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gryffindors-weasley · 4 years

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A Known Love

Draco Malfoy x Fem!Reader

Summary: Draco felt as though his relationship was kept secret, though one person sees everything.

Warnings: angst, anxiety, fluff, kissing

(not my gif)

Dawn was rapidly approaching, the navy hues of the sky beginning to lighten and the stars began to disappear as slivers of orange stretch across the horizon. It was Draco’s least favorite time of day, for it was when he had to say goodbye to you until the following evening. The hours in the day had always passed as if each were an eternity, one longer than the last, agonizing as he thought of nothing else but you.

“You really should be going now, love,” he murmurs softly, his lips ghosting over the skin on your neck. His hand enveloped your own as he pulled you farther behind the shadows of the crumbling stone statue, impossibly closer to him.

“I suppose I will once you let me go, Draco,” you laugh softly. A kiss is pressed just below your ear, another to your cheek, and another to your lips to quiet your very logical reasoning. He hadn’t wanted to let you go yet. He never wanted to let you go.

He pulls back to look at you, still close enough to feel your breath on his lips, gray eyes twinkling under the soft moonlight as a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. His attempts at goodbye were quickly becoming more pitiful with each moment that passed him by, and he knew it. He had the same problem every time the moment arises.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” you say with a smile, your thumb brushing over his slightly pouted lip and he finds himself leaning into your touch. “You’ll have the whole day to miss me.”

For that, he closes any remaining gap once more, delicate kisses pressed to the underside of your jaw. He’s very knowledgeable of the way it makes you squirm, your jovial laughter slipping out into the crisp summer air, unable to be controlled much like his smile. His lips find yours in another attempt to silence you, soft and sweet as he hums lightly, your lips melding in a kiss he hadn’t wanted to end.

He’s reluctant to pull away, but the cooing of the morning doves is too hard to ignore. A sigh is exhaled and the sight of your kiss swollen lips leaves him wanting to do nothing but continue to kiss them, more so with the way you’re beaming up at him.

“Promise you’ll be here tonight?” He murmurs, forehead pressed to yours as his eyes fall closed. A quiet laugh escapes you and fans against his lips.

“I promise.”

“Promise me you’ll be careful?” He asks in a quieter tone, something akin to fear weaving around his words even if he’d tried to hide it.

“I will try, my love,” you murmur.

He pulls away once more and looks at you with narrowed eyes, a frown pulling at his lips. You tilt your head and look at him with a sweet smile, settling your hand on his cheek. He was not happy with your nonchalance. “It is not funny.”

You couldn’t stifle the soft laugh you’d tried to hold, appeasing his grumbling and worry as you brushed the platinum strands of hair out of his eyes.

“I will be here and I will be fine,” you say, kissing the very tip of his nose.

The tension in his embrace lessens considerably at your words, tightening his hold as he rests his face in the crook of your neck. Even with your reassurance, he was still rather scared that this would be the last time he kissed you, the last time he held you. So he relished in every second of it. He memorized the sweet smell of your perfume, the taste of your kisses, the softness of your skin. He took it all in and stored it away in his mind for safe keeping.

He released you with a chaste kiss to your neck, and one to your lips as his arms dropped to his sides. Your fingertips brush over his cheek once more as you smile, and in a matter of moments he’s standing by himself behind the moss covered statue, looking at the spot you’d once been standing in just seconds ago.

—

Draco spent the entirety of the day in his bedroom, pacing around in front of his bed aimlessly. He’d tried to get some sleep, he had been rather busy running around in a secret endeavor the night before. But he only found himself staring at the deep green velvet curtain splayed high above each of his bedposts. He hadn’t wanted to leave his room for a good while, however, there wasn’t reason to and he certainly didn’t want to run into his father. The man had become more insufferable with each passing day it seemed, if that was even possible. Besides, his mind was far too busy to hold any sort of meaningless conversation with him should there be any.

His boredom was near maddening, the Manor wasn’t exactly a place that had been bustling with entertainment. It was a place filled with silence and luxury that was made to be viewed but not touched. He looked at his clock, the hand only inching closer to eight o’clock in the evening much to his dismay; it was as if it was taunting him.

On a more positive note, it had been late enough for him to feel as though he could venture into the halls without chance of running into anyone. So he did. He found himself navigating the gray corridors with a practiced ease, eyes darting around each and every corner he passed. The residence was practically a maze; anyone who hadn’t been familiar with it would surely get lost in a matter of moments, unable to find a door to exit. He’d lived there for nearly eighteen years and still found himself wandering down unfamiliar halls.

In a matter of minutes, he finds himself standing in front of an old mahogany door, intricately carved like most others. He twisted the tarnished metal knob and pushed it open, wincing at the very audible creak it made. The scent of old books had immediately hit him as he closes the door behind him, trickles of sunlight streaming in through the latticed windows. The golden light illuminated the dust particles floating around the unfrequented room, nearly making him sneeze.

He just about jumped out of his skin when a soft voice broke through the silence in the air, his heart racing momentarily as he searched for the source. His mother sat in the corner, a half-read book propped open in her lap.

“I was beginning to wonder where you’d been all day,” she says with a soft laugh, peering at him over the tops of her glasses.

“I was in my room,” he states when he settles, trying to sound believable even though that’s exactly where he’s been.

He smooths his hair behind his ear before spinning on his heel, unable to withstand her stare a moment longer. His hands were growing clammy as he wandered the familiar aisles, lined floor to ceiling with books ranging from the history of magic to even some Shakespeare classics. Those were Narcissa’s favorite.

“Draco, what ever is the matter with you?” Narcissa asks suddenly, her brows furrowing as she looks over at her son and marks her page.

“Nothing, Mother,” he says, plucking a maroon book from its spot on the dust covered shelf, looking over the aged cover briefly and putting it back before moving onto the next.

They were the very shelves he roamed between with you in the late hours of the night, speaking in hushed whispers in the nearly abandoned library. The very shelves you hid behind to share stolen kisses and tight embraces, gently whispered ‘I love you’s’ spoken against flushed skin. They house books of fabricated fiction and tales of forbidden love, stories he finds himself reading and wishing he didn’t understand what it had felt like to be the lovers within them.

Regardless, you loved when he read to you, his voice soft as he spoke each word with ease. You’d lay on his chest, tucked away somewhere private in the Manor, somewhere with enough moonlight streaming in to ensure there was no need for a light to draw any attention. His fingers would absentmindedly tangle through your hair as he read, stopping occasionally to press a kiss to your forehead. He’d stop once you fell asleep, his eyes bouncing around the room for any chance of prying eyes. He was quiet for any chance of listening ears.

“Draco?”

He startled slightly as looks over at his mother as she continues to sit in her black velvet chair, her brow raised curiously and expectantly. His cheeks flush a pale pink as he realizes he’s gotten lost in his thoughts.

“You’re distracted,” she states.

“No I’m not,” he says almost immediately, too fast to be believable.

She chuckles, shaking her head briefly. “Then what have I just told you, darling?”

He averts his gaze and focuses on the tattered book spines stacked in front of him, the heat in his face now burning down his neck as he scrambles to think of a proper answer for her, one that isn’t foolish.

“School has been rather busy. That amongst other things,” he says, tone sharp though she knows precisely what he’s talking about. “I’ve got a lot on my mind, Mother.”

She overlooks the bite to his words as she gestures to the seat just paces away from her own, wordlessly telling him to sit down. His finger stops it’s tracing on the old books and drops to his side, wiping his hand on his blazer and leaving a smear of pale dust behind on the pristine black fabric. He takes a seat, her gaze having him fix a stare on anything but her.

A quiet tension settles over the room, thick and unwavering for a few moments, the only sound being the ticking of the grand clock in the far end of it. He knows his reasoning couldn’t have been any good, at least not half of it. It had been summer break, one that was highly anticipated before the start of seventh year. So his excuse for academic stress didn’t seem to be quite as fitting at this very moment.

“What is her name?” She asks abruptly.

His heart stills in his chest at the question, and he looks at her immediately before narrowing his eyes to contain the flurry of emotions raining down on him. Had he heard her correctly? He had to have, she couldn’t have said anything else.

“I don’t believe I know what you’re talking about,” he dismisses, sitting up a little straighter as he smooths his tie.

She knew about you, of course she did. She’s known about you for far longer than Draco could ever be privy to. In fact, the first time she had ever been made aware of your relationship was last summer. It was dawn, and she was unable to sleep, though she always had been an early riser. She had her morning tea in hand as she made her rounds around the Manor, that’s when it had caught her eye. Narcissa had known the place like the back of her hand, therefore it had been easy to note anything out of place, such as the tracking of mud in a very familiar shoe print leading from the door to her gardens.

Upon closer inspection, she peered out of the windows into the moonlit maze of roses and finely manicured bushes. She had caught glimpse of her son weaving through flowers and statues, hand enveloped with that of a strikingly beautiful girl; and even with such a distance she could see the smile on his face, big and bright.

She had seen you once or twice before, knew enough to know you wouldn’t have been someone her husband would approve of. But technicalities aside, she stayed put and she watched the sight before her for a few moments longer for she hasn’t seen her son quite this happy.

Her eyes fell on Draco, the blush that had spilled from his cheeks to the tips of his ears now a very noticeable shade, one that was very indicative that he did in fact know just who she was talking about. He began to fidget in the grand velvet chair, twirling the ring around his finger in nervous habit. His mind raced with the possibilities of what could happen, panic flooding his chest.

“Your father wouldn’t approve of this, you know,” she says, though there’s a soft laugh in her words. Regardless, the thought makes Draco’s stomach swirl with nausea, anger building and pressing within his chest.

He knows this, he knows you don’t fit his fathers preposterous ideals because he’s too caught up in pleasing the Dark Lord’s wishes to see with even an ounce of rationality. However, he’s always been one for conforming to absurd standards to better his reputation, he supposes.

“You don’t understand,” Draco defends in hushed anger, his jaw tensing as he fights to reign in his temper.

“Then enlighten me, my dear boy.”

He stares at his mother for a few moments, then shifts his gaze to the dark hardwood floors, seconds feeling like hours as his heart hammers in his chest and the heat crawls up his neck. His mind is bombarded with intrusive thoughts, one after another. If he tells her what’s been plaguing his mind, who has been residing there for the better part of a year, he could very well lose you. If he doesn’t, her suspicions will ruin any chance of time spent alone with you in fear of wandering eyes.

“I’m in love with her.”

It tumbled from his lips before he could stop himself from saying it, it’s as though all sense had left his body. You have a habit of doing that to him. Though his words were a bit shaky, the declaration came out clear as day, not a single drop of doubt in his words. He doesn’t know what she’ll say next, and quite honestly he does not care, not entirely. Not enough to hide his feelings for a moment longer, feelings that are so strong he doesn’t quite know how to handle them.

The look on her face is unreadable for the first several moments after he sputtered his confession, and the panic simmering in his chest is beginning to build and boil over. But something softens in her stoic expression, and she nods slightly. He doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t know what to make of the small gesture until she speaks up.

“I see.”

That’s all she says.

He finds the statement hard to interpret, unable to find any sort of relief from those two words as he swallows thickly and tugs at the collar of his black dress shirt, loosening the tie around his neck a fraction. The large room suddenly felt terribly suffocating and he desperately wanted some air. He was quickly beginning to regret ever opening his mouth, even though it seemed it had done so of its own accord. He could never keep anything from her, she could coax his deepest darkest secrets out of him with just a simple look. Right now, he felt it’d be perfectly suitable if the ground opened up and swallowed him whole.

He had to take the statement back somehow.

“Mother, I-”

“What is her name?” She asks once more, effectively cutting his stammering short.

He looks at her cautiously, surprised to find her to be truly interested, and not for malicious reasoning. Hesitancy still clouds his mind as he wonders whether or not he should give her such details, but a part of him feels as though it’s okay if she’s privy to it.

“Y/n,” he says softly, almost too quiet to be heard, his eyes darting around the room in search of anyone who may be listening in. “Her name is Y/n.”

She smiles softly with another nod. “She’s beautiful, Draco.”

He smiles lightly at his hands, his mind wandering to you once more. To the way your lips curve, to the soft freckles smattering across your cheeks that he could spend a ridiculous amount of time kissing. Perhaps his favorite is the way your eyes crinkle when you smile at him, the way you look at him. He will never feel as though he’s worthy of such affection, it doesn’t make sense to him. For that very reason, it worries him everyday that you’ll slip through his fingers. That you’ll realize the person you’ve chosen to love, you’ll come to your senses and you’ll disappear.

It wasn’t easy loving a Malfoy, after all. Anyone who simply hears the name turns their lip up in disgust. He can’t say he blamed them, his family wasn’t known for anything noble or kind. He wasn’t proud of himself either, which was all the more reason he feared your seemingly inevitable epiphany.

“I know,” he chuckles softly, shaking his head. His hands are shaking as he reaches up to swipe at the hair dipping in his eyes. “How…how did you know?”

“I haven’t seen you smile like that in quite some time, Draco. It was rather easy to figure out,” she starts, her words bittersweet the more she allowed herself to think about it. “The smell of perfume had given it away in an instant. It lingers, you know.”

His face reddens, and he reaches up to scratch the back of his neck, his hair falling back in his eyes again.

“Does she treat you well?” She inquires.

He smiles lightly as he nods. “She’s quite wonderful, more than I can say about myself.”

It was true. In his eyes, you were the embodiment of sunshine to put it simply. You were the kindest person he’s ever known, so much so he hadn’t been used to it at first. He had been skeptical. You treated him far better than he could have ever anticipated, though you did not hesitate to correct him when he was wrong.

“Mother?”

“Yes, my dear?”

He gulps, his mind swimming in horrific scenarios he hadn’t ever wanted to think of, possibilities he wished he didn’t have to fear. Each one was worse than the last, and paired with his pounding heart, he wasn’t sure if he could hide his internal conflict from her. It felt as though his throat was impossibly dry and the air had been stolen from his very lungs.

“Please don’t tell him,” he whispers, the lump in his throat becoming hard to ignore. The thought of how his father would react out of spite made his stomach churn and twist in knots. “Please.”

She looks at him with furrowed brows, her crimson nails tapping on the curved wood of the chairs arm. You hadn’t entirely fit the ideals set in place for the only Malfoy heir, and she knew for certain that repercussions would follow such a romance. But the unease and the color draining from her sons face had shown how truly distraught he was, and she couldn’t bring herself to tamper with it. She had never seen him care so deeply for something. She had seen just how much you had been keeping him afloat amidst the troublesome darkness trying to pull him down. Maybe she will warm up to you if he ever decides to introduce you, she would have to. For you kept him happier than could be imagined and she didn’t want to take it from him.

She fought for her love with Lucius, she fought desperately and unrelenting for it. It quickly became apparent to her that it wasn’t her place to stand in the way of it, it would be rather hypocritical if she did.

“As you wish,” she says with a soft smile, one that eased the tension in his body as she grabbed her book again. “Off you go now, Draco. I believe someone is waiting for you.”

She nodded slightly towards the window and he gets up without another word, promptly exiting the quiet library upon her dismissal making quick strides. A soft smile tugged at his lips that he had fought desperately to contain, but the attempts were proving to be pointless every time he caught glimpse of the setting sun. The hues of oranges and yellows painting the somber walls of the Manor only reminded him of you, of how you’d be waiting for him behind the decades old statue in the garden.

His conversation was brief and unexpected, one that offered waves of comfort and lightened some of the weight on his chest. Only some. Because consequences of his love were uncertain, but it hadn’t seemed to matter in that very moment. Maybe it was selfish of him to think that way, and maybe his purposeful walk had given way to the fact that he had something to look forward to. Maybe he shouldn’t have told his mother about you, he did not know.

What was known was the steady pounding of his heart within his chest and the scarlet in his cheeks.

What was known was that he loved you.

—

Tags: @theweasleysredhair @amourtentiaa @hahee154hq

#draco malfoy #draco malfoy angst #draco malfoy one shot #draco malfoy fluff #draco malfoy fic #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy imagine #harry potter fic

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shadowworks · 4 years

Text

Look Inside

Pairing: Overhaul X Reader

Warnings: Dubcon-noncon, medical kink, drugged sex, mention of needles, mentions of blood, bondage, fingering, this is dark!

Word Count: 3.8k

A/N: I decided to try some creepy themes and give second person a try. So we’ll see how it goes. This piece is dark so please mind the warnings!

Huge shoutout to @present-mel for making the beautiful banner and reading over my fic you precious gem! Also thank you @thisisthehardestthing and @hisoknen for your feedback it’s so greatly appreciated! 💜

Someone had shut off the lights in the morgue.

You happen to notice this when your eyes toil lazily between security cameras at the right time. You freeze on the spot, and quirk a brow toward the shadow. You expect it’ll brighten any second like it usually does, but after those few seconds tick by without change, a weight of dread sinks in your stomach.

Kai Chisaki put orders in place that if experiments are up and running the basement levels are to remain lit. Chisaki and his men are already down below, and the winding pale halls near the morgue are empty.

You haven’t been called to notify cleaners about another bloody corpse still peeling off the wall, and you can’t find motion on the surveillance camera when you rewind the recordings. It’s in the lower right corner of the camera, and you note the light flicks off without warning. No one enters, no one leaves.

You study the harsh glow of the screen for another moment, still in denial, still waiting for the lights to flicker on, and stand up from the chair in the office. When not a soul appears by the threshold, all you can do is lean forward with your hands pressed on the desk, dropping your head in defeat. “Seriously? Fuck you.”

You don’t know who “you” was exactly, but it felt right to say.

It takes a bit of time after departing the small office, but you find the proper hall in Chisaki’s deeply looping maze...It’s just you don’t want to step out from the elevator. You were ready before, but when the doors split open and the cool air ghosts against your cheeks, you pause. There’s a stillness lingering in the hallway; it’s far too quiet- except for the creaks in the elevator floor from your shifting weight...But, something seems off.

Your steps are tentative when you do slip out, peering down the drab hallway. You clearly see which of the rooms is buried in shadow, and frankly you want to whirl back around before the doors close. But you can’t, well, not yet at least. The tap of your shoes hits off the walls, while you tread along on stiff legs. Eventually you come to a stop having reached the doorway. It’s partly open, a slice of darkness hiding what’s deep inside.

Hold on, this can't be right. The camera— A shudder trails up your spine. It tingles coldly.

You inhale a deep breath. Okay, just do it; just switch the lights back on, it’s fine. It’s fine. Besides, if it were you (which it is) you wouldn’t want to deal with Chisaki’s ill temper over something so minor as a light.

He’s punished his men for incompetence before, and those who didn’t listen have smeared the walls with their blood, drenching vein red across white. Black-looking goops of muscle plopped on the floor...the consequences ranged based on severity of failure or how stressed he is, really. In fact, one man had the skin of his face torn off for talking back—wait, relax. Focus

It won’t happen. Kai Chisaki is somewhere else in the maze. He’s not aware of what happened.

There’s a member with a quirk which lets him melt through walls; the tiny one with a bone white mask. He probably slipped between the rooms and grabbed something then turned the lights off. But that didn’t explain the door...

It doesn’t matter.

You stretch an arm out, gently pushing the door further open, and light spills onto the tile floor.

It’s a cold, vacant room. There’s a pungent scent of bleach still lingering from a cleanup, but it hits your nose almost like it happened recently. You can’t see much nor do you want to. And your hand reaches around the door frame, trailing gentle fingers along the smooth surface for a switch—

Only, there’s nothing on the wall.

“Are you serious? Really?” you huff to yourself, stepping round to search for the light. Sure enough, your fears are realized with one look.

You let out an annoyed groan, and a, ‘stupid switch’ under your breath. Who the hell designs a room and doesn’t put a switch by the door?

Your eyes haven’t adjusted to the dark, so you can’t see the precise details on the walls. So this leaves you no choice but to step further in, allowing the brightness from the hall to guide you along.

It’s a moderate room with a vaulted wall filled with metal drawers, all large enough to fit an icy corpse in ‘til the yakuza dispose of them. Then there’s the silver surgical table in the middle of the room. It's empty, but the thing’s embellished. There’s protruding belts attached, and a tray on wheels is parked on the side. On top of the tray is a clean towel and a neat row of surgical tools lay flat across.

Your brows scrunch together, studying the sharp gleam of knives and the sizes of needles. Why are these out? Kai’s an obsessive clean freak, every little thing needs to be put back and organized. All his masked cronies know this rule, so who the hell did this? That is, unless someone’s using them?

Your back is turned to the glow seeping in from the hall, so you don’t see a gloved hand press on the metal door. There’s a push, and the door slams shut.

You let out a startled yelp, cupping your hands to your mouth. What the hell…! Your heart’s pounding wildly in your chest; for some reason the room feels colder, you feel colder.

“I must say this is disappointing.”

Light floods the room from the panels above, flickering with a buzzing noise before they settle. You take a moment. A deep breath, a slow exhale. When the initial shock stops tingling in your muscles, you slowly drop your palms. The voice is male, his tone’s calm, ominous and it carries like chill over your shoulder. You know this voice; you know you have to turn around. But fuck, you can’t stop trembling. When you do, you see a tall figure looming near the wall, a gloved hand still on the switch.

Kai Chisaki.

“I told Setsuno I needed him in the security room. Do you think it’s hard for him to follow directions?”

You stare at him, anxiously. He isn’t wearing his green coat with the violet plumage trimming on the collar. He’s in his iron pressed, black suit and grey tie; the trademark plague mask covering half his face.

“Setsuno asked me to fill in. He said he wasn’t feeling well...I guess,” you manage to say it as steady as you can.

The lanky blond hadn’t given you a clear reason when he staggered towards you near dawn. But if you’re being honest, you didn’t really care.You barely looked his way at breakfast, choosing to stare into your dark coffee cup than at the katana resting on his shoulder. The sword was still wet with blood, and you knew he’d been out all night. Though right now, you sorta wish you pressed him more for details.

Kai mutters something slightly bitter, words that are muffled against the material of his mask. But you hear him sigh, then his tone turns crisper. “No matter. It’s inconvenient, but I can work around these...changes.”

His arm drops to his side, walking from the wall. And unexpectedly- those peculiar eyes you see leering at his enemies, have now fallen on you.

You seize up in mild panic, the pupils in your eyes shrinking; not knowing what to do. You take a scuffling step or two back on reflex—and knock your hip against the table corner.

Oww—ow, fuck. Hold on, what’s he doing? Why—Your voice bubbles in your throat as you watch him draw near. Though it’s strange, for Kai doesn’t pull at the rim of his latex glove like expected, rather, the Shie Hassaikai boss happens to steer past you instead.

...Huh?

Your neck cranes, loose hair spilling over your shoulder. He stops a couple feet away and tilts his head downward in front of the tray, no longer regarding your presence and focusing on his work.

You stand there awkwardly, just listening to the clinks of metal fitting together in Kai’s grip. You’re not fully understanding though, should you leave? It looks like your job’s finished now that your boss is here. Besides, you’re pretty confident Kai doesn't want you here if he’s occupying the room.

In the long pause between you two, your mind’s made up which prompts you to retreat back and aim towards the door. They’re slow, careful moving steps.

“Well, you seem busy...I should probably hurry back and watch the cameras,'' you say dismissing yourself. You’re partial toward the comfort of the smaller office, and any chance you have of leaving the macabre storage space you will eagerly take it.

You don’t make it to the gleaming doorknob—because Kai’s voice holds you still. It isn’t loud, but it grips the room. “No stay. There’s no need for you to leave so soon.”

A mix of fear and confusion read across your features. Kai has never spent a moment alone with you. In fact, you aren’t actually part of the yakuza. The only reason you’re associated with the fallen crime syndicate, is because the former boss offered you odd jobs as a favor. You needed some work to keep from struggling and he had taken a liking to you, sort of how he did with Kai. But then, the leader collapsed.

Now you aren't sure where you stand. Chisaki is in charge.

“I believe there’s something you can do for me. Will you have a seat on the table?”

You aren’t sure if you heard him right, or fully grasp what he means. He says it so casually- but you know better; it’s a demand. You’re just not sure why.

“I’m fine. Really. I should be going-“

“Are you defying my order?” Again, he says it so nonchalantly. This time Kai turns his head over his shoulder; the look he gives is almost impassive, yet there’s a menacing gleam in the yellow of his eyes.

“What? No, I was…! Right.”

You don’t exactly drag your feet, but you do stand hesitant before the edge of the table where countless bodies have been dissected. So much blood, so many organs harvested on this very table.

“I won’t ask you again.”

You turn around robotically, eyes pointed downward as you hoist your hips onto the metal. The table’s surface is icy, it numbs your fingers the longer you lean on it, which only makes you fold them against your thighs.

“Roll up your sleeve.” Kai says by your right, holding up a purple band. Your gaze flicks up immediately, nervously, a silent plea for mercy. As if somehow your glossy and delicate eyes will make a difference. But it does nothing toward Kai’s stoic stance. He simply waits, and his own steely eyes narrow back.

You drop your head with a wince; just do as he says.

You comply, pushing up your long sleeve. Though you make a point not to help much more than that, leaving your arm limp at your side.

Kai doesn’t seem to notice or care and proceeds to wrap the rubber around your arm. You grimace, unpleased as his fingers skim your arm, and again when he brushes you with a wet cotton swab.

“You need my blood?” You ask evenly.

His eyes don’t leave your skin, “Not necessarily.”

“A lot of effort for, ‘not necessarily.’” You say, not too dryly.

“You’ve seen my work before, you should know by now I take great care in everything I do.”

Kai rotates between you and the now rolled over stand, dismissing your light jab. He sets up the port for blood to flow; all in a well practiced motion. It certainly makes you wonder how many times he’s done this before.

“I’m curious, when was your last doctor's appointment?” He asks suddenly, hands already prepping the next instrument. The other needle probably, but you don’t want to play as his patient. He isn’t your doctor, for fucks sake.

“A while.” You answer.

“A while,” he repeats with a subtle chuckle under his covered breath,“Has anyone told you before you’re a feisty one?”

You bite your tongue and refuse to meet his side glance. When you don’t reply back, he carries on with a sigh.

“I’ve had quite a long day you see, so I’m afraid I’ve exhausted my tolerance for stubborn little girls.”

Suddenly, his hand is squeezing your shoulder, and all too quickly you find yourself thumping against the cold metal, your horrified eyes staring up at the bright ceiling. The next thing you feel is buckles fastening, pinning you against the table by your waist and elbows.

You're flooded with tingling panic, voice cracking from strain, “Hol—Hold on one second. Please, just one more—”

“—You know they say you should never let the lamb see the knife? Their fear tampers the meat, and ruins the flavor,” Kai gives a sharp tug on the last belt. “But I find yours all the more intoxicating, my dear.”

You stammer, words of protest mingle together as you attempt to be heard, “I don’t understand, why are you…Just stop. You need to let me go!”

Your teeth clench together in a rage that fills your chest. You’re not thinking rationally, your nerves are unhinged. And in your adrenaline high your leg curls up, thrashing a viciously blunt strike toward the point of his beak.

Before it can connect and batter the bridge of his nose and mark his cheekbones, Kai’s arm flexes quickly. Your foot stops mid air as he catches your ankle with constricting force.

“Do I?” He asks with a title of his head, there're subtle creases in the corner of eyes, you can imagine his mouth settles in a cold smile beneath.

In that moment you freeze up. Your lash lines burn, stinging with fresh tears glossing your doe eyes. You don’t breathe, you don’t dare to expand your lungs. Your only thought is begging him not to burst open your calf.

“You shouldn’t be giving commands. You work under me now,” his nails dig in your flesh, and you know those indents will marr your flesh.“Meaning you’ll have to bear with me while I continue.”

Kai doesn’t loosen his hold, briefly watching your pained expression. But he favors dropping his gaze below to study the stretch of your thigh, your exposed and parted groin. It’s then his nimble fingers reach to unclasp the button of your jeans and he gently pulls down the zipper. You cry out, jerking against the belts, but he isn’t fazed.

“One of our new drugs is supposed to relax its victims...recently it’s been ineffective if the heartbeat’s racing too quickly, though we’ve made modifications to counter this. My plan was to stage a fight with Setsuno, until...you graciously took his place.”

Kai lowers your leg, both hands roaming across to the edge of your jeans. He still studies you, and decides to push up your ribbed sweater, letting the cold bite of the morgue chill your hips. His latex fingers trace lightly across your pebbled skin, skimming down the dips to your thighs.

“Yes, this will do just fine. You’re pretty enough,” he muses, softly.

He then tucks his hands into your waistband, yanking them down your legs, before they fall to the floor with a plop. The seamless panties slip off easily, as well. This sends a small prickle through you, and, no, this can’t keep going! The fight in you surges, pushing your knees together to shield your groin. Only Kai doesn’t like that.

There’s something cold and dangerous in his glare, a threat that twists at your stomach. He’s warning you; don’t make this worse for yourself or you’ll make him snap. And you didn’t want that...You watch both his hands clutch your knees, he doesn’t waste time and he yanks your legs apart, taking in your pretty cunt.

Angry tears trickle down your cheeks in response. Your throat burns from holding back a sob, “Chisaki, please. If you would—“

Without a moment of hesitation, Kai knowingly finds where to touch you first. A little too skillfully for a false doctor, the pad of his thumb presses against your soft, sensitive nub, stroking tight circles with focus. Your breath catches, falling heavier while he sinks his pad deeper in the forming slick, building steady pressure.

“Still so stubborn, what good will that bring you?”

A broken moan spills on your shaky breath, all against your better decisions. His other hand settles between your legs, and a finger plunges inside your heat, curling upward and massaging the rougher layer of flesh. A sharp gasp inhales into your lungs. He isn’t stopping, no, Kai’s gloved finger moves with vigor the more your pleasurably laced cries pour out from your lips, how desperate they become.

He pushes in a second finger, and then a third thrusting in, stretching you and soaking your walls with your arousal. This causes you to push your hips further against his latex hand.

“Kai, you fucking bastard!” you sob out, formalities be damned as your back arches. You can feel the building pulses in your cunt tense up, losing yourself to your superior on an icy slab in a fucking morgue.

“You curse my name as though you’re not enjoying this,” Kai mocks.

His fingers pump deeper, tightening your abs and your lips fall open. His matching rhythm on the bundle of nerves surges in a crash, sending a hard orgasm that shivers through your body. For a moment, just a little moment, your cares fade away.

You're left breathing deeply, staring up at the ceiling as your chest rises and falls. The euphoria lasts a moment longer, but only for so long. Reality sets in as you lay there, and much too soon, the warmths gone.

Kai takes advantage of this.

With your chin tipped up toward cabinets lining the ceiling, Kai unfastens his thinner belt. It’s only when you feel him hook under your knees and pull at your thighs that you snap your head up in startlement.

Kai’s venomous eyes stare you down, “I suggest laying back down little girl, we’re not finished yet.”

“Like hell!”

A second flare of rage strickens across your features, a hard glare that doesn’t unyield, especially as he unzips and withdraws himself from formal slacks. You know he’s relishing in your disdain for him, and this makes you thrash on the belts, hoping to force them apart. Of course, Kai did a good job of fastening these fuckers and simply chuckles at your attempt.

“You’re still not understanding the position that you’re in,” He slips a hand in his pocket, and pulls out the wrapping of a condom. Taking his time, tearing it open, rolling the rubber down his thick length with precision.

When Kai’s satisfied, his arms reach for you and grab at your hips, giving them a sharp yank forward. He leans in with a darkly low voice, “You can’t escape me. You’re mine to do with as I please.”

“...You lean any closer and I’ll spit in your face.” There isn’t any bite to it. It’s a calm, empty threat and loses all its appeal as a single tear spills down your cheekbone.

A huffing noise emits from his mask, with his lids narrowing in mild disgust. You catch the words “filthy woman,” rasped low and nasally before he does lean back, wrenching at the skin around your hips.

When he’s all settled Kai lines himself to your heat, in a slow motion he draws himself inside. You almost don't hear it, but from the mask you note a soft hitch in his breath. He gives shallow pushes and pulls on your hips, an experimental dip that splits you in a painful stretch before he pumps fully into you. They’re slow, long strokes, filling you to the brim.

Another strained gasp rips from your wet lips, and your hands impulsively spring out, clenching the black cloth of Kai’s sleeves. His hips snap quicker, and your breath picks up with him. Heart pounding to his thrust; you can feel the beats in your neck.

And all of a sudden you hear the sound of plastic clasping together, the squeeze of an injection clip the shell of your ear. Your eyes snap open in horror. What—?

Kai locks on your facial features, his deep pumps lessen though the slapping of skin doesn’t stop. “You’ve been too tense. Why don’t you relax for awhile?”

When did he..?

He prepped it. The syringe must’ve been tucked away. He did have this all planned. You were just the unlucky one who walked to the table and sealed your fate.

The serum he injected into your bloodstream has fast results it seems. The tension in your muscles slack against his thrusts, allowing him to carry your body closer and take more of his length. You feel the tension in your wide eyes soften, slowly falling half lidded and weak.

“That’s a good girl, you're taking to the drug faster than I thought,” he muses a little breathless. Right after he sets the syringe back down, a gloved hand reaches for the strap fastened around his head and pulls. The mask slips off.

It’s at this point he hikes his knees up onto the table and pounds in deeper, letting your walls suck him in. Your body’s folded, and Kai treats your body in any way he desires.

You manage to pull your head from his sharp eyes, your cheek bouncing slightly against the icy metal to Kai’s rhythm. The drawers for the deceased are taken in.

You stare intently.

“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”

“No.” He manages between breathes, his voice is heavy and laced with lusting growls, “This is merely a precaution. In the event...ah, in the event you overdose...well. You’re in the right place.”

Your head lolls back to Kai meeting his delicate face which is now flushed. You realize this is the first time you’ve seen him behind the mask. He’s beautiful. Soft featues that compliment him so well. If only he wasn’t so cruel...

“In fact, hah, if you survive...I think this will be the start of something new in my work.” He manages the last bit with a shaky chuckle.

You see him smirk wickedly, and all you can do is watch, because it doesn’t stop. The only sound in the room is the liquid squish of sex, your mixed heavy breaths. And you hope, god do you hope in your hazy state, feeling a numbness taking hold of your body, that you leave this room alive.

#overhaul x reader #kai chisaki x reader #bnha fanfiction #mha fanfiction #yandere #kai chisaki #tw noncon #tw dubcon #overhaul #bnha #shadow tales

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watermelonlipstick · 4 years

Text

Distraction (Request)

This was a request for @sergeantsea, who asked:

Hi angel!! I was wondering if you could write something with the reader slow dancing w Sam? Maybe they have to pretend to be together to do a mission?

It was a total blast to write--SUCH a cute idea. I hope this is something like you were thinking.

Title: Distraction

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 1673

Summary: A misstep during a case requires a distraction and some quick thinking.

Warnings: canon-appropriate threat of violence, mention of alcohol, fluffy fluff fluff, a little teaspoon of smut-adjacent action 😜

You tried to make the quick strides across the room look purposeful rather than frantic and resisted the urge to check over your shoulder for whether the pair had followed you across the bar. It had been stupid to try to eavesdrop without the pretense of another conversation to cover, and when the vampires had both looked up at the same time, you were sure you were done for.

“Look alive,” you hissed, grabbing Sam’s hand and yanking him up from the cracked leather stool he was leaning on. He had to stretch against your grip to rest his pool cue on the wall, giving an apologetic smile to the denim-clad guys he and Dean had been playing. Didn’t matter much, Dean could hustle the two of them by himself anyway.

“What’s going on?” Sam muttered, low and serious as he caught up, trailing just barely behind you so that the words played against the back of your neck, the delicate heat of them along your skin already easing some of the panic you had been feeling.

“I might’ve just gotten us made—don’t look,” you said with a smile you hoped would look flirtatious to a bystander, turning to curl a hand around the back of his neck as a safeguard to prevent his inevitable impulse to check it out.

“Uh, okay. What’s the plan?”

“Just two regular people in a regular bar doing some regular dancing.”

You could feel Sam’s neck tense under your palm.

“You know, I’m really not so good at—”

“Sorry, you’re going to have to pretend unless you’ve got a better option. Smile, please,” you said through the gritted teeth behind your put-on smile, and Sam gave a tight-lipped facsimile as the song shifted, Lionel Richie singing “know it sounds funny but I just can’t stand the pain,” smooth as silk even over the dive’s old speakers . You took Sam’s hand and set it on your hip before floating your free fingers behind his neck. He followed suit somewhat tentatively, holding you with big paws as carefully as if you were some antique Christmas ornament.

“Can I look yet?” he smiled down at you, grin only partly exasperated. You moved a misplaced lock of hair back to the right side of his loose part and tried not to flush at the way he deliberately closed his eyes while you did.

One of your hands traced down the collar of his flannel, resting on his lapel and closing a few more inches between your waists. “Sure. Stocky guy in blue and a blond guy with a goatee.”

Sam checked back from where you’d come under the pretense of tucking you under his chin. When he spoke it was like stepping into a hot shower, soothing warmth flowing over the crown of your head. “They’re definitely watching. You sure it’s only those two? They’re sitting with a bigger table and no one’s talking.”

“Fuck. How many?”

“Uh, how fast do you think you can get to the car?”

“That bad? Spin me, I wanna see.”

He obliged, slipping his hand into your lax grip on his neck and guiding your hips around a small spin that was just enough for you to see the overflowing booth the two had slid into, at least 7 or 8 angry-looking probably-vamps with eyes trained on you and Sam.

When you turned back toward him, an easy, cheeky grin spread over his face as Sam slid an arm to your lower back and interlaced the fingers of his other hand with yours. “I didn’t realize you were this much trouble. What’d you do, spit in their beer?”

“Very funny. Are they buying this?” You rested your palm on his shoulder, feeling the ripple of the muscles as his fingers spread out over your back.

Sam chuckled and you felt the vibration of his chest into your forearms, starting to feel like a competition cheerleader with the plastered-on smile. “Gimme a sec, I don’t want to look suspicious.” He started incrementally rotating the two of you and you knew it was tactical, so he could see both Dean and the booth. Didn’t really help you either way, field of vision pretty much entirely blocked by the broad span of Sam’s chest. Knowing that he was trying to better his position signaled to you to get ready, and you held a deep breath in an effort to calm your racing heartbeat. He leaned back a touch. “You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry. Just such a fucking rookie move, I feel like an idiot.”

“Don’t sweat it. If it’s a rookie move, I must be a rookie too. And usually the warning Dean gives me for shit like this is yelling for me 6 punches in.”

You snickered a little into the flannel of his shirt despite yourself. “Thanks.”

The two of you swayed together through a chorus. “Come on Dean, you idiot, look up,” Sam murmured to himself. Dean was lining up a shot he could hit backwards with his eyes closed like he needed laser precision, blissful ignorance allowing him to concentrate only on hustling the guys he was playing for a couple hundred bucks and not the imminent danger. A few people got up from the booth and began making their way across the bar. You could see them in your peripheral vision and knew even if Dean miraculously glanced up now and got with the program lightning-fast you’d be in trouble based on sheer numbers alone.

“You trust me?” he asked fervently.

“Yeah, of course I—” you stammered, immediately cut off by the plush crash of Sam’s lips into yours, the deepened pressure of his hand sealing your torsos together. After the briefest stunned moment you got the picture, kissing Sam back cautiously. You let him pull you closer, relaxed into his arms and dragged the hand you had on his shoulder down to gently hold onto his lapel, feeling a little dizzy even through the relative chasteness of the kiss. He disentangled his fingers from yours and slid them to your neck, the tiny chill of each of his wintry fingertips sending goosebumps down your spine as he cradled your head. Hands on his collar, you didn’t even think to stop yourself when you wrapped the flannel up, pure instinct driving your motion. Sam wound through the hair at the back of your neck and those instincts betrayed you again, nipping at his bottom lip on reflex and slipping your tongue into his mouth, somehow sweet over the cheap beer you’d all been drinking throughout the night—perfect—and Sam was much less nervous than you would’ve thought when he took a sharp inhale in surprise but didn’t back down, met your escalation as readily as he supported your weight against him.

And then you were well and truly in it, Sam’s hand hitching up the back of your tee as he reached for a better grip on you, your grabbing at his shirt popping open a button so you could feel the impossible heat off his chest and get towed under by it like a current, like a magnetic field, and you couldn’t stop, needed more and more, mind a fuchsia cloud of want totally void of intelligent thought or awareness of your surroundings even as you had been so panicked minutes before.

The spell was broken by a wolf whistle from one of Dean’s opponents, and you broke apart with a lascivious pop of suction. Inches from you, Sam’s eyes were half lidded and kissed stupid, the pink of his lips feathered out to match the flush in his cheeks. You glanced toward the pool table to find the almost-hustled men leering at you and Sam from where they stood next to Dean, whose face had landed exactly halfway between stunned and disbelieving.

Addressing his brother, Sam cleared his throat and breathed, “We were just—” looking back toward where the crew had been closing in and finding nothing, the group now playing some rowdy game and crawling all over each other to stay in the booth, not paying any attention to you or Sam. “We were, uh, just—” he tried again, still at a loss for words.

“Get a room,” Dean teased, play-nauseated, eyebrows twisted so far up on his forehead you were surprised they weren’t pushing his hair back.

“No, it wasn’t—”

“In front of God and everybody,” he continued, roguish twinkle overcoming the surprise in his eyes. You could feel the heat rising in your face and hastily stepped back from Sam, yanking your shirt down the few inches it had risen. Sam seemed not to notice his open buttons as he froze, still facing Dean. “By all means, don’t let us stop you.” He supported his weight on his pool cue, face as clear a challenge as anything.

Sam ruffled the back of his hair sheepishly and took the ribbing with tightened lips. “Yeah, okay. Ha-ha.”

“I’m going to, uh, grab another beer. Do you want one?” you asked Sam quietly, hoping Dean and the pool players might lose interest.

“Sure, yeah. I—ah, I’m gonna—” he stuttered, face screwing up in a silent, bashful “help me?” smile while his shoulders bunched around his neck. You started to giggle, nerves finally catching up to you, and bit your lip to hold your smile together.

“Go finish your game?”

Sam chuckled and nodded, looking at his feet.

You took a deep breath. “Um, thanks for saving me back there. I won’t make the same mistake again, I promise.”

He flicked his gaze up, grin split open at the side to show a few teeth as he ran his tongue over his molars, framed by an impossibly sliced dimple. “I—ah, I wouldn’t mind if you made that mistake again.”

Thanks again for reading! If you liked it, check out my Masterlist or send me a request!

Tags: @sams-sass @vxnderlindes @deanwinchesterswitch @akshi8278 @itsjensenanddean @flannellover67 @weepingwillowphoenix @tj-drinks-tea @whatareyousearchingfordean @winchestergirl2 @winchest09 @samwisethegr8 @fawnxng @nurse-sarahrn @lovers-in-japan-reign-of-love @thewinchesterandreidwhore @deanwanddamons @stressedoutkitten @winchestershiresauce @tatted-trina6 @percico-heronstairs @downanddirtydean @queenoftheunderdark @lyarr24 @wonder-cole @sergeantsea

And as always, if you want to be on my taglist, were on the taglist and changed your handle, or I lost track of it, please let me know!

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satanwritesfanfiction · 3 years

Text

Karl Heisenberg x f!reader - Reverie - SMUT

Title: reverie

Ship: Karl Heisenberg x f!reader

Triggers: smut, pwp, oral: female receiving. This is literally so vanilla-

Characters: Reader, Karl Heisenberg

Wordcount: 1368

a/n: first re oneshot, let's go-

***

If anyone had said this exact moment would be happening to you a few months ago you would've laughed, outright laughed at the absolute absurdity. You had plans back then.. although none of them seemed to come to you at the moment.

You were firmly planted on the workbench, the metal biting into your bare back, hands held in place above your head. Feet kept losing their footing with the limited space but you weren't going to complain when Heisenberg was dutifully busy between your legs.

The man knew how to work with his hands, if all his projects strewn across the factory wasn't an indication, his precise movements at this very moment certainly were.

Along with those calloused fingers were his lips and tongue, if you were to be his last meal then he would've had his fill. He knew just what you wanted, knew exactly what you needed and rarely gave it to you in such simple terms. He liked to play, liked to discover, liked to tinker and by god if you weren't a willing participant in those endeavours.

Two fingers pumped into you almost lazily as you once again tethered on the edge of lucidity and release, hoping by god he keeps you there this time. On the workbench, part of you felt like just another project, just like the ones momentarily forgotten by him splayed on the other benches but those thoughts only lingered in his absence.

How would one distinguish however, when every project he undertakes is done with such care, so hands on. Perhaps he loves each project in its own right. You'd seen him work before, seen the way his eyes lit up by solving the problems, you've even watched him as he worked on you.. though you never are quite lucid when he does. Emotions, sensations, all swirl into a toxic yet pleasing combination as you moan and cry for the man.

You pleaded for him to give you what you needed, surprising yourself each time the shyness melted away and you cried unashamed as you lay open and bare in front of a man that used to bring you only to fear. Those days had been buried in the past not long after you made it to the factory. Now the only thoughts of him was steeped in lust and other emotions you wouldn't give voice to even within yourself.

You were so close, a few more flicks of his tongue and you'd be spent but you knew better than to expect it, sensations burned under the skin as you expected he'd deprive you again but this time he held you there, fingers curling and pumping, lips wrapped around your aching clit and then everything fell away.

Your nerve endings were on fire as your back arched, held down by your wrists and the grip his hands had on your thigh but he did not relent, instead had substituted the hand within you with his mouth, drinking you in. Intoxicated. There was truly nothing like watching you come undone and tasting the fruits of his labour.

Your body slightly shook as he removed himself from you, in doing so also removing the metal clumped around your wrists and you came to a sitting position, looking at him as you rubbed at your wrists, breath normalising slowly.

He grinned, obviously pleased with himself as you still shone on his lips with an obvious bulge still untouched at the front of his pants. You flushed, he had only removed his hat and glasses in the previous exchange when you had lost every shred of clothing within minutes. It was hard to think in these times so you did the next best thing, you grabbed hold of his jacket to pull him closer and pressed your lips to his.

He indulged, as you always did, hand pressed to the small of your back as lips moved against each other. You pulled at his clothing, starting with the jacket that had been dropped to the floor without needing to Break the kiss. Easy enough. Then it was his shirt which honestly seemed unnecessary at the moment since the removal was not needed for what you wanted from him but nonetheless, his chest was now bare, forced to break the kiss to get to this point.

Your hands pulled at the front of his pants, easily unbuttoning the front and pulling him from within. He had been wordless until that moment, appreciating your eagerness. The consent and need that the act revealed and then your bare hands made contact, soft hands pumping slowly and then you looked up at him.

He groaned, hands wrapping around your thighs and pulling you closer to the edge of the bench, a split second to decide what he'd like to do with you, to you. Eyes roamed your front from the way you looked up at him, the way your chest swayed with the slight movement, over your stomach and between your legs that were displayed so nicely for him only moments before. It was a good a sight as any, open and inviting.

Hands were swatted away to press to your entrance himself, warm and so tempting. Nonetheless, he took the time to push in slowly, watching as you fell back onto your elbows, head tilted back and eyes shut as you enjoyed the feeling of being opened.

He clenched his jaw, moments he revelled in but did not have the patience to prolong. His hips snapped back and then a sharp thrust that snapped your eyes back at him. He took hold of your thighs, holding in such a way it gave him better range when he thrusted into you again and again.

Blissful to finally feel filled over and over, you moaned in unison with his thrusts, slightly moving with the force behind it. Ecstasy pumped right beneath the skin as the wet slapping sounds echoed against the walls. All thoughts forgotten, the only thing that mattered was that he didn't stop.

Fighting within yourself to keep the new release at bay, just to have a few more moments of pleasure from him, it always came too soon as he movements were unrelenting.

His hair was disheveled and swaying with the force, beads of sweat rolling down his temples. His fingers gripped harshly at your thigh while the other travelled to your clit, rubbing harshly.

"Come for me, kitten." He grunted. "Be a good girl and come on my cock."

Your body jerked with the new contact, unable to hold yourself together. Your walls clenched around him, white hot pleasure shooting to your nerve endings as you came, body shaking with intensity.

"Thats my girl." He responded, his movements not slowing down as he searched for his own release within you. Nether regions sensitive from release, body pressed against the bench once more as you caught your breath while the thrusts kept stealing it from you. It was too much, he was too much.

From the way he looked to the way he smelled, intoxicated with the knowledge how wrong it was to find it attractive. The knowledge of the atrocities he commited and yet you give yourself for him to use each and every time, his to play with.

Your mind was foggy , pleasure pumped into you over and over with no remorse, gasping for breath between your cries for him and then out of nowhere a second wave hit, clenching around him again as you clenched your eyes shut.

"Fuck.." you'd hear him say but didn't open your eyes to confirm, just felt his hips stutter and then still within you, hot liquid filling you as he muttered praises which you were only vaguely aware of. His hands smoothed over your thighs before he pulled out of you, your mixed highs leaking onto the bench.

You opened your eyes to see him watching this and then flicking up to your eyes, a soft smile on his lips as he pulled you to a seating position. You felt blissful as he claimed your lips in a soft kiss, it should've felt wrong but you couldn't be bothered to do anything to stop it.

#satanwritesfanfiction #karl heisenberg #re8 #i forgot my tags-#oh well #¯\_(ツ)_/¯

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softkuna · 4 years

Text

Sukuna || Concert || Fic

Part 2 (oc) Part 2 (reader)

Content ║ Sukuna x Reader

His vocals held that pompous cockiness he was renowned for. It dripped down with the sweat along his neck and chest. His bandmates followed yet were lost in their own worlds. They let the instruments take control of them. You would never admit that you liked the music, either. It was that 90’s punk-grunge Christian parents thought lead to devil worship. The screams weren’t for the devil, no. They worshipped The King of Curses. Now you understood why.

Count ║ 1,664 words.

Consider ║ Cursing. Sukuna being kind of being a dick. Female reader. Grammar issues most likely ^^”

Creator ║ So uh…. I saw a photo of Rockstar Sukuna and this happened. Enjoy my self indulgence. Also… Song for Reference.

Ryoumen Sukuna positioned himself on stage. The sea of people were glued to every motion he made. You were one of those people in the front. Dead center. Your editor paid a lot of money for that spot, too, but you still wanted nothing to do with it. Sure, you needed a big story to get out of that damn plateau but this was not what you had in mind. You focused on fashion, not punk boys with eyeliner.

His face turned to the stage, knees rocking his body to the beginning of a simple, yet effective beat. Broad, muscled shoulder curled forward, securing his zone. But then the guitar came in. A near feral grin ricocheted onto his features as it did. In an explosive leap, his feet left the ground only for the scuffed Doc Martens to slam into the stage at the second beat. Right hand whipped the mic’s wire out of his way, left arm jostled as he started to sing.

Bitches love me 'cause they know that I can rock

Bitches love me 'cause they know that I can rhyme

Bitches love me 'cause they know that I can fuck

Docs crashed with every step, their synchronicity with the band behind. One hand kept on the mic, the other whipped its wire out of his way. It wasn’t that he was energetic, no. He was captivating, calculated in every step, yet casual. His control over his body and the crowd… immaculate. It was a precarious balancing act that he pulled off with little to no effort at all. Steps were to the beat, his entire torso being thrown into the movements.

He wore a white tank top with a breast pocket. The branding of it was recognizable simply by the pristine floral embroidery along the bottom and hems. It hung past the hem of black leather pants. A custom-made silver necklace beat against his chest with each toss of his built physique. You snapped a photo.

His prowess was obvious, even for someone like yourself who knew not a single lick of rock culture. Even with the vulgar and energetic lyrics, the whirling stop-start slow-fast tempo, Sukuna perfected the music as though he were at one with it. Embodied and embraced it. The sharp smile he threw to the collage of faces before him was the only thing you needed to know that he was in his element.

The song was strong, heady even. It buzzed throughout your mind and swung at your heart like a right hook. Each punch of the drums was exhilarating. Every kick of the bass left you wanting more. As alive as Sukuna was on stage, you were there feeling it with him.

The concert went on, moving through each piece like a surging smooth river. It was hard to tell when one song began and the other ended. Whenever you could, you’d snap a photo. There were some good shots in there. Some of his imposing form dangling at the edge of the stage, arms wide out displaying his designer bracelets. Others when he’d toss his entire spine back. The best, though, were when he’d come face to face with the guitarist, his brother, in a beck and call. In their wardrobe, they were a delicate balance of blacks, whites, and coral.

A certain thrill came about you as you realized the wardrobe of each member reflected their position. They weren’t to outshine him, but they all had a theme. Everything must have been custom ordered and hand tailored. Their entire image was just as important to the show as music. Every photo was set up to illustrated the complementing lights and darks they had set up on stage, a living and breathing portrait of youth.

You couldn’t help but notice how every time you’d point the camera at him, he’d lock those brilliant eyes onto yours. He recognized you before. How could he not? Out of everyone in the front row, you were the only one wearing some preppy knit dress. He never would have expected to see a face like yours in his crowd. Some rising reporter with a side blog. He never cared about press, but you’ve been making a name for yourself due to your precise analysis of social culture and clothes. He actually thought your last article on street fashion was interesting and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t gawk at your Instagram after. All in all, he kept his glances for your camera instead.

The stage lighting shifted, illuminating the beads of sweat sparkling along his tatted skin like diamonds. The unnatural redness in his eyes blew an intense gaze across the still crowd. They came to a complete stop. Unease settled into your stomach. This was your cue to go. You knew what would happen next and you weren’t ready for when it did.

His foot tapped. The guitar started. A mosh pit rioted.

It was a concert tradition according to the fan page you looked at moments before walking through the door. ‘If you don’t leave with a black eye, did you even go to a Two Faced concert?’ they’d ask.

Your frame was shoved against the rail, knocking the wind out of you. Bodies collided behind and you felt trapped. Your lungs squeezed and your hands scrambled for your bag. Inhaler. Inhaler. Tightness inflamed your chest as a particularly bulky man squeezed you into the rail. Your hands clasped to inhaler, but before you could press it to your lips, another body collided into you. It clattered a few feet over the rail, hitting the stage. Fuck.

From the corner of his eyes, he saw it happen. Panic painted across your face as you hauled your torso over the rail. Your arm reached for what was dropped before it immediately covered a coughing fit. What idiot would come to his concert an, his domain, and expect to just come out unscathed? It was your own damn fault if you got the wind knocked out of you, but he had to give you credit for trying. Just as he was about to look away, someone grabbed the back collar of your dress.

Sukuna wasn’t one of those artists who genuinely cared about their fanbase or paparazzi. That was for the other members to do. It was well known, too. He didn’t indulge in pictures if he didn’t want to or wasn’t on stage. He didn’t sign anything without a check. No one knew music like he did. No one performed like he did. No one mattered like he did. Whatever it was that overtook him then, he wasn’t sure, but he dropped the mic. A sharp blare washed over the P.E. system. All eyes turned to him. Bandmates faltered for only a moment.

Two steps back. Sprint. The tips of his shoes left the edge of the stage. Ryoumