almost tipped backwards off his big, orange bike. Even you managed to crack a shy smile at that one. It was infectious.

“I give up,” Pickle said, and hopped down off his green Kawasaki, disappearing into the shop without a backward glance just as Hank stepped out.

“How’s that lesson going?” he asked you.

“I’m not planning on riding solo any time soon,” you smiled, “But I’ve got enough of an idea of how things work to start writing, I think.”

Hank nodded and, glancing around at Pumpkin who was still bouncing up and down and making his suspension creak a little, said, “Ah, they’re all idiots, but they’re kind, and they’re my idiots.”

He introduced you by name, and told Pumpkin and Demon why you were there. Pumpkin seemed intrigued, tilting his head to one side and calming his crazy energy a little as he regarded you through the tinted visor, but Demon growled softly as he pushed himself upright again and folded his arms across his ripped chest, muttering something about letting their guard down again.

Țepeș moved away from his bike, petting the back of Adi’s blonde head in a fond, distracted gesture, and then signalled for Demon to follow him inside, which, to your surprise, the big guy did. He walked like a Greek god — like he owned the place and not Hank — but it was clear that he had respect for Țepeș.

Pumpkin took advantage of their absence and leaned a little way off his bike towards you. “So, you’re a writer? That’s pretty cool. And you’re writing a… a book? A story? About bikers?”

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s not the main focus, but it’s a big part of it.” If you hadn’t wanted to open up to Adi about it being a supernatural fantasy story, you sure as heck weren’t going to admit it to a bunch of intimidating, high-octane bikers. “It was Adi who suggested I come and learn a bit more about it all from you guys though…” you said, not wanting them to think you’d just inserted yourself into their group without invitation. Especially given Demon’s weird reaction.

“Awesome,” Pumpkin said, fist-bumping Adi then turning back to you. “You gonna ride with us? We’re all heading out in a bit so you should come too!”

“I… maybe?” you faltered. That had not been on the cards for the day, but the more you thought about it, the more your heart began to race.

“The KTM has a passenger seat,” Pumpkin said, gesturing behind him and patting his pillion seat. “You can be my backpack if you like! I promise I won’t wheelie. I’m not taking the onesie off though,” he added, mooing and shaking his head so that the fabric horns waggled comically.

His energy and enthusiasm really were infectious. He bounced up and down again like an excitable, cow-print puppy, and you bit your lip. The idea of holding onto him, of being perched on the back of his mad, orange bike, was oddly… enticing. Even with his embarrassing costume.

“Come on,” he said. “It’ll be fun! It’s only a short ride because Coco’s Honda’s playing up for some reason,” he added. “Is she here yet? I don’t see her little bumblebee…”

“Bumblebee?” you asked.

“Coco’s bike is a Honda Hornet,” Adi supplied. “She’s got these little antennae for her helmet too. It’s so cute. And no,” she added to Pumpkin. “You guys are the first.”

It didn’t take long for the rest of the day’s riders to arrive, and soon you watched a screaming pink bike roll up, with its rider wearing baby pink leathers and a pink helmet. Her name was Barbie, appropriately enough, and a few minutes later, a skinny guy in all black leathers with a black helmet bearing a decal like a maw full of teeth pulled up, alongside Coco on her black and yellow Honda Hornet that looked very much like the Transformer.

“I see why you call it Bumblebee,” you said to Adi, who was standing on the pavement with you, chatting and slipping you random bits of information about both the bikes and the bikers. The others had all gone inside, leaving you with Adi still casually sitting astride her boyfriend’s enormous, black Ducati Streetfighter outside in the sunshine, and honestly it was nice to catch your breath and let your heart rate settle again.

Pumpkin, apparently, was only a few years older than you, and he had moved to the city to get away from his family and their career expectations for him. His name was actually Callahan, or Cal, but literally everyone called him Pumpkin.

Pickle was non-binary and surprisingly a full decade older than you. They lived with their mother, who needed a bit of extra care these days, and had taken up riding only a year or so ago. Demon, Adi didn’t discuss at all, and she said little about Barbie other than that she kept herself to herself a lot and was pretty shy.

Coco came out to soak up some autumn sunshine a while later, and was one of the only bikers who actually took off her helmet. Beneath it, she had thick, wavy, chocolate brown hair and brown eyes that made you want to drown in them, and a smile so pretty it made your heart skip several beats. She gave off the kind of energy that made you feel safe and relaxed, and you let out a long, slow exhale, feeling the sun wash up over your skin.

That peace lasted until Demon stormed out of the shop, followed by Pumpkin, Țepeș, and Pickle.

“Everything ok?” Adi whispered to Țepeș when he came over and hugged her tightly from behind before passing her a spare helmet. He nodded and jerked his thumb towards his bike. “Yeah, I’m good to go. You coming?” she asked you, and you found yourself nodding before you’d even realised.

“Yes!” Pumpkin bayed in triumph and you startled, not having heard him return to his bike. “You’re mine! I claim you. You’re my backpack!”

“Like anyone else wants a human for baggage,” Demon muttered so quietly you weren’t sure you were supposed to have heard it. As he passed, he slammed his visor back down and you could have sworn that he’d had completely scarlet eyes. You wondered if you were losing your mind a little bit, or if the fantasy of your novel was beginning to bleed into the real world through your over-active imagination.

Pumpkin practically vaulted back up onto his orange bike and he held out his hand to you. “Alright! My precious and beautiful backpack,” he said, “Hop on!”

Easier said than done, you thought, ignoring the compliment. You watched your reflection distort in his visor as he turned his head when you faltered anxiously.

“I’ll look after you, I promise. But I’m gonna rely on you to tell me if Pickle’s coming for my killswitch, ok?”

Recalling your brief lesson with Țepeș, you eyed the red switch on his right handlebar and said, “That?”

“Yeah, that. Protect it at all costs,” he giggled. “I mean, not all costs, obviously but… Actually, scratch that. It’s Ninja you wanna watch out for. He’s a sneaky, sneaky boy. He blends in so no one sees him coming…” A few of them laughed in a way that made you feel like there was more to it than just an inside joke, and your stomach churned.

A glance back at the skinny guy on the black bike behind you revealed Ninja tilting his hands outwards in a ‘who, me?’ kind of gesture. Hank came over and gave you a helmet, taking your messenger bag from you and promising to keep it safe behind the counter. You slid the helmet on and buckled it up, trying not to feel like an impostor.

Getting aboard wasn’t as hard as you’d thought it was going to be, with brief instruction from Adi and Pumpkin on how to put your feet on the pegs, though you did clunk your helmet against Pumpkin’s when you leaned too far forward, but he made things easier by telling you to hold him round the waist. He turned back over one shoulder and said, “It’s kinda forward, but I don’t mind. You’re cute and I don’t want you falling off.” He had such a lovely voice — warm and rich and reassuring — and you found yourself laughing softly.

“If you say so.”

Pumpkin talked a mile a minute and you really had to work to process everything he was saying as it tumbled out of him in a wild, happy torrent. “You are cute! You’re gonna have a blast today. I can’t believe I’m your first! Oh, and watch out for silly string too. I don’t think Pickle has any in their pocket today, but last time they got me good and it was all over my helmet and my orange baby,” he added petting the tank of his bike.

Your heart lurched at the idea of these pranks maybe escalating, and you tried to swallow down the nausea; you did not want to be sick in a motorcycle helmet. The cold sweat took a while to evaporate and you were sure Pumpkin would feel your heartbeat as you clung onto him before he’d even started the bike. The cow onesie did add a little levity though, and you tried not to feel too silly.

When Adi was safely aboard Țepeș’ bike, Țepeș revved his readiness a few times from the rear of the group, and Pumpkin nodded. “Forward!” he yelled, pointing like he was leading a cavalry charge as he nudged up his kickstand and prepared to draw away.

Adi had been right.

The ride was amazing.

Terrifying, exhilarating, wonderful, and, in the strangest way possible, it made you forget everything.

All you could focus on was the way Pumpkin moved with the bike like it was a part of him — almost like a rider and his horse — and on trying to move with him as he leaned into the corners. He was slim and fit beneath your grip, and he didn’t seem to be wearing any kind of padding under the onesie, but he was wearing biker boots instead of ordinary shoes. There was something alluring about the fact you’d not seen his face and he’d not taken his helmet off. Țepeș had a similar vibe, but it was Pumpkin and his wild, silly energy you found yourself drawn to. It was almost euphoric to be able to press the front of your body against this kind, funny stranger’s back and let him sweep you along the roads.

Of course, there were shenanigans at the first red light you came to.

Pickle came for Pumpkin’s killswitch immediately — almost like they were testing you — but you tapped Pumpkin on the shoulder when you saw Pickle stalking up the line of bikes. Ninja covered his killswitch and waggled a finger at Pickle, and when Pumpkin saw who was coming, he patted your thigh a few times. “Nice one,” he said with a grin evident in his voice. “Best early warning system and best backpack ever! You can ride with me every time!”

You glowed with pride, even though you knew it was probably only fun and games, and when Pickle failed to catch Pumpkin’s killswitch and the lights changed, you laughed with the rest of them as Pickle bolted back to their Ninja and hopped comically onto it at the very last second while Pumpkin sped away fast enough to make you yelp and grip him hard around the middle. You felt him laugh and held him tighter.

He petted your hands where they were laced securely in front of him, and even though you didn’t have comms in your helmet, you got the message: ‘I’ve got you’. You did feel safe with him despite his love of pranks, and you were literally trusting him with your life as you rode behind him.

When the ride came to an end about an hour later, and the group drew to a halt at Full Moon Motorcycles again, you were shaky with the aftereffects of adrenaline and from simply holding on, but beneath your helmet, you were grinning wildly. Secretly, you already couldn’t wait for the next ride and prayed he would ask you again.

Pickle pulled their bike up on your right, the green Ninja 400 idling gently, and when they killswitched Pumpkin’s bike at last, Pumpkin guffawed, but without missing a beat he extended his right leg and tapped the gear lever down to put Pickle’s bike into first, making the bike stall and lurch forwards.

“Gotcha!” he crowed, and then helped you off the back by letting you steady yourself on his shoulders. “And for the pièce de résistance,” he said, fishing in the pouch of his onesie, and he turned something cylindrical in your direction. “I was saving this for Pickle, but since it’s your first ride, you deserve a decent celebration!”

With a loud bang and a flurry of coloured squares of paper, a confetti cannon went off in your face and you screeched in shock, tripping over your heels and landing hard on the pavement behind you. The pieces of paper fluttered down around you while panic and fear and everything you hated about being pranked exploded out of you. Your heartbeat went through the roof. You just glimpsed the horns of Demon’s helmet in the doorway to the shop, and your heart dropped when you saw he was laughing.

Pumpkin was laughing too, and pointing, and beside him Pickle clapped their gloved hands and crooned, “Oh man, he got you good!”

He had got you good, and you hated it.

You hated that it was just a silly, harmless prank, but you were reacting like he’d done something serious. You hated that you couldn’t just laugh it off the way they all did. You hated that you took it so seriously; that it felt like the worst kind of betrayal of that fragile trust you’d started to put in a stranger. And then, behind the visor of your helmet, the tears began to flow uncontrollably.

A huge figure appeared in your blurred vision and you looked up to find Țepeș kneeling down beside you. He blocked the others from your sight with his massive body, and he lifted his visor to show his black eyes full of concern.

You nodded, trying to pull yourself together and grateful beyond belief that the helmet was still covering your face, even though it felt like you were running out of oxygen in there. Pulling yourself together was like trying to hold a bag full of sand with fraying seams. You were seeping and spilling out all over the place and you couldn’t stop. You tried to tell yourself it was just a confetti cannon. You tried to tell yourself it was just a bit of fun.

You tried, and failed.

“I’m… I’m ok… I’m…” you gulped, aware of how choked your voice sounded.

Țepeș stood and held out a hand, pulling you to your feet and ushering you carefully inside. You didn’t miss the way he put himself between you and Demon, who was still snickering in the doorway, and you let him lead you into the shop and into the back room.

He snagged a box of tissues from under the shop’s counter in passing and guided you into a chair. He signalled for you to undo your helmet, which you did with shaking fingers. “I’m sorry,” you gulped as you drew it off over your head and set it on the floor. “I’m sorry I’m overreacting.”

Țepeș shook his head and squeezed your shoulder, offering you a tissue.

“It’s just a prank, I know that, but…”

Again, he squeezed your shoulder, and you took a deeper, steadier breath.

“I hate pranks. Even the harmless ones. I always overreact like this. I’m sorry. It’s not his fault, but… I thought… I thought maybe he… he wouldn’t…”

A knock on the door made you jump, and Țepeș made a ‘stay there’ gesture with his hand and ducked out of the room. A short, seemingly one-sided conversation passed outside while you fought to control yourself again, and then Pumpkin ducked inside.

“Hey,” he said, and your heart broke a little at the change in his energy. It was like he’d completely deflated. He was still wearing the cow onesie though, which brought a slightly hysterical chuckle to your lips before you could stop it. “I’m so sorry,” he said, dropping to one knee in front of your chair. “I… I didn’t think you’d react like that.”

“It’s not you,” you said, sniffling and turning away, cuffing at your eyes. “I just overreacted.”

“You didn’t overreact,” he said, and your brain screeched to a halt.

“What?”

“I shouldn’t have done it to you. I didn’t know if you were cool with it, and I just assumed that… that because everyone else likes my pranks… that you’d be ok with it too, and I shouldn’t have done that. I’m so sorry. I promise I’ll never ever pull anything like that on you again. Ever.” He crossed his thumb across his heart. “I swear on my True Name.”

The wording was odd, but the air seemed to crystallise around you for a second, and your breath caught. “Like a Fae,” you mumbled without thinking.

He tilted his helmeted head a little. “Yeah,” he said and his voice had an odd ring to it. “You… You know about… about the Fae?”

“I’m writing a book…” you croaked, not really thinking about what you were saying. “Supernatural theme… I’ve always written fantasy stuff… Look, I’m sorry. I’m over-sharing about stuff that isn’t even real. I’m good,” you said, and stood up abruptly, setting your borrowed helmet down on the chair and turning to look at him. He was on his feet again, but he was just standing there.

You walked out into the main shop but he called your name and you halted and turned back around. “Yeah?”

“Are… Are you gonna come back?”

You bit your lip. You probably had enough to write the book now — the biker part of it wasn’t even the main focus after all — but until the prank, you’d felt included and welcomed, and, as you thought about it, the prank had also been meant to welcome you into the fold. It wasn’t Pumpkin’s fault that you had reacted the way you did.

“You want me to?” you asked.

“Please,” he said. “Please, I’d love it. I’ve… I’ve never had anyone I’ve wanted to be my backpack before, and you rode like a natural today,” he added, taking a step towards you. “Please. I promise no one will do any pranks when you’re with us. No silly string, no confetti cannons.”

“I don’t mind it… With the others, I mean,” you said, the words grinding out of you like a boulder uphill. “I mean… So long as it’s not me.”

“Ok, we’ll dial it back,” he compromised. “I’ll even give you one of my little stretchy sticky hands if you like so you can team up on Pickle with me. We duel at the lights sometimes. Does that count as a prank?”

You shook your head, fighting back a resurgence of emotions, mostly good this time.

“Ok. I’m really sorry,” he said again.

“I believe you,” you said.

“Thank you,” Pumpkin replied, his whole body looking relieved. It was amazing how expressive someone could be, even without being able to see their face. “Let me give you my number and I’ll text you when we’re going out next. Or… Or maybe we could go out just the two of us?”

That seemed like way more pressure than you’d been expecting, but you nodded all the same when you realised you weren’t put off by it at all.

As you left the shop not long afterwards, having recovered enough to let the red fade from your eyes, Demon looked you up and down and then approached Pumpkin. You glanced back over your shoulder to see him looming down over Pumpkin, and you just caught him growling, “What happens when you need to take that helmet off eh, Dullahan? You think that cute accent is going to be enough to hide the fact you don’t have a fucking head under there?”

Your breath caught and you tripped, turning away before either of them could notice your reaction.

For a moment, when Demon had spat the word ‘Dullahan’ you’d thought he’d said ‘Callahan’ — Pumpkin’s real name — but the instant he’d said Pumpkin didn’t have a head, your mind made the connection.

Dullahan.

A Fae without a head, traditionally a headless horseman.

The way Pumpkin had moved with his bike, like it was a living creature, had reminded you of a horse and its rider, and you had to wonder if the nickname ‘Pumpkin’ had come from the cartoonish depictions of Dullahans on Halloween with a pumpkin for a head instead of their real one. They did have a head, you knew from research for your writing, but they tended to keep it hidden since that was where their power resided. They could only be harmed if you hurt their head, or if they were wearing it when you attacked them.

But that was all fantasy, right?

Then Demon’s red eyes flickered across your memory, and the weird emphasis he’d put on the word ‘human’ in his snide remarks, and the way you’d thought maybe Țepeș was a vampire because he kept his skin covered up, and the fact that Pickle’s skin was entirely green and they had gold eyes with cat’s pupils… it was all way too much of a coincidence. Right?

You walked home in a daze, not even saying goodbye to Adi who was talking quietly with Țepeș in the long, late afternoon shadows cast by the bike shop’s wall.

Over the next few rides with Pumpkin, you tried to figure out a way to broach the topic. If you just blurted it out, you had no idea how the others would react, so you dropped little hints to Pumpkin that you were writing a supernatural story and that you’d been researching the supernatural for a while, and how you’d always hoped there was more out there than met the eye. You even mentioned it a couple of times on group rides to see how the others reacted, and predictably, it was Demon who bristled, and Pumpkin who looked uncomfortable. Like he had a secret he wanted to tell you.

Each time you did it, he looked torn, like he was right on the cusp of telling you the truth.

It finally came to an ugly head one afternoon as the riding season drew to a close in late October and you all came back from a huge group ride that had included a few more riders whom you’d not met before, but who evidently knew the rest of the group.

As you went inside to return the helmet that Hank always lent you, you caught the sound of an argument and hung back in the small storage room behind the main shop to avoid it, heart in your throat and the helmet forgotten in one hand.

Pickle was standing in the main area of the shop with their helmet dangling from their hand this time, and you gasped when you saw sharply-tapered ears and a row of pointed teeth in their mouth, and green skin that went all the way down below their collar. Definitely not a tattoo. They looked sharp, their features inhuman; like one of the goblins in your novel. If you’d needed confirmation that they weren’t human, this had to be it.

Pickle was arguing with Adi and Demon, and Pumpkin was there too, looking helplessly from one to the other of them.

Demon was shouting, and he didn’t have his helmet on either. Perhaps they’d thought you’d already left. The horns that adorned his helmet were… actually attached to his head, not his helmet. He had horns. They obviously grew from his hairline, his black hair waving around them like a river of oil that had a rainbow sheen on it, and his eyes were a luminous, blood-red with slit pupils too. He rounded on Pumpkin like a Wolf on a rabbit. “You think just because we let Țepeș’ little human blood-bag in, we can risk exposing us all to just anyone?” Demon snarled. “I thought you wanted to keep our kind a secret? Now you’re siding with him?”

“Hey!” Adi exclaimed, but Pickle’s lip curled and they turned to her.

“He has got a point, Adi, though the blood-bag comment was way out of line,” Pickle said. “We have to be careful, but —”

“This is different,” Pumpkin interjected. “Ok? I’ve never been in love before, and I love —”

“No. It’s not fucking ok! This is the one place we get to be who we are,” Demon countered, his deep voice cracking as he clearly fought off tears. He sounded afraid and upset in a way that went right to your heart. “This is the one place where we can be safe, Cal, and you’re jeopardising it for all of us. And if we start letting humans in, if our secret gets out —”

“I think it’s a little late for that,” Pickle said faintly, staring straight at you watching the argument unfold, stunned. They were arguing because of you. Because Pumpkin had taken a liking to you — in fact, he’d just said he loved you…

A pair of gold eyes and a pair of scarlet eyes stared at you, while Adi stood there hugging herself and looking hurt and unsure, and Pumpkin was standing stock still with his black helmet still on but you knew he was looking at you too. Was he going to defend you, or discard you and stick with his friends? They weren’t human. None of them was human. Demon’s eyes were blaring a violent red and he had horns growing out of his black hairline and curling back over his head, and there was a watercolour patch of red creeping over his golden tan as if he was losing control of his form. And Pickle was apparently some kind of goblin?

“You’re a Dullahan,” you said quietly, looking at Pumpkin. “A Fae.”

“You know?” Demon hissed, taking half a step towards you. “How the fuck do you know?” and then he shoved Pumpkin back with a hand at each shoulder. “You’ve taken your helmet off already? Did you disclose your head’s location while you were at it?”

Pumpkin shook his head vehemently but then he lifted his shiny, black helmet off in what looked like an act of defiance to Demon.

In the void where his head should have been there was a swirl of bluish-green smoke emanating from the stump of his neck, like the aurora in the night sky, and his skin was a dark, slate-blue colour. Your mind struggled to accept what you were seeing, but with the additional evidence of Pickle’s green skin and Demon’s horns, you knew it all had to be true.

Walking closer, as if moving through a dream, you ignored Demon’s constant, caged-animal growl, but you did jump when the door flew open and Țepeș burst in. He strode straight over to Adi and wrapped his arm protectively around her shoulders, tugging her close and putting himself between her and the others. He cocked his head in an impatiently curious manner and Adi answered his silent demand.

“Demon’s laying into Pumpkin about flirting with a human while hiding what he is,” Adrianne said, glaring flatly at Demon. “And he called me your blood-bag,” she added.

Țepeș’ fists curled, leather creaking, and he took a long, slow inhale, as though he was trying very hard not to lose control and launch himself at Demon.

Before anything else could happen, someone clapped their hands abruptly from the side of the shop where the till and the bikes were arrayed, and you all jumped.

Hank was standing there and his eyes were glowing golden. “This family is built on trust,” he said in a low, gravelly bass, and you saw that his canines were chunkier and longer than they usually were, and his hair seemed thicker and fuller, his beard a little bushier around the chops. “And if we welcome each other into it, we must be prepared to trust each other’s judgement.”

“We’re just a little research project!” Demon said, rounding on you. “Adi told you what we are, didn’t she, so you thought you’d come and study us like a science experiment?”

You were still staring at Pumpkin’s empty collar and wondering in an odd, detached kind of way where it would be considered polite for you to look now — did you look at the point where his eyes would be if he had a head, or did you look at his chest? Only a second or two later did Demon’s words filter through and you blinked. “What?”

“You’re writing a fucking book about us! How does that count as trustworthy?”

“I’m not — It’s not about you,” you shot back. “The book isn’t about you. The protagonist is dating a vampire who’s in a biker gang, but… Adi didn’t tell me anything at all about you. I didn’t know you weren’t human until… until I overheard you accusing Pumpkin a few weeks ago. You said something about not having a head under his helmet, and you called him a Dullahan.” You swallowed thickly and watched the shock filter through everyone’s expressions at your words. “At first I thought you were saying his name, but then I realised you said ‘Dullahan’, not ‘Callahan’, and because I’ve looked into supernatural stuff, I put two and two together. I’ve known for weeks,” you said, chest heaving as you fought to maintain some semblance of composure while you finished your defence. “I could have said something, or I could have just not come back, but I trusted you guys.” Tears finally blurred your vision. “You treated me like family. Why would I betray you?”

Pumpkin moved first.

He strode across he space, dropping his helmet on the floor with a loud crack that would have made anyone who needed a helmet to protect their head wince, but you figured his was purely for decoration and disguise anyway. He wrapped you up in his arms and pulled you close to his body. His arms almost lifted you off the ground and he cradled your head in one hand while his left arm curled around your waist and squeezed you so tight you gave a little wheeze.

His voice came from nowhere in particular, just like it did when he had the helmet on, and he said, “You are family. And I love you. If I have to leave this one to be with you, I will.”

Your heart stopped for a moment before you hugged him back, desperately. “Don’t. Not for me.”

He only hugged you harder.

From somewhere off to your left, Hank gave a low, rumbling growl and then muttered, “Kids. Honestly.” Then a little louder, he said, “Demon, go and cool off somewhere. Țepeș, for God’s sake, stand down, and Pickle, go and put the fucking kettle on. I need a cup of tea with half a bottle of whisky in it after all this drama.”

Pumpkin drew back at last, and you looked up at the haze of blue-green smoke that seemed to swirl upwards in a constant stream, like a recently extinguished candle. “How can you see me?” you asked. And then, with a little more alarm in your tone, you yelped, “Wait, how can you see where you’re driving?”

He laughed and leaned in close enough that the aurora-light swirled across your vision and caressed your face with a feather light breath, and you shivered. “Magic,” he whispered.

Demon hadn’t gone anywhere, and was regarding you with a more level gaze. His eyes were still red though. “You knew?” he said. “All this time?”

“Yeah,” you croaked as you refocused your eyes from the magic of the Dullahan’s body to Demon’s very much corporeal body. “I mean, I suspected.”

He sighed, still staring you down. Pumpkin stepped a little in front of you, much as Țepeș had for Adi, but Demon shook his head. He worked his jaw for a second and then slowly held out his right hand. His skin was red instead of the golden tan it had been, and his nails were black and claw-like, but the gesture was one of reconciliation all the same. “Welcome to the family, I guess,” he muttered hoarsely.

You smiled faintly, and Pumpkin took your left hand in a show of solidarity, sliding his gloved fingers around yours while you briefly shook Demon’s hand. “I really didn’t know what you guys were when you said I could come and hang out with you, I swear.”

“I know,” Demon bit out. “I can taste a lie, and you’re telling the truth.”

With that, he stalked away and carefully slotted his helmet on over his horns. You realised that there were specially-tailored holes in the crown of it for the horns to fit through, but when it was on, some kind of glamour made it look like the horns were just attached to the surface of the helmet. Outside, he swung a leg over his Ducati and started it up, revving it and launching away amid a scream of tyres and over-worked engine.

“Give him time,” Pumpkin said as he looked down at you. In the swirl of the smoke at his neck you thought you could make out the features of a face for a moment, but you blinked and it vanished. “You’re family now though, so he won’t give you any more trouble.”

“He did just insult Adi pretty spectacularly,” you pointed out.

“And he’ll apologise to her,” Pumpkin said. Țepeș loomed threateningly beside Adi in silent agreement. “For now, you want to come for a ride with just me? Come back to my place maybe?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Bet you have questions too…”

“You going to fact-check my novel for me?” you asked with a playful smile, and Pumpkin laughed. It felt right to hear his loud, giggly laughter filling the space again.

“You’d actually have to let me read it for that, love, and you said you didn’t like showing your work to anyone until it was done.”

“I could make an exception for you, I guess,” you admitted with a bashful smile.

With Pumpkin still holding your hand, you paused on your way out to check on Adi, who looked a little hurt but otherwise alright, and you promised to check in with her later. Țepeș handed Pumpkin his helmet, and you let yourself be led from the shop. Your helmet was still in your slightly numb fingers, never having put it down, so you slid it back on with shaky hands.

After climbing with familiar ease back up onto the pillion seat of Pumpkin’s orange KTM, you snaked your arms around his middle and squeezed.

“I’m sorry it all came out this way,” Pumpkin said before he started up his bike. “This was not how I planned to tell you. I had no idea how I was going to break it to you, but that… that wasn’t it. I know you hate surprises, and that was a big one.”

“Not all surprises are bad,” you admitted. “And this one turned out ok in the end. Come on. I want to find out how much I’ve got wrong about the Fae.”

Pumpkin guffawed, his laughter audible even after he’d started up his bike and pulled away.

Turns out, you’d quite a lot wrong about the Fae after all, but Pumpkin was only too happy to put you right over pizza and a movie on his sofa that evening.

I really hope you folks enjoyed this one. If you did, please consider reblogging to show your support as well as leaving a like and/or a comment.

Do you want to see the other members of the group? Remember you can find out more about them here in this early post if you're curious. Tepes already has a love interest, and Ninja the mimic is claimed too, but if you're curious, lemme know!

| Masterlist | Ko-fi (tip jar)

#supernatural biker group #dullahan #male dullahan #dullahan x reader #reader insert #exophilia #monster boyfriend #monster biker #fantasy biker #biker dullahan #demon #vampire #werewolf

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sahonithereadwolf · 1 year

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Can I tell you about the very queer game I made this Pride?

In A World That Hates and Fears You, Living Becomes an Act of Rebellion.

Exceptionals is a game inspired by X-Men about and for the spaces and communities marginalized peoples make for themselves. Play as a Geno, one of little less than 0.5% percent of the population that has gone through a mysterious process called Claremont-Simonson mutation, as you try to navigate a world that won’t make room for you. Exceptionals is a game about what the mutant metaphor means to you and the different lenses through which we view it. Punch back and build something of worth together in this narrative tag-driven tabletop role playing game. 🧬Features Open-Ended Character Creation🧬 Mix and Match between (23) open-ended but guided protocols. Answer questions to create high concept and unique super powered characters where the only real limit is your imagination. Get invested in who you make as a whole person, and not just a set of powers. Build a Community 🧬Create a living and dynamic community space full of colorful characters. 🧬 Grow your base as an anchor for other geno and help fill it with the resources they and you need. Understand how your actions effect others and gain trust through the bonds mechanic. It’s a game where you get stronger by growing your community and heal by being part of it.

🧬Comic Book Storytelling 🧬 Play as a creative team of writers and editors working to tell the best version of the story you can over time and storyline-based experience to model changes of the status quo and creative direction. Enjoy panel based action pacing and the ability of characters of all power levels to coexist and carry the same amount of story weight.

🧬Not Pain Tourism 🧬 While Exceptionals offers a number of places to push back, we understand and recognize that the most important part of a punching bag is that you choose to hit it, even if it’s not at all. We recognize not everyone gets to set the issues that the mutant metaphor is used to talk about down when they leave the table and offer many ways to tell stories outside of a lens defined by pain. We also put an emphasis and mechanical weight on the importance of joy and celebration. 📚You can buy the Core Book here:📚 https://bramblewolfgames.itch.io/exceptionals 📚You can buy the Expansions here:📚 https://bramblewolfgames.itch.io/exceptionals-expansion-bundle 📚You can buy the bundle with everything here:📚 https://bramblewolfgames.itch.io/exceptionals-expansion-bundle I didn’t go out with the intent of making this a very queer game. Not explicitly. I started making games because I got frustrated waiting to feel seen or acknowledged. Another game got me mad about using my peoples stories to be transphobic, to be racist, to be ableist. Nevermind my people have more than two genders traditionally and faced a genocide. That was too much for me. I said this was enough and the quite indignities I suffered to feel included wasn’t worth it. I could do better myself. So I set out to make a superhero game. I hated just about every comic book game on the market. It never seemed to capture what I did like about big hero comics with high concept storytelling and powers and couldn’t care less on a mechanical or narrative level about who this person was outside the mask. More focused on bashing action figures together and golden age pastiche that doesn’t really reflect the decades of character and genre developments that have happened since then. I later found games that do it better, but I was dissatisfied... I chose x-men for the homies. I’ve always been an x-men fan. A lot of people my age were. My first action figure was one of rogue I got at a garage sale, where she then went on to fight many a play-dough monster. But for many of us it was the first place we were allowed to be heroes. There are no natives on the 90′s x-men team. But I had uncles and older kids all too eager to tell me about Forge and Warpath (I hate that name) and my favorite Dani Moonstar (I ain’t the biggest fan of that name either, but she’s the closest thing mainstream hero comics have to a good NDN).

After that, things just kinda flowed from there. The X-men have such a focus on community. It’s “comics greatest soap opera”. It can be messy, complicated, beautiful and life-affirming all at the same time. They take the time to play basketball, go to the mall, and have birthday parties as they grow. Two of my favorite x-men comics aren’t about fighting at all. One is framed around a sleepover some students have, and another is about a wedding and framed around everyone filming their part of the wedding tape.

So I started thinking about the communities I’ve been a part of. A big core of the game is informed by my time and the people I met in these sort of spaces. As a native, as a queer person, as a disabled person I’ve been both someone who needed them and someone who gave back.

Which suited x-men just fine. X-men has cared about that sort of thing from about X-men #3 with the first appearance of The Blob, establishing it’s tone of sympathy and mutants as a minority analog.

I just kept going and I didn’t stop. And apparently I did a good job. Someone out there has been using my game as game-therapy and community outreach in a gender health center out in California. I got a lot of kind words for the game too (which is good, because I spent 3 years on it).

KUDOS

-As featured on; io9/Gizmodo, Kotaku, Listen to Theses Nerds, Team-Up Moves, Yes Indie'd Pod, Team-Up Moves, and The Voice of Dog -#1 Best Seller and Popular on Itch.io in both Analog & RPG Games, Sept 2021

Listen to the Team-Up Moves AP Here!: https://teamupmoves.com/runs/exceptionals "Exceptionals is a beautiful, brilliantly designed superhero RPG. It's truly a masterpiece, and if you haven't checked it out, do yourself a favor." -@PartyOfOnePod

"This thing COOKS, Sahoni doesn't just tap into the queer/minority readings of mutants, but also ties in the weirdness that really gets my mind racing when it comes to X books." -@froondingloom

"A refreshingly different game, that strikes a good balance between unlimited player freedom and solid guiding handrails. Really gets at the full potential of what the ;mutant outcast heroes' genre should be about: found family, building communities, and lives lived to the fullest despite being lived in defiance." -@guywhowrotethis

"The whole game oozes love for its inspiration while also going further than they dared...." -@Phoenix24Femme

"Astonishing! Uncanny! All-New! And all other X-Adjectives available. This book gets why one would want to play the Mutant Metaphor in an RPG. It cleverly weaves the power fantasy of powerful individuals with the drive to do good for one's community. It's well-researched, well-written and, well, so much fun to play! This is the superpowered game I've been wanting for a long, long time. I can't wait to tell an Exceptional story of my own!" -@Kokiteno Team-up moves even made a recommended comic reading list. It has some of the best x-men has to offer and then some. It even includes that New Mutants comic with the sleepover. They read me for filth and I love it.

I hope you play my game too. I hope you like it. I hope you tell queer stories and build community around you. I hope it’s messy, complicated, beautiful and life-affirming all at the same time. Thank you for reading this. Please reblog if you can as well as share it with x-men and rpg fans in your life.

#exceptionals #Indie TTRPG #ttrpg #comics #X-men #pride #mutants

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whiskeynwriting · 2 years

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Some Alone Time

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Female Reader

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Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI)

Dirty talk, praise kink, degradation kink, choking, unprotected vaginal sex, public sex, rough sex, caught-in-the-act (you know I love it), established relationship

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A/N: Am I really writing smut for a video game character… Y E S. Yes the fuck I am.

◆

Simon “Ghost” Riley Masterlist

Join My Taglist!

◆

It’s not exactly dark, but you’ll take it. Not exactly comfortable, but it’s worth it. Dank, cold, and barren, this place is less than inviting. The winter weather makes you curl in on yourself, makes your skin shiver and rise with irritated bumps. Snow covers the hair peeking out from beneath your mask, lining the outside edges of it, collecting on the soft, black material. It doesn’t help that you’ve climbed to the highest level of this building, either, the roost you created after clearing the rooms easily accepting swirls of freezing wind. Again, not ideal, but with Ghost… how could you reject him?

“Simon!”

It comes out as a hiss, a quiet shriek. But all he does is grunt in response, holding you tightly to his chest. Broad hands cemented to your hips, thick fingers squeezing into the fabric covering your pliable frame, he sighs, burying his masked face into the crease of your neck.

“Don’t say my name out in the field.” Ghost’s gravely voice suddenly huffs out in response. “You know better than that.”

“I’m, I’m sorry. I’m sorry…” You’re panting heavily, feeling his swollen cock pulse while seated deep inside.

“Fuck me…”

Suddenly, his dominant hand releases you of its grasp, rising to your face and grabbing the edge of your mask. Roughly, he yanks it off of your head, aggressively throwing it onto the floor. And then his hand is back on you again, grabbing hold of your jaw and jerking your head to the side.

“Let me see that pretty face.” Comes that deep, rich voice. That same hand, still gloved and chilly, runs over your features, brushing away your stray hairs.

Your breathing is light and airy - you’re breathless because of him. Hips rolling into you, grinding against your ass, holding you against him with a tight grasp. He’s not even thrusting into you, just seated entirely inside, giving you tiny yet powerful ruts, punching up against something deep in your body. The feeling of being ‘full’ doesn’t even come close; the heavy girth of him makes you pulse, makes you fucking see stars.

“Yeah, that’s it.” He comments smugly, watching your head drop forward with a gasp. “Come on, you can take it.”

And you can, you know because it’s not the first time you have. The first time was in the barracks, specifically in your shower. That was the first time he’d ever put himself inside you. The second was in his private quarters; he’d bent you over the side of his bed. The third occurred after a training day last week. He’d pulled you aside in the locker room, sucking on your neck while lifting you up, quickly thrusting into you.

You didn’t know Simon before joining 141, but at this point, you can’t imagine life without him. He was the most reliable lieutenant you’d ever followed, the most trustworthy man in your life. Your other team members, you could trust them, too. You were a sort of family in that way, but your feelings for them weren’t nearly the same as those you had for Ghost. He made you feel different, seen, heard and respected. The way he talked to you made you straighten your spine, the way he’d occasionally joke with you made you smile in the darkest of times. And the way he touched you… set your entire body alight.

“You do it so well,” Sighing out, you bring your head up and back, resting it on his shoulder with your cheek beside his head. He’d pulled down his hood for this, the fabric of his balaclava now brushing lightly against your skin. “You know just how to make me want you.”

Reaching around, your hand finds the back of his head, slipping up beneath his mask to tangle your fingers in his dirty blonde hair, a trait you’re only aware of because of your intimate moments. At times, his mask would shift, but never enough to show his face.

“Is that right?” He returns, kissing your jaw through his mask.

Originally, you were hesitant about this, worried that one of your teammates would come up and catch the two of you. But Simon reassured you of their positions, also reminding you that there was little time to do this. And for some reason, that just made the entire situation more exciting to you.

“It’s that easy, huh?” Lowering his hand, he secures those large fingers around your throat. “So willing for me.” He shakes his head then, tightening his grip. “Stupid little girl.”

Ghost respects you, you know that, there’s no way he doesn’t with how he treats you. You’re an incredibly vital member of his team. But when you were on his cock… that was an entirely different story. You literally went fucking dumb for him, falling apart in his arms in a way he’s never seen.

Your free hand has been holding onto his forearm, clinging desperately as he keeps it secured around your waist. Simon’s dominant hand is still holding your neck, fingers growing tighter the more pent up he gets. He’s growling, groaning into your ear as he nuzzles into your neck.

“Be quiet for me, doll.” He then demands. “They’re not close, but they’re not too far, either.”

“Okay,” Pinching your eyes shut, you nod, doing your best to keep your little squeaks and moans to a minimum.

Involuntarily, you tighten around him, earning a surprised snarl from the larger man. Taking his hand away from your throat, he lifts up the bottom of his mask, that same hand immediately returning to your neck and squeezing even harder than before. With his mask up, he now lowers his mouth to your shoulder, biting into you. And you cry out from it, the shriek ending in a strangled gasp when his fingers choke you. Dragging his teeth across your skin, he growls. He’s trying to restrain himself, trying to keep from completely tearing into you. Because he knows if he does, there’s no way the team won’t hear you.

“Fuck, I can feel you, babe.” Huffing out, he kisses a rather dark mark he left. “I can feel that sloppy little cunt swallowing me up.”

“Shit,” Dropping your head again, you cry out silently, feeling him drag you further back into him. He hauls you off your feet, pressing your ass back against him while giving you a particularly hard thrust. Lowering your hand from his hair, it joins the one already clinging to his bicep, your voice now pleading for him. “Ghost.”

“It’s too much, yeah?” He returns, cooing mockingly to you.

All you can do is nod your head, and this is when he realizes he loosened his grasp. Snapping your head back onto his shoulder is the force of his strong hand, fingers returning to curl around your neck.

“You thought I’d take it easy on you? Huh? Just because we’re out in the field?”

“Mm,”

“No, sweetness, I never would. I like having you like this. Oh…” He groans roughly, kissing your neck. “That’s it…” Now, you’re grinding back into him, feeling his weight as he presses himself into you from behind.

Turning his head, he angles himself so he can see your face. And out of the corner of your eye, you stare right back at him. He grins.

“That’s what I like.” Nodding, Simon sighs heavily, moving his hips a little quicker against you. “That dumb look on your pretty little face.”

“Mm…” Comes another whimper, feeling his tip prod up against that special spot inside you. He knows he’s hit it, and he grinds himself against it.

“You’re perfect,” He suddenly spits out, hand choking you harshly and almost to the point of tears. “Don’t even know where you are, what you’re doing… whether you’re on my cock or not, you’re always submitting to me.”

Out of instinct, you nod. He’s right. Whether you're following his orders in the field or fulfilling his demands in bed, you’re submitting to him. And you do so willingly, happily.

A short buzz of static rings through on your comms, causing both of your actions to stop. Together, you stay still, Ghost still holding you, still fully inside you. Releasing a hot breath through his nose, it fans over you, warming your skin. He’s trying to calm himself down and steady his breaths, just in case he has to respond to whoever’s on the other end. But nothing is said, no one comes in. Pulling you over to the side a bit, he glances out the nearest window, taking a look at your surroundings. Neither of you heard anything, and neither of you see anything. Maybe someone hit their comm link by mistake?

“Come on,” He then says, hauling you back against him. “We haven’t got much time.”

The gasp he forces from you is followed by an intense moan, feeling him manhandle your body up against the nearest wall. Your palms press into the hard plaster of this abandoned building, your cheek leaning against it as well. Now instead of grinding his pelvis against your ass, he fully thrusts into you. Punching the breath from your lungs, the hand choking you slides up, covering your loud mouth.

“You just can’t stay quiet, can you?”

Using the little strength you have in comparison to him, you bounce back against his pelvis. The arm around your midsection tightens, his mouth roaming your skin. The stubble on his chin and jawline scrape against your neck, heightening the shiver already running viciously up and down your spine.

“Fucking hell,” Burying his face into your hair, he closes his eyes. “I’m gonna cum, sweetheart.” When you don’t respond, he asks, “Where do you want me?”

“Please not inside me,” Gulping, you swallow thickly. “Not today, not right now, baby.”

He assumed you’d say this. Who wants to be dripping with cum while hiking through a winter storm? As pleasing as that may sound to him, trekking alongside you while knowing his seed is dripping between your thighs… he follows your cue.

“Okay,” Nodding, he agrees. “Why don’t you touch yourself? Go on, touch that clit for me.”

Fully leaning against the wall, you do as he says, allowing one of your hands to fall. Your pants are just barely down, hanging around your mid-thigh; it was too cold to pull them down any further than that. But lucky for you, your pants are off enough for you to reach your sex.

Simon grins breathlessly when he feels your fingers brush against him, rubbing fast and sloppy circles over your clit. It only makes him pound into you harder, forcing himself inside again and again. He revels in the feeling of your wetness, knowing how truly aroused you get from him.

“Just like that, doll. Keep doing that for me.” He’s trying desperately to keep his composure, but the squishy sound of him re-entering your sex is making his heart pound in his chest.

His bit of praise makes you flush, whining quietly while you feel the beginnings of your peak. And when you begin to shake, he almost can’t control himself. He bites down into the meat between your shoulder and neck, growling against you as he feels your release. Hot and wet, it rushes down his pelvis, your high and airy gasps making his eyes roll back.

“Ghost!” You shriek - you can’t help it. You’re genuinely unable to restrain yourself from being vocal while experiencing this ecstasy.

Diving inside one, two, three more times, and then he’s sliding out in the blink of an eye. Releasing your throat, his hand shoots down, wrapping around the thickness of himself and pumping quickly. You gasp, inhaling a deep breath of fresh, cold air. Shaking legs keep you up, both palms pressing into the wall.

A harsh grunt is punched from his chest, his head lowering to rest his forehead on your bruised neck. Spurts of white shoot from his tip, his fist squeezing tightly as he releases onto the dirty, wooden floor. His hips thrust forward into his hand, his chest and stomach flexing while trying to keep his groans low.

“Ghost?”

“Fuck,” Groaning in frustration, he quickly wipes his hand off on his pants. His cum had oozed all over his knuckles.

Reaching to his comm link, he presses the button. “Come in.”

“How long should we keep our channels off?”

“Off?” He almost sounds offended. “What are you on about? Those should never be off.”

“Well, the boys and I, we…”

When he doesn’t finish, Ghost presses the button on his end again. “Soap?”

“We just wanted to give you two some… alone time.”

#Simon Riley #Simon Ghost Riley #Simon Riley cod #Ghost cod #I can't beleive I wrote this lmao #but I enjoyed it SO MUCH #he's so sexy #Simon riley x you #Simon riley x reader #Simon ghost Riley x you #Simon ghost Riley x reader #ghost x reader

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kookidough · 1 month

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sierra is sooooo complicated to me like. i could go on about her for so long & also i wish the writers did certain things with her character (which i will get into later in this rant) so ya here we go

firstly her childhood is . very clearly messed up?? it’s established that her mother is Ultra Obsessed with chris and i think sierra mentions being a 3rd generation chris mclean scholar at one point which implies that obsession just runs in the family atp😭 before even going on the show she’s grown up in an environment where this level of obsession is Normal so she doesn’t see anything wrong with turning out the same way

since her mother is like . obsessed with chris & stuff that’s probably what would bring sierra to watching total drama in the first place and i personally feel like she’d fixate on it because it was a group of teenagers her age, people she would like to be friends with if that makes sense? i can imagine she’d be a pretty odd child without many friends so that’d maybe be a reason for her to latch onto total drama, maybe why she latched onto cody too because like. she thinks he’s cute and they have things in common (like theyre both pretty geeky) so she gets pretty parasocial about it because, as mentioned before, her mum being obsessed with chris is just Normal to sierra so she thinks it’s normal for her to be obsessed with cody (spoiler alert girl: it’s really not)

while she’s on the show i feel like she doesn’t change / gets worse because chris sees her exhibiting Mental Illness and just… actively encourages her behaviour? and the other contestants do nothing to stop it, like how most of the time (e.g. paris) team amazon get mad at cody for sierra’s behaviour instead of helping him out for some reason??? no one tells sierra her behaviour is wrong so she just. Continues to get worse until shes out of the competition😭

this is where im gna interrupt with a canon divergence because like . personally i think in the episode where votes were revealed and cody was revealed to have voted sierra Every Single Time, sierra shouldve gotten over him!!!! it was the harsh truth she needed to hear, the dose of reality that cody is NOT interested in her and she needs to move on. she couldve had good character development, building her relationships with other characters and showing off her skills. maybe she’d still be eliminated in drumheller because she made cody that birthday cake as an apology and then kaboom or whatever idk just some way to keep her elimination the same

going down this train could’ve made her character in all stars Actually Interesting ! we couldve seen a side of sierra that kept some of her old eccentric vibes but had her head in the game this time instead of being focused on a boy, especially since cody isnt even in that season

and of course lastly i just wanna say i’m not excusing her weird actions or her creepiness at all, she has some Extreme Flaws and all the stuff she did was absolutely not okay, i just like rotting and seeing maybe why she acted the way she did and i wanted to drop my own two cents on interesting avenues her character couldve went down :3 i know everyone in td is some form of stereotype and sierra was an obsessive uberfan but she couldve still been that after getting over cody, in fact im disappointed that she knew SO much about the cast yet didnt use any of their weaknesses to her own advantage, she couldve dominated the competition😭

so uhhh yeah thats my thoughts on sierra, i probably over-read her to filth but shes very complex to me and i wish certain aspects of her character were done differently, she had a lot of potential especially in all stars but um Everyone had their potential destroyed in all stars so i’ll overlook that

#huge ramble incoming #total drama #total drama sierra #td sierra #sierra total drama #total drama world tour #tdwt #total drama all stars #tdas #on god girl we gonna get u some therapy

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dean-winchester-is-a-warrior · 3 months

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The Dangers of Hope Ch. 5

Series Summary: When Y/N shows up at Camp Chitaqua with her little girl in tow, her bloodshot eyes leave no doubt that she's infected. Or is she? Everything Dean has come to know for certain over the last five hellish years, is about to be challenged.

Pairings/Characters in the series: Endverse!Dean x Reader, Emma (OFC), Castiel, Sam Winchester, Lucifer, Michael, Zachariah, Risa, Johnston (OMC), Patrick (OMC), Theresa (OFC), other survivors and soldiers.

Series Explicit 18 +/Warnings: Show level violence, some gore, angst, smut, fluff all the usual for a series of mine. ❤️ Endverse!Dean (that's a warning for his anger and callousness as well as his extreme hotness. 😁) Each chapter will have their own specific warnings.

Chapter Warnings: Nothing major.

Word Count: 5,402

A/N: So, I've had this idea for quite a while. Basically since I watched The Last of Us. I loved Pedro in the role of Joel, but I kept thinking how incredible Jensen would have been. Which then made me think of how amazing he was as Endverse!Dean which then led me to this idea. Lol! I've stolen the premise of Ellie's storyline from TLOU, but made her a grown up, a reader insert, and a love interest for Dean.

If you've never seen TLOU, don't worry - you don't need to have seen it to understand this story. 😊

I've taken some liberties with the Endverse in my story, changed a few things from canon, but kept lots of things too.

I sincerely hope you enjoy the story. It will be ten chapters and I will do my very best to post one chapter every weekend. ❤️

A/N 2: Sorry, this chapter is a bit longer than usual, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. 😘

Series Master List || Main Master List || Tag Lists

The dividers below were created by @saradika

Over the next two weeks, Dean did whatever he could to avoid being around Y/N. He was determined that the morning at the river was simply going to be a weird one off. It was some kind of reaction to Y/N’s unfamiliar presence. Her emotions and her rose-colored outlook on the world had contaminated him somehow.

He didn’t know why, but there was something about her that always made him question his decisions, constantly rework his plans. She just brought something out in him, so he stayed the hell away from her as much as possible.

He knew she’d set up the school and begun teaching. But there again, she’d made him change his plans. The plan had been to use the sheds behind the cabin for storage; that was the whole reason for building them!

But apparently Y/N had worked her magic with Brandy and before he knew it the sensible, practical woman had him convinced to let Y/N and the kids take up one of their very limited storage spaces, just to sit around doing algebra and reading poetry - or whatever she was teaching them.

It was ridiculous.

But even though he avoided her during the day, there was no turning off his brain at night, when he closed his eyes and visions of her soft curves and the memory of her silky skin beneath his fingers plagued his thoughts. He told himself to smarten up, that he had so many more important things to be thinking about.

He decided he just needed sex; it had been too long. So one night he showed up in Risa’s tent after midnight and she opened her arms to him the way she always did.

But as he kissed her and moved his hands over her body, her gentle sighs and soft moans weren’t doing what he needed them to, and he realized he was being an asshole trying to replace one woman with another. Risa was a good soldier and she’d been a soft place for him to land too many times to just use her as a distraction.

So he got up and left, giving her a lame excuse, “I forgot I have to be up early tomorrow to…go over things with Johnston.” He tried not to notice Risa’s frown. He couldn't tell if she was mad or sad, and he didn't really want to stick around to find out.

As the days moved on, he realized it was next to impossible to completely avoid Y/N, whether day or night. Because no matter how he tried to ignore her, he saw her influence everywhere. He could sense a shift in the air, he swore people were smiling more and every once in a while, he could hear kids laughing loudly.

That was a foreign sound nowadays, and it unnerved him. And smiling seemed foolish. What was there to smile about? Being happy just invited tragedy. He knew in the old days he would have been called a pessimist. But he was simply being a realist as he'd always been. He called things as they were, and he wasn't about to let a pretty smile and a bouncy attitude change that.

One evening, about a month after Y/N arrived at the camp, Dean was headed to the storage shed to take a thorough inventory before they left the next day on a raid - one of their last before the snows came in mid November. He knew they were gonna need more propane than what they had stored in order to run the generator over the winter. The generator ran the fridge and freezer where they kept their food stored.

It could also power the electricity in the big cabin for a little while if needed. There had been nearly a week last winter that had been so piercingly cold that they’d all needed to jam themselves into the cabin and run the electric heat as much as possible. It had simply been too cold for the little camp stoves in the tents; the wood-burning stoves just couldn’t generate enough heat to combat the intense cold that seeped through the thick canvas walls.

So their generator had saved them, and it ran on propane, which meant they needed more than enough to last through another possible cold snap.

Dean had deliberately waited to start the task until it was nearly sundown since the school would be empty by then and he could avoid running into the teacher that worked there.

But as he approached the small building he could see a wavering light in the window - a lamp moving towards him. Before he could turn and leave (he wasn’t going to call it running away) Y/N stepped out into the semi-darkness and gasped as she saw him standing there.

She put the hand not holding the kerosene lamp to her chest. “Oh my lord!” She breathed out raggedly. “You scared me half to death.” But she was chuckling as she said it and walked closer to him.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, I uh…I thought you’d be gone.” He knew he sounded slightly accusatory. “Why are you still here? Haven’t the kids been gone for hours?”

Y/N nodded. “Yeah. I came back to put up the gift we got from Tom Richardson.” She waved him towards the building behind her. “You should come see the school.”

Dean shook his head. “No, I’ve got…I have to -”

She cut him off with wide, pleading eyes. “Please?” She added a bright, imploring smile and Dean shook his head. Why was he even bothering to say no to her at this point? He gestured for her to lead the way into the little building and he followed at a distance.

They walked in and she set the lamp on the small table in the corner and turned it up full so that it completely lit up the tiny room. She held her arms out to the sides, showing off her little schoolroom with pride.

“What do you think?”

He shook his head. “It’s uh…pretty empty.” He said looking around.

Y/N shrugged and seemed a little deflated. “It’s a work in progress.”

Dean grunted his acknowledgement and continued his sweep of the room. On the floor against the back, Northern, wall were a couple of piles of wool blankets, and right above them was a mural of multicolored leaves stuck to the wall.

When she saw him looking at it and frowning, Y/N explained. “I got the kids to find a bunch of pretty, fallen leaves, and then we used some tree sap as glue to stick them up. I got to teach them a little bit about trees and ecosystems, and we also made something pretty to hang on the wall.”

He nodded at the blankets. “Is that where the kids sit?”

“Yeah.” She said with another shrug. “We’re a little packed in, but it keeps us warm. The blankets just take the chill out of the floor and make it a bit softer to sit on.”

Dean nodded absently and looked left, his eye catching on the only other object in the room. It was a paper map hanging on the western wall, held in place by two small nails.

Dean frowned again. “Is that a map of America?”

Y/N nodded excitedly. “Yeah, that was the gift from Tom Richardson. It was so kind of him. His son, Jonah is a sweet little guy, but I guess he’s been pretty quiet over the last year or so. He lost his mom just before he and Tom got to Chitaqua?” She said, clearly using the words as a question to see if he knew who she was talking about.

Dean nodded, a vague recollection coming to his mind of a big burly guy and a scrawny little kid. He remembered thinking the guy would be a hard worker, and the kid probably wasn’t gonna make it. He’d looked pretty sick.

Y/N continued. “Well, I guess since he started school he’s been talking more in the evenings, even asking Tom questions about The Knights of the Round Table. I’ve been sharing some of the legends with them this week. So, Tom was grateful and as a thank you, he gave us this map that he’d kept tucked away in his backpack all this time. Said it made him feel peaceful to look at it and remember better times. But he thought we could use it more.”

She smiled wistfully and gazed at the slightly ratty map.

“Why?” Dean asked with a slight jolt in his gut. He waved at the map. “It’s not like this anymore.”

Y/N nodded and lowered her gaze to the ground. “Yeah, I know, but the general shape of the country is still the same, and I can use it as half geography, half history.”

When she looked back up at him, her face was set in lines of disappointment. She waved her hand to encompass the whole hundred and fifty square feet. “You don’t like it?” She asked with a weak chuckle.

Dean shrugged. “No it's, I mean, it’s fine. You know, work in progress, like you said.”

Y/N nodded and smiled, looking a little bolstered. “Yeah, slow but sure. And you know,” her smile turned shy, “I’ve really wanted to thank you for giving up the space for the school, I know this wasn’t what the shed was earmarked for.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, Brandy made sense. Can’t have the kids wandering around outside after the cold comes.”

Y/N frowned. “I’ve wanted to thank you, but every time I’ve looked for you, I seem to have just missed you.”

Dean scowled defensively. “Just busy.”

Y/N nodded.

“Well look,” Dean said, backing away, “I gotta get to…stuff.” He shook his head. “I mean, we’re leaving on a raid tomorrow and I gotta prepare for it.”

“Oh, be careful.” Y/N said, biting her lip in concern.

It was far too hard for Dean to rip his eyes away from where her teeth sunk into the satiny sweep of her bottom lip. But he jerked his head up and then spun away as he answered her. “Always am.”

***

The raid was successful; in fact it was one of the most successful ones they’d ever had. They’d traveled all the way to St. Louis, hoping to find some gas stations there that hadn’t been picked clean. But they had no luck. Since going home empty-handed wasn’t an option, they went North to Springfield and hit the jackpot.

They found an old Costco on the outskirts of the city that had barely been hit. They filled and loaded up enough propane tanks to see them through the winter and then some.

They also loaded up as much food as they could, and even found some usable meds left in the pharmacy there. They grabbed clothes and kitchen things like plates and pots, utensils, also managing to find a few things that had become rare and quite precious, like eyeglasses and sunglasses. They also found spare tires and car parts, and a few simple pieces of practical furniture. They took as much as they could load into the back of two trucks and a Jeep.

Dean packed up one more big box, setting it on top of the others; it was just something he thought might come in handy. He refused to think too long about why he’d gathered together the things in the box.

They made it back to camp less than two days after they left, a record for a raid. They usually took a week or more because they had to scavenge through a bunch of different cities, and fight off masses of Croats. But this time, they didn't see any Croats at all, and they'd scored an incredible haul quickly, which meant that, barring some kind of catastrophe, they wouldn't have to go out again until the snow melted.

They pulled into the camp around noon and Dean spent a few hours helping to unload the trucks and organize where everything went. When the campers saw the piles of booty in the trucks, people actually started clapping. An air of joviality pervaded as they all worked together to put things away until the next day. At which point they'd begin accounting for it all, sharing what was needed immediately, and then safely storing away the rest.

Y/N and her students left their little schoolroom to come help as well and the kid’s eyes were wide and excited, looking at everything that had been brought back as though it was Christmas Eve.

When everything was unloaded, Dean grabbed the box he’d put aside and brought it to Y/N who’d returned to the school to drop off the two folding chairs she’d claimed for the classroom.

He knocked on the open door, grateful for the hard wood beneath his knuckles this time. Y/N turned to face him and her eyes were almost as bright and excited as the kids’.

“Hi!” She said enthusiastically. “Wow, you guys sure brought home the bacon on this raid!”

Dean shook his head. “No bacon. It was fairly rancid.”

Y/N chuckled lightly and scrunched up her nose. “Yeah, wise decision to leave that behind.”

Dean nodded and set the big box on the plywood floor with a heavy thump. “This is for you. For the school.” He amended.

Y/N looked a bit dumbfounded for a moment and her eyes got even rounder before she dropped to her knees and pulled open the flaps of the box.

When she saw what was inside her gasp was deep and her hands flew to her mouth. She looked up at him in complete shock before reaching reverently into the box to take out one of the books that sat inside.

“Books.” She whispered, as she stared at the paperback in her hands. She reached into the box again and pulled out another book and then another and another until her arms were full of them.

She looked up at him, tears falling and her gaze rapturous. “Oh my god, Dean.”

Dean felt his face flush and he looked away, crossing his arms over his chest. “Just figured the classroom could use ‘em and they were just sitting there on the shelves. There’s a bunch of kids books underneath,” he said pointing inside the box. “And paper and pencils and some crayons, a few coloring books. There weren’t many of them so-”

He was interrupted as Y/N dropped the books back into the box and launched herself at him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed tight. He stood stock still for a minute before he patted her back awkwardly and dropped his arms back to his side.

She pulled back and brushed away her happy tears, sniffling loudly. “Sorry. I just…” She knelt down again and picked up another book, holding it tight to her chest. She shook her head. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed books. It’s been years since I’ve even seen one let alone had the chance to read one.”

She reached in for one of the children’s books and laughed. “Oh my gosh, the kids are gonna be ecstatic.”

Dean shrugged, thoroughly embarrassed by Y/N’s joy and gratitude. He cleared his throat before speaking. “There’s a limited supply of paper and pencils, and I have no idea how long it will be before we find more, if we ever do, so…”

He trailed off and Y/N put the books back into the box and folded the flaps closed again. “So, we’ll be sure to write very tiny, erase a lot, and wear the pencils down to little nubs.” She said as she stood and bent to heft the box up from the floor. Dean stepped forward to grab it from her as she staggered slightly beneath its weight.

“You’ll break your back.” Dean barked at her as he reached for the box.

But she just shook her head and turned away with the box still in her arms. “N’ah I’m stronger than I look.” She said, huffing and puffing as she dropped it onto the table.

Dean shook his head. Yeah, I bet you are. He thought.

After a moment Y/N turned and walked slowly back towards him. “So, I can’t exactly buy you dinner as a thank you. But if you bring your rations over to our tent, I can cook them all up for us.”

She smiled at him, friendly and sweet, but Dean was backing away. “No, that’s not necessary.”

“I know it isn’t, but it will make me feel good to do this one small favor for you in return for this amazingness.” She said with a wave towards the box.

Dean planned to say no, had it on the tip of his tongue but when he opened his mouth what came out was, “Okay.”

So barely an hour later he found himself sitting at her table with dinner laid out in front of him. It was a sufficiently celebratory meal of salted venison from an eight point buck the camp hunters had taken down in early summer, boiled potatoes, and a can of green beans that was older than Emma.

It was the best meal Dean had eaten in a long time.

After the food was finished and the dishes were washed, Y/N made them a cup of coffee and he sat drinking it as she settled Emma into bed with a kiss. His stomach was full of decent food, the coffee smelled old but still strong, and the sound of Y/N’s soft voice as she tucked her daughter in, was incredibly soothing. He found himself relaxing into his chair in a way he hadn’t in a very long time. His muscles lost some of their rigidity and he breathed out a long sigh, as though he’d been holding his breath for too long.

After a few minutes Y/N came back to the table and sat down with her own soft exhale. She took a sip of her coffee and then looked at Dean over the rim of her tin cup. “You know, I don’t think you really understand what you’ve done here.”

Dean cocked his head and raised an eyebrow, questioning her. She smiled and set down her cup, shifting slightly in her chair.

“Since all of this started, we’ve been on the move, Emma and I. In the beginning, when Emma was still a baby, I’d come across different groups of people and we’d travel together for a while or we’d manage to hole up somewhere for the winter and wait out the cold together. But inevitably the groups always fell away; sometimes we’d just decide to go in separate directions, but sometimes animosity or greed would take over and violence would erupt. People would fight over who was in charge and they’d fight over resources.” Y/N shook her head. “It almost always ended up a disaster.”

She shrugged. “So after a while, I just lit out on my own with Emma. It was scary as hell, of course - no back up, no partners, all on my own with a four year old. But it also meant no one stealing my stuff, or throwing me to the wolves at the first sign of trouble.”

She took another sip of coffee and Dean wondered at the shadows in her usually bright eyes. What stories in her past had created them?

Her voice was soft when she continued. “It’s been incredibly hard and there’s been,” her eyelashes fluttered and closed, “there's been a lot of bad.”

She set down her cup and sat back in her chair, rubbing at her eyes with her fingers like she was scratching out the images behind her eyelids.

When she looked at him again, her eyes were soft and warm. “So, to come here, to see what you’ve accomplished in just a few years?” Her voice was full of wonder. “Dean, it’s like a miracle. I mean you’ve made it safe here, at least a hell of a lot safer than anywhere else out there - there are guards protecting us! People work together, contribute their skills and strengths for the benefit of the group as well as themselves.”

She shook her head. “I haven’t seen anything like it in a very long time. What you’ve created here is an oasis.”

Dean snorted at that. “Oasis?” He asked incredulously. Her praise and wonderment made him feel an itchy kind of awkwardness. He didn’t deserve it.

But Y/N was nodding solemnly. “Yes. It’s a safe haven in a world filled with evil. What would you call it?”

Dean took a gulp of coffee and then licked his lips, looking at her for a moment before speaking. “Y/N this is only an oasis in the sense that it’s a mirage in a desert; it’s an illusion. We’re managing to get by through lucky choices and good timing. We push through from day to day, but I’m telling you this whole place could fall apart in an instant. One long, bad, winter, or one coordinated attack from another camp or a pack of Croats, and we’re done.”

He paused to try and let that sink in before continuing. “And the survivors here work together because it’s beneficial to them. But if things get desperate again,” he looked at her pointedly, “don’t think for one second that they'll hesitate to throw you to the wolves like all the others.” He shrugged. “It’s human nature, survival of the fittest, and anyone who thinks otherwise is gonna get trampled.”

He said it as a warning, still determined to dislodge the Pollyanna ideal of good and virtuous humanity from her mind.

But Y/N just smiled and leaned across the table to squeeze his hand. “Guess we’ll see. But in the meantime, you should be proud. No matter what happens, you’ve done good.”

Dean swallowed down the rest of his coffee in one gulp and stood up, pulling his hand away from her warm touch. He was desperate to get away from the softness and understanding in her gaze. He thanked her for cooking dinner and left quickly, promising himself as he walked back to his tent that he wasn’t going to do that again.

But as with most things to do with Y/N that decision didn’t last long, and soon enough that one evening turned into a bit of a ritual. Every few days or so Dean would show up with some of his rations and Y/N would combine them with what they had, and they’d all eat together at their tiny table.

Every time he left her tent, he told himself he’d had his last meal there with Y/N and Emma. Yet within a few days, he’d be back again. He told himself it was just something to break the monotony of camp life, just something a little different from the ordinary.

But the truth was he was beginning to crave the evenings spent across from Y/N, listening to her rattle on about her students and their achievements, or else answering her seemingly endless questions about the camp and how it had come to be. He even enjoyed listening to her talk to Emma, telling her stories before she tucked her in for the night.

Once the little girl was asleep, Dean usually hightailed it out of there, because without the kid as a buffer it became much harder to ignore Y/N’s inviting lips and tempting curves.

But one night, three weeks after returning home from the raid, Y/N followed him outside as he abruptly left the tent.

“Dean.” She called after him.

The sun had set almost an hour before and the night was dark and cold; Dean returned to her side and admonished her. “It’s freezing out here, go back inside.”

Y/N just rubbed her hands up and down her arms and shrugged. “I’m fine.”

He shook his head at her stubbornness, and then waited silently. When she didn’t say anything right away he spread his arms wide.

“What?” He asked impatiently.

“I just…” Y/N stuttered for a moment. “I just wanted to say that I really like when you come for dinner.”

Dean clenched his jaw as she looked up at him with heat in her gaze, an invitation in her eyes, plain as day. He told himself to walk away but instead, he raised his hand to trail his fingers down her cheek.

“You should go inside.” He warned her again, even as he lowered his head towards her. “S’cold.”

Y/N shook her head. “I’m very warm.” She smiled and licked her lips and it was his undoing.

He yanked her up against him and crushed her lips with his own. He plundered her mouth with his tongue, inhaling her sweet scent and hardening at the way she clutched the front of his jacket and whimpered softly. He moved his hands so that one clutched at her waist and the other one grabbed hold of the back of her head so he could keep her pressed to him tightly.

He didn't know how long he would have continued kissing her, or whether he might have taken things even further. But luckily there was a loud noise of something crashing somewhere in camp, followed by laughter.

The sound was like a bucket of cold water being poured on him and Dean ripped himself away from Y/N's mouth. They were both breathing heavily, panting really.

“Fuck.” Dean swore roughly before he turned abruptly and left. He fully admitted to himself that this time, he was definitely running away.

***

Dean barely slept and woke up the next day berating himself for the night before. For fuck’s sake he’d been making out with Y/N with her kid just on the other side of a canvas wall - kissing her in the wide open, where any other camper might have walked by. He didn’t need things to be more complicated than they were already.

As the morning wore on, he made up his mind to talk to Y/N that very afternoon. He'd just tell her straight out that what happened between them just couldn't happen again. It was only going to confuse things and make everything harder than it needed to be.

He nodded; he could do this. He was practical and he didn't hem and haw or tiptoe around things. He'd just tell her straight out how things were going to be.

He knew she'd be in the big cabin as the school day ended, so he walked over and stepped inside the door, hoping she'd be almost done for the day.

Ever since he brought her the books, she'd been reading to the kids at the end of every school day. Parents had started swinging by the school, ostensibly to meet their kids, but really, they wanted to watch their kids' faces and listen to their giggles as Y/N read the stories in funny voices and occasionally got the kids to join her in acting out silliness from the books.

But the crowd of parents and kids had gotten a bit too big for the tiny schoolroom, so on the last day of every week, Y/N had taken to reading to the kids and parents together in the big cabin. The adults usually sat on the floor behind the kids, keeping their hands busy with mending clothes or knitting, or else they stood at a table and worked on something like repairing holes in tents or making snares for the hunters. The work allowed them to justify their enjoyment of the stories.

As Dean walked inside now, Y/N was finishing up the storybook in her hand. He could see it was The Paper Bag Princess and Y/N was on the last page.

“‘Ronald’, said Elizabeth, ‘your clothes are really pretty and your hair is very neat.” Y/N read aloud in Elizabeth’s decisive voice.

“You look like a real prince. But you,” Y/N paused for effect, “are a bum.’”

All the kids were giggling as she read the last line.

“They didn't get married after all.”

The kids clapped and even the parents were chuckling at the way the paper bag princess had put the snooty prince in his place.

“I love that story!!” A little redheaded girl in the front gushed.

“It's my mommy's favorite story.” Emma said loudly. “Right Mommy?”

Y/N nodded. “When I was your age for sure.”

Dean pushed away from the wall he was leaning on, trying to signal Y/N so she'd hurry up and finish. But the little girl in the front demanded her full attention as she bounced up to lean against Y/N's knees where she sat in the chair.

“Cause your mommy read it to you?”

Dean was seriously considering ordering everyone out. He wanted to get this over with.

But Y/N's next words stopped him dead in his tracks.

She was shaking her head as she tucked the little girl's red hair behind her ear. “No, my mommy passed away a long time ago when I was just a baby. So she never really got to read me stories.”

Y/N kept talking, but Dean only heard a hot, pulsing, rushing sound in his ears. A million thoughts were slamming through his mind at once as he felt a cold shiver run through him.

He yelled over the sound of the people around him beginning to chatter and get ready to leave.

“How?”

Y/N looked up at his bellow, her face shocked. “What?”

Dean was aware of his surroundings only just enough to brusquely order everyone out of the cabin.

“Now!” He barked and the mood in the room shifted quickly as parents grabbed up their children and gave The Boss a wide berth as his eyes burned at Y/N like green fire.

Everyone disappeared and it was just Y/N, Dean and Emma left.

Dean felt his heart hammering in his chest as he took a step back from where she stood.

Y/N's face was completely confused and clearly perplexed. “Dean what-”

He cut her off. “How?” He bellowed again before swallowing and asking in a slightly quieter tone. “How did your mother die when you were a baby?”

Y/N shook her head. “Why? What are you-”

“Answer me.” Dean's voice wasn't loud, but his words were clipped and he could hear the steel behind his words, feel the cold seeping into his bones as the tumblers in his mind fell into place, opening the lock concealing the reason behind Y/N’s miraculous survival of the virus.

Y/N blinked rapidly for a moment before exhaling slowly. “It was a - a fire. Some kind of electrical short or something.”

“In your nursery.” Dean said softly.

Y/N shrugged, her face scrunched up in confusion. “I'm not sure. My dad didn't really like to talk about it.”

As he stood staring at the woman with the bloodshot eyes, a moment from so long ago, once again from that first time they'd faced the Croatoan virus, materialized in his memory.

Again his brother's face bloomed in his mind, and he heard his own voice speaking.

“I swear I'm gonna lose sleep over this one. I mean why here, why now?”

And Sam's bewildered reply. “And why was I immune?”

Well now he knew why his brother had been immune. Because Yellow Eyes had wanted him to be, to make him a better soldier, a better, more powerful psychic to lead his demon army. And of course, he’d needed to be sure Lucifer's true vessel was strong and able enough to withstand the demon germ warfare he planned to release upon the world as a way to kickstart the apocalypse.

Dean stared at Y/N, angry beyond belief. Angry at her and what she really was, angry at himself for taking so long to figure it out and for falling for her game, and unbelievably angry at the universe for proving once again that it was laughing at him.

His voice was ice when he spoke. “What kind of psychic are you? What can you do?” He shook his head. “What have you done already?"

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#dean winchester x reader #endverse!dean #endverse!dean x reader #dean winchester fan fic #endverse #endverse series #endverse!dean series #dean winchester angst #dean winchester smut #dean winchester fluff

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amyriadofleaves · 1 month

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outside it starts to pour — neuvillette | chapter eight

synopsis: in the limelight of fontaine, the prying eyes of its people never truly tears their gaze off the iudex and you, the présidence du conseil d'état, which makes for baseless rumours to fester and echo throughout the theatrics of opera. you and neuvillette are challenged by the reputations the both of you are expected to uphold, and the weighty decision to navigate these intricacies rests upon the discerning judgement of fontaine's archon.

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ao3 : wattpad ˚　.˚　　

⌗ pairing : neuvillette x fem!reader ⌗ feat : neuvillette, reader, furina, sedene, literal cameo of wriothesley, clorinde and navia, other melusine characters ⌗ warnings : n/a ⌗ word count: 6.5k

“Ouch! Sedene, can you go any tighter?” You really just intend on patting her arm to stop, but your hand meets her face and she reacts with a little squint to her nose.

You look under your arm, and find that she has tilted her head. “But isn’t it a Fontainian custom to tighten a corset to its limit? For a woman’s youthful look to ‘shine through’, as they say.”

“Well — my youthful look is going to turn into a wrinkly one if you’re going to constrict my airways.” The ironic thing is that, although you've had your share of tighter corsets and could wear them tighter yet, the issue persists; the innumerable comforts you've offered Neuvillette over the previous few days have served just as a distraction. You're still in excruciating pain.

The week had unfurled in a whirlwind of activity, traversing boutiques and bakeries alike, where both you and Monsieur Neuvillette took the painstaking sacrifice to your schedule to craft the wedding arrangements. Arguments, though not exempt, arose with discussions on which croquembouche would most harmoniously blend with the theme (Neuvillette eventually bent his opinion in your favour, your excuse being that he is not allowed one as his profession forbids him so). However, the task of securing the venue had been entrusted to Lady Furina's capable hands, and to Monsieur Neuvillette's discerning eye, her choice did not fail to impress.

In the days leading up to the wedding, the place at which you have been staying happens to be the very Palais Mermonia — and though you were initially apprehensive about living in the same place as your ‘fiance’, it was a strategic move, a calculated step on the chess board. It has proven to be of other conveniences as well: a shorter commute to your office and the excuse for leisurely strolls around the Palais grounds, weather permitting, which you’ve come to realise isn’t very often during this monsoon (odd how this period of the year in particular isn’t known for its rain, but then again, it never has really been consistent).

But out of all of the days where the rain poured and the levels rose dangerously high, a common denominator stood true: the Iudex of Fontaine, standing tall and erect over the balcony of the Palais, water matting his hair to his face, his robes to his skin.

You briefly recall the night in which you weren’t dressed in any garments but a nightgown, toeing lightly down the steps in hopes that you wouldn’t awaken anyone at such a late hour over a matter as trivial as a cup of tea.

If a memory is worth recalling, it is worth noting that embarrassment is one of its most prevailing factors. When it comes to you, of course.

And to see such a sight at such an hour had you almost playing death with the ceramic cup in your hand.

____

The Chief Justice of Fontaine stalks down the hallway, and though it is too dark to see the dampness of his clothes, you are sure of how he radiates a certain coolness, ridding wherever you are currently standing of warmth. His silhouette appears more fitted, a likely reasoning from the clothes that cling to his skin. For someone who sees nothing but the warm lights of the Opera, he is certainly of a robust build.

You don’t think he sees you when he almost slams into you with the full force of his momentum. A most depressing sight turns out to not be the both of you, but the lemon tea that spilled onto the marble floor.

“There goes my cover. And my midnight tea.”

The clarity in the whites of his eyes grow more pronounced, the adrenaline-fueled rush that spurred his almost inhuman speed beginning to fade. “Goodness, I am sorry. Let me make another cup for you.”

“No, really, it’s fine. I’m very much hydrated now that you’ve decided to show up,” you jab, eyeing him from head to toe. It's doubtful that he notices your scrutiny, though if he does, you hope he realises it's not in a particularly flattering light — more of a bemused acknowledgment of his somewhat unkempt appearance. Most definitely up to par with his reputation, you muse.

(Is it just you, or did the rain stop?)

He shoots you a fatigued smile in the dim-light. “I was just about to make myself a kettle of tea, to soothe the nerves. I could pour you a glass, if you’d like?”

“If you insist.” You finally look him in the eye, a subtle gleam of indigo glowing against the night.

And with a midnight snack consisting of awkward small talk and sips of tea, you wish you never rolled out of bed to begin with.

___

“Earth to you?” Sedene taps at your hip, but such a gesture would’ve gone unnoticed had it not been for her insistence. The corset you wear is the main culprit, taking the jabs of her hand.

“Yes? Is something the matter?”

“Does it feel better now?” She finishes, the discomfort increasing once she finishes tying the knot at the base of your waist.

“Yes, thank you Sedene.”

If anyone were to barge into the room at this particular moment, you would have been set for utter humiliation on your wedding day. You are clad in nothing but a corset and an underskirt — surely a most scandalous sight!

Sedene calls for someone to grab the dress off its hanger, and you see Kiara peek from a corner, clearly struggling under its weight. You immediately rush to take it from her hands, and you notice her immediate expression of relief. How adorable.

With a swift move, you retreat behind the privacy of the changing screen. The gown’s delicate lace and silk shimmer softly, catching glimpses of the stream of light peeking through the window. With a gentle touch, you slip into the gown, but the sleeves, as if possessing a will of their own, elegantly drape over your arm, reluctant to rest precisely where intended.

You glide towards the dressing table, greeted by a reflection unfamiliar in its elegance. Flowers weave delicately through your hair, stray curls framing the soft contour of your cheeks. The white wedding gown, meticulously tailored, drapes like a dream, its sleeves sitting off your shoulders, leaving them bare. Slipping on your lace gloves, you make a statement to have the engagement band to remain on your the ring finger of your right hand.

The two share reactions in astonishment, with Sedene voicing "Oh, wow," in disbelief, affirmed by Kiara's nod of agreement.

You gently smooth down the gown, then look a little forward to see the two of them waddling toward you, all smiles. Returning the warmth, you affectionately pat both of their heads. “And you two as well.” They had eagerly volunteered to be the flower girls ( you harbour doubts, having spotted them in the Chief Justice's office—a more likely scenario being that Neuvillette ordered them so), and were thus given sky blue dresses to wear.

Kiara hands Sedene a translucent cloth, and Sedene promptly relays it out to you. “Would you like me to put on the veil for you?”

“It’s quite alright, I can manage.” Playing with it in your hands, Kiara takes her leave, but Sedene stays. Your eyes follow her as she slips past the door, but she stops, seemingly greeted by someone on the other end.

Focused as you are, it is diverted when Sedene taps your hand. “You do not seem happy.”

This prompts your smile to drop. “What do you mean? Can’t you tell that I am from my smile alone?”

“A smile it is, yes, but it is a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Your expression is the textbook definition of joy, yet I cannot help but feel like you are anything but.”.

Your fingers pinch at the bodice, and you try your best to keep composure. If someone were to see you like this, it would be only you. Not Clorinde, not Sedene, and certainly not that Iudex. “It is nothing to be concerned about, Sedene. I am just fine.”

She blinks, and you think she doesn’t really believe you. “Alright then, if you say so. I'll call for Monsieur Neuvillette—see you at the venue! And in case I haven’t mentioned it yet, you look absolutely stunning.”

“Ah, thank you Sedene. You flatter me too much.”

She smiles and walks toward the door, closing it gently behind her, yet it fails to muffle the voices emanating from the other side.

The resounding echo of the door's closure bears down upon the room, casting the weight of burden in the now still silence. How could you have possibly subjected yourself to this stupid, senseless excuse of an arrangement? With hesitant steps, you approach the mirror, only to be met with a stranger's visage staring back, prettied and prepped for a sale that was never your choosing. Today is supposed to be an opening of a new chapter, of a life you haven’t lived, yet why does it feel like you are the corpse in a casket, awaiting your own burial?

With a shaky effort, you steady your fingers under your eyes to stop the tears from ruining your makeup. Not here, not anywhere, you assure yourself, hoping that if you bite it back, the feeling will eventually go away.

You try to affix the veil to your head, but it slips off to the right, resisting your attempts to secure it to your head. In an act of desperation and haste, you remove it, cautious not to catch any stray hairs — only to discover that your subsequent attempt moves it too far back. With your vision blurring from the effort, you reluctantly decide to leave it be.

Time does not wait for you to wallow in self pity, and instead it sends you something even more frustrating to get your mind off it.

“Mon coeur?” a deep voice whispers from the other side of the door, but you don’t have to think to recognise who it is.

“Monsieur Neuvillette?” you question in return, a hopeless act of confirmation.

Wiping your eyes, you take in a sharp breath before allowing him to come in. He stands apprehensively by the doorway, wearing a white suit with blue accents on its lapels. Given how the outfit bears elements to his everyday wear, you entertain yourself with the notion that work life never seems to leave him, no matter the circumstance.

Monsieur Neuvillette, the Chief Justice of Fontaine, is comically frozen in his place.

You raise an amused brow. “What are you staring at?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” he says, blinking, before proceeding to shut the door behind him, beginning to walk toward you with a hesitant pace.

You flash him a brief, cordial smile, but a grimace manages to fight through. “You ready?”

He stops before he can get too close. “I’ve spent days convincing myself that I was, but to tell you the truth, I am not so sure,” he whispers, gaze lingering on the flowers woven through your hair, to the earrings clasped to either side of your ears. He does not dare look any further.

Neuvillette finds himself at a loss for words. Should he offer you words of comfort? No, that would only rile you further.

The two of you motion to different spots in unison, lips parting to say similar words.

“I bought you a gift —”

“No, please, your gift first—”

“I insist that you present to me my gift first, to avoid disappointment.” You think he takes it lightly when he chuckles. But for once, it truly isn’t in jest.

“I thought this gift would be fitting.” He reaches into his breast pocket and presents to you a bag. Curiosity piqued, your brows raise. It doesn’t take much discerning to realise that the fragrance emanating from it is, in fact, a handpicked array of tea packets.

“Oh. Thank you for this, I needed to restock my stash of it but I had gotten a little lazy in doing so.” You fidget with the bag antsily, taking a peek at the content. Pulling the drawstring closed, you face Neuvillette, to whom returns the look with an expectant one. “If you’d just give me a moment.”

Pacing toward the dressing table, you reach for his gift, making an effort to avoid your reflection in the mirror. You turn around and meet his eyes, only for him to break it and find interest in a… pot?

You walk over to him and simply hand him the gift. “A notebook — for when inspiration strikes you at all the wrong times.”

“Ah, thank you. A very thoughtful present —”

“Don’t think too hard about it, Monsieur. It’s just Fontainian custom.”

A pained smile paints his short lived, light manner, and he tugs at the elastic that keeps the notebook from opening of its own will like a boy who's never seen a toy quite so fascinating. “Does it hurt to appreciate a gift?”

A spike of childish reminiscence leaves your lips before you can think anything of it. “On apprécie mieux le soleil quand on a connu la pluie.” We appreciate the sun better when we have known the rain.

Neuvillette’s expression softens into recognition. “On trouve toujours que la douleur est moins amère après l'avoir sentie quelque temps,” We always find that pain is less bitter after we have felt it for a while. “That quote derives itself from an old play. How did you come to know of it?”

“Well, Monsieur, like any normal person, I had interests. I was once a fan of the arts, poetry, plays, you name it — but look at where I ended up.”

“I never knew you were so attuned to the fine arts. I should have purchased an anthology if I knew of it.”

“Dwelling on it won’t do anything, Chief Justice,” you stop to adjust your glove. “Is our escort here yet? The wedding reception begins in under two hours.”

“We shall anticipate their arrival within ten minutes. Shall we adjourn to the entrance promptly?”

If you were anymore rushing with adrenaline you would’ve answered immediately, but you notice that your head feels a little bare. “I certainly do wish that were the case — but I do still have a veil to put on. So if you don’t mind.”

“Alright then. I shall be waiting by this very couch.” He points to the leather seat you’ve grown accustomed to in your stay in the Palais, and promptly sits, making sure to look away.

For the nth time today, you make your way to the vanity, and try again. It almost drives you mad at how it just cannot sit right, and your heart pounds anxiously against your chest as if in sync with the intrusive ticking of the nearby clock.

A distant voice interrupts your struggle. “Do you require hel—”

“No. I am fine. Just, ever so amazingly, fine.” Your response is tinged with sarcasm, a hint of irritation slipping through despite your attempts to mask it.

Ignoring Neuvillette's persistent offers of assistance, you wrestle with the veil again. And again. And again. Each attempt is punctuated by audible sighs of exasperation, likely loud enough for him to hear from across the room.

With your eyes still trained on the reflection of the veil, you ask the other person occupying the room an offhand question: “Do you remember when you asked if I needed help?”

“Yes, I do remember it very well.”

“Well I think an emergency such as this is worth warranting help.”

Before you can even finish your sentence, he rises gracefully from his seat. As he moves closer, occupying space in the reflection beside you, his eyes lock onto yours with a depth of uncertainty that sends a shiver down your spine. Ego aside, you feel bare, stripped, vulnerable.

His words brush against the nape of your neck. “Do inform me if my touch proves too unyielding,”

You take a nervous gulp and choose a nod over words, fearful that any utterance might betray your inner turmoil. Neuvillette deftly accepts the veil from your hands, then gently pushes a few strands back with a practised touch. His left hand traces your bare shoulder, a fleeting warmth that tantalises before dissipating, now lingering at the very lobe of your ear — and your lungs begin to plead for more air as you begin to hear your heart beating against your skull, the cloth of the Iudex’s suit the sole barricade between scandal and sin.

But there’s no one to stop you.

“That is enough,” you remark, turning to face him with a newfound resolve — and in that instant, a dawning horror grips you, realising it to be a grave oversight. There is something terribly wrong with the air in this room! Your eyes, usually sharp and commanding, now betray a flicker of uncertainty, quickly masked by a defiant lift of your chin. It doesn’t seem to last, your authority dwindling — robbing you of composure, the marble floors swirling in your vision; your high ground caves beneath you and it stirs a strange, undefinable confusion of feeling. It's as if all sense and logic have been threatened by his proximity alone, his face uncomfortably near yours, hand still in your hair. Despite the undeniable allure that you might grudgingly acknowledge, your stance remains firm, a silent refusal to entertain such thoughts, buried beneath the weight of your loathing for him.

Pull yourself together. This is the man who ruined your life.

You swat his hand away with a quick, dismissive motion — a gesture of indifference, of your forced aversion. There's a fleeting expression of disappointment that crosses his features, but you steel yourself against any sympathy, unwilling to entertain thoughts of his feelings. Instead, you draw in a deep breath, the cool air filling your lungs as you straighten your posture, a silent act of regaining control over your emotions.

“Did I clip it on too tight?”

“No. No you didn’t,” you say, taking an awkward step backwards. “It’s fine, you did half of the work.”

His eyes do not leave yours — a narrowing, apprehensive gaze that has you fighting against all your composure.

You take a brief once-over of yourself in the mirror before letting out a breathless, dry laugh. “We should get going.” He really did good work on that cloth — but what is to be made of him as a husband (however temporary) if he wasn't able to do something as simple as clipping something in your hair?

His engagement ring glints in the blooming sun. “We shall.”

____

The hour preceding the arrival of guests is nothing short of chaos, with eager individuals clamouring at the doors of the coach in a flurry of excitement. With all your judgmental tendency, you cannot help but regard them with a tinge of annoyance, at their fervour for a touch of fame, at a corrupt ideology planted into them — a flaw they have no one to blame for but themselves. An imperceptible roll of your eyes goes unnoticed by the man next to you, who seems nothing but aloof amidst the commotion.

“How civil,” you chide, clearly amused at the state of madness possessing these people.

“Ah, well,” Neuvillette replies with a knowing smile, “I suppose you're quite familiar with their ways, given your role as the Head of Civil Affairs.”

“Archons forbid a woman be fascinated,” you muse, a sneer making its way to replace the frown that had come to form since your time in the Palais.

The man at the wheel swerves to the right, and you grip onto the handle by your side of the coach, but the effort is fruitless when you end up scooted up against your fiancé’s arm. Before Neuvillette can make a reaction of it, you step on all of whatever he might be thinking. “I know, I know, you think I cannot get enough of you.”

The Iudex uses his right arm to help yourself back up — but you shake your head. His brows furrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s called humour, Monsieur. You’re going to need some of it.”

He says nothing.

After what feels like aeons, the coach jerks to a sudden halt — and before you can lurch forward, Neuvillette instinctively extends his arm to shield you.

You eye his arm with a raised brow. “That wasn’t required of you.”

Though visibly hurt, he soundlessly slips his arm away, and turns to open the door.

Reaching to do the same, you find that Neuvillette happened to reach an inhumane speed and is now opening yours. He offers his hand, but you find support in the handle near your seat instead.

But there is one important thing you seem to forget. Eyes follow.

Neuvillette seems to come to the same conclusion and gives you a knowing look. You begrudgingly accept his hand, heels meeting on cement.

You wish not to engage in whatever he seems to be planning behind those eyes that gleam like ice: cold and unforgiving, and yet, you realise this is what you’ve signed your life for — to act, to be a pawn mercilessly thrown around on the table.

Standing at the precinct of the mairie, amidst the bustling noise, a stark loneliness envelops you. You're about to walk down the aisle as an orphan, bereft of a mother's reassurance or a father's farewell kiss. Gripping Neuvillette a little tighter, you cling to the only semblance of support and he stops (everyone else surrounding the barricade does too, but you pay it no mind).

___

Judging by Lady Furina’s shriek at your appearance, you sense her disapproval of how you look. “Y—Your makeup! It’s smudged! Oh God.”

Your hand hesitantly brushes against your cheek, detecting the subtle dampness where your makeup has indeed betrayed you. With a superficial calmness, you respond, “It should be expected, Lady Furina, given the unpredictability of the weather as of late.” Despite the Hydro Archon’s critical gaze, you maintain a dignified demeanour, unwilling to let her judgement dampen your already heavy heart.

Neuvillette intervenes before Lady Furina can continue her scrutiny. “Lady Furina, the wedding reception commences in fifteen minutes. I kindly request you save your critiques for another time.” His protective stance shields you momentarily, prompting you to seek out Sedene amidst the commotion.

You venture further into the hall, and to your satisfaction, find them giggling with baskets in their hands, their dresses a perfect blue against the backdrop of the glass architecture. Bands of joyous light peek stream through the windows, casting a sheen against the silk of your dress.

The Melusines pause in their chatter, their eyes widening in admiration as you approach. “Madame!” they exclaim, encircling you in excitement. Their gentle inspection of your dress brings a fleeting sense of satisfaction amidst everything.

However, Sedene’s gasp and concerned inquiry shatters the brief respite. “What happened?”

You attempt nonchalance, replying, “What do you mean?”

“Let's put that aside for the moment, shall we? What's important is that you look your best,” Sedene declares, determined. She leads you to the dressing room, where makeup supplies are scattered in a chaotic array, likely the result of others' hurried preparations. You note the various shades of lipstick and the slightly uncomfortable puckering of the Melusines’ lips all likely because such application of the cosmetic was in a rush. Sedene works swiftly, applying powder to salvage what remains of your makeup, her movements deft and purposeful.

After a brief pause of silence, you rub your hands against either side of your arms in an attempt to find warmth. Sedene prompts your eyes to close, and you hear her tap her brush against an eyeshadow palette. A familiar softness of a brush swipes over your eyelids, the quiet bringing the Melusine to hum jubilantly in tandem with the strokes.

You hear the door creak open, but the brush lingering on your eyelid has you still, unable to move. “Ah. There you are,” the voice says, a middle ground between panic and relief.

Your lips pull upwards in sardonic spite. “Yes, Monsieur Neuvillette, I am well aware that we have but a few minutes left — but won’t you give your fianceé a few minutes of solace before she walks down the aisle with you? You can have her all you want until you grow tired of it.”

Satisfaction courses through you when your response is met with a tense hush, abuzz with silence that dances like errant shadows against the walls. “What, cat got your tongue?”

“No, no, certainly not. We shall rendezvous by where we met Lady Furina, if you do not mind.”

What difference would it make if you did, in fact, mind? Could time, against its natural course, be reversed at the hands of a clock at your beck and call?

“I have no problem with that. Now, if you would excuse me.”

Neuvillette acquiesces, and this you know from the way the pad of his boot clicks against the cement instead of the wood tiling the floors of the room, each step a catalyst for the brimming tautness.

The frantic brush of the trail of his coat twirls the strands of your hair and you make no interest in fixing it. Response would be idle, a futile attempt at salvaging the rubble of whatever the two of you have.

And with almost no regard for the now tense quietude, Sedene resumes her putting on of your makeup. You think you can almost slip this under the rug for how easily a quarrel like this could go under Sedene’s nose — but it appears that you forget that naivety comes with a lack of filter.

“Neuvillette tells me you aren’t entirely fond of him.”

A wrinkle forms between your brows and your eyelids push against the brush that hovers above it. “What?”

A hand in which she holds nothing comes to fly over her mouth. “Was I not supposed to say that?”

You scoot further into the stool, the rustle of your dress leaving the ground. I suppose this discussion has come earlier than anticipated, the thought is rueful, a catalyst that weighs you down just as much as your dress. “You're not wrong,” you finally admit; though your voice is soft, only the most adept of hearing would hear the edge that cuts a thin abrasion through the air. “But fondness is a luxury I've learned to live without.”

“You make it seem like he had committed a crime,” Oh, how vicious of a contrast. But what he had done to you, it might as well be.

“It’s… complicated, Sedene. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh, dear,” Sedene murmurs, shifting eyeshadow palettes and lipsticks alike into an arranged array, the mess you were once greeted with now left with no trace to a crime.

You shake your head, bitterness possessing the shift in your bearing. “I do not need your pity,” you assert, though the words feel hollow even to your own ears. “What matters is that this must go on. For however long it wills to.” With practised ease, you straighten your posture, a facade of composure settling over you like a second skin.

Sedene nods slowly, her gaze thoughtful. “As long as you're alright,” she says softly, her concern palpable.

“I always am,” you reply, exhaling a shaky breath you hope goes unnoticed by the Melusine in front of you.

You hear someone (or something) scurry past the door, and Sedene promptly peeks from your side, her eyes widening before she waves at whoever it is.

“Who…?”

“Kiara has just gone to usher the guests. You must go. It is nearly time,” Sedene's voice breaks the tranquillity, grounding you back to the horror you find reality. With a shaky breath, you steel yourself for what lies ahead, drawing upon the fleeting moments of solace and camaraderie within the dressing room as you prepare to face the orchestrated spectacle awaiting outside.

____

The bouquet of flowers thrust into your hand by Lady Furina slips slightly in your hold, and you await behind the grand doors of the hall, except there is no one to guide you through the aisle. A sudden, icy cool works from your fingertips, the cause of your own fault.

Frost accumulates at the bottom of the wrapped posy, but you crush it before it festers any further up the stems. The glow of your vision is the sole source of light that falters in tandem with the flutter of your heartbeat, and you recognise it well — it does not stem from excitement; rather, from an overwhelming confusion of impending doom.

Aeife and Aeval come to hold the train of your dress, Sedene and Kiara, ever giddy, come to stand in front of you — one, holding a basket of flowers, and the other, meticulously protecting the rings in the palms of her hands.

The colloquy breaks off as a beam of light peeks through a crack in the door. Before you can make a name for yourself as a runaway bride, the gasps of all almost succeed in shattering your resolve — but you swallow, choosing to use it as a vessel to fuel the unwavering smile that comes to paint over your lips. You feel it creep up to the squint of your eyes, but the only receiver of the sting happens to be the man standing high and mighty at the end of the aisle.

You can almost hear the judging hushes of ‘an orphaned bride?’ and its more degrading counterparts stirring from the crowd. Keys of a piano start in a rapid crescendo, arpeggios drowning out the whispers of condemnatory tones regarding the absence of the man next to you.

But scandal is what fuels the people, you conclude, a more stirring, grim smile coming to twitch at the corners of your lips.

Kiara skips down the aisle, opening the way with flowers, excitedly giggling as she makes her way through the stretch.

Every step you take towards the man that you have come to hold in a loathful regard grows more weighted with hesitance.

You reach the steps, catching a glance of Clorinde and Wriothesley sitting beside each other, along with a woman you do not recognise clad in a black dress, blonde hair tied neatly with a ribbon.

Helping yourself with your trail, you bring yourself to level your gaze with your future husband, eyes flickering in uncertainty, his mirroring yours.

(You try to ignore the absolute excuse of a woman officiating the wedding to your left, but you cannot.)

Lady Furina’s eyes dart between the both of you with a childlike wonder, a growing grin showing teeth flashing in the rising sun; cruel, but a smile nonetheless. “Ladies and gentlemen, today we are here to witness the most influential of marriage unions Fontaine has ever seen! Please, provide your utmost respect.”

A light courtesy of clapping incites from her very words, and through the very edges of your peripheral vision you see her cant her head to the side, basking in the pleasure.

Her loud, and debatably authoritative voice drops to a whisper, as the smile she dons stays picture perfect — a smile, that to the naked eye, would appear that she is soundless and simply happy. “Please tell me you memorised your vows.”

You do not give her the satisfaction in turning your head to her; instead, it stays fixed in place, taking in the man that stands as stiff as a rod in front of you, further fueling the confident tilt of your chin.

“Why, of course,” you start, “But we must proceed now, or they will grow suspicious. Surely you must agree, mon amant?”

Neuvillette blinks, shaking him of his stupor. He appears awfully dazed, the distinct authority you know that applied exclusively to the Chief Justice pools at his feet, disrobed him clean. He takes your hands in his, the agonising act of a real, authentic smile coming to oppose his duty as the ever impartial.

“I, Monsieur Neuvillette, take you to be my wife, promising to hold you close from this day onward, through every joy and every challenge, in times of plenty and times of scarcity, in sickness and in health. I vow to love you deeply and cherish our bond, knowing that nothing but death itself can part us.” The words leave like a burden, and you take it with morbid conclusion that the words you must say will have you linked inextricably with him, no matter the farce.

“I…I take you, Neuvillette, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, through better or worse, through richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; until death parts us.” You let out a defeated sigh, the only aspect of your form that betrays the rest of your otherwise joyous mannerism.

Lady Furina’s eyes light up with a brightness of a thousand fires, exuberance radiating from her despite her affinity with water. “Monsieur Neuvillette, will you take her to be your partner through life? Will you love her, protect her, and spend your days in laughter together forever?”

His grip on your hands tightens a little, the friction of glove against glove exuding a warmth that snakes up to the tip of your spine. “I do.”

“And to the bride,” her gaze fixes on yours, intense like a hawk's to its prey, “will you take Neuvillette to be your partner through life? Will you love him, cherish him, and pledge your days to laughter and love for all eternity?"

A thousand rational voices come to scream in response. No! they say, objecting to the very idea of it. It sickens you, that in all your years of living, that this is how you are to be wed; forcefully, stripping you of all sense of control. But alas, who are you to make that choice? The sole influence you hold over Fontaine’s population is but a fraction of the people's devotion towards the Hydro Archon. It would mean nothing of your rebellion.

“I do,” are the words that spill like poison from your lips, betraying your own autonomy, betraying the promise you vowed to yourself that night, hidden in your closet.

Sedene eyes you with pity as she presents the rings, but you dismiss it with a quick glance away pretending to find interest in the way the clouds swarm above the glassed roof.

He makes a calculated move to lift your right hand, making sure of the absence of an engagement ring that lies in your left (he cannot help but be meticulous in handling your cold touch). He then reaches to remove your glove, but you shake your head. No need for that, you order with your eyes alone, and the solemn smile on your lips says just as much. With a knowing nod, his hand slips from your hold, leaving you with nothing but a looser fit for a glove.

You make the intent of no longer meeting his eyes when he slips the ring on, the band of blue an irresistible target for burglars who do not know any better. Though the ring fits like a dream, you cannot say the same for yourself; how do you fit in as a bride? Before being tangled in this rout, the very notion of marriage was a faraway fantasy; a pipe dream. It was, and still is something that only fairy tales could fulfil. Fairytale indeed, for what you face right now is hellish, an arrangement designed primarily for Lady Furina’s own personal gain.

Sedene shuffles to your side, and when you turn to look at her, you can only make out the blonde head of hair from under the pillow where the last wedding ring sits. She pushes it slightly forwards to make for an easier reach, a move that brings the edge of the cushion to touch the tips of your fingers. Hopeless is what can only be described of your effort in bringing the ring to level with the Iudex’s own, admittedly warm hand.

Neuvillette’s gaze bores into yours, and this, you do not need to affirm for yourself; it is truth, as is the word of the law. Your dress shields how you move to steady yourself (because, frankly, you think you might just lose consciousness if you don’t), the probing eyes of those in the crowd a factor you further take into consideration at your own, reckless ambivalence.

The moment this ring pushes against his finger, it will all be set in place — and the final verdict lies in your hands. You briefly entertain the childish notion that you’re almost back as the Acting Chief Justice — though, really, it is a stupid distraction.

And so you bite your own hand, the one that feeds you. The band slips on with troubled attempt, its own reluctance a humorous prospect you amuse yourself to.

Lady Furina's hands shoot out from her sides, buzzing with exhilaration. “Monsieur Neuvillette, the Iudex of Fontaine, and Madame (Name), the Head of Civil Affairs are now officially wed! Put your hands together for this union!” Furina bellows, voice ricocheting off the glass walls of the town hall. This is the only time you revel in her love for spectacle, an uproar of celebration conjured by the command of a god.

Amidst the mass of commemoration lie the most miserable: the newlyweds; the ones, who in all of tradition, should be amongst the completely joyous — and yet, here they stand, rigid and mourning.

What you do next is not by the command of Furina, but of your own volition.

You make the first move to step closer. It is a silent vow you make to your husband. I will not forgive you, but for once, I make an exception, just for this moment. You reach for his tie, fingers tracing the fabric as you pull him close, until the only sound you hear is of the both of you breathing, until you two are nose to nose, foreheads touching.

The longer you stand in such a manner only serves to heighten the thundering acclaim of the crowd, a ceremonious cacophony of anticipation leaving you to marvel at how the rain outside roars a solemn hymn in response.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice husky and unfamiliar, as though it hadn’t been used. You forcibly guide his arm around your waist, feeling the warmth of his touch against the cloth of your dress, a silent reassurance, however unideal.

“It is of no consequence, Chief Justice,” you whisper, a breathless act of convincing, a facade you know deceives no one. “The damage has been done.”

a/n: sorry for putting this out so late I got sick midway thru writing this chap[ter LITERALYL almost got admitted cuz my head was pounding like crazy

taglist : @sek0ya, @souxiesun, @11111112222222sblog

#neuvillette x reader #genshinimpact #neuvillette fanfic #neuvillettexreader #neuvillette genshin #neuvillette #furina genshin #genshinblr

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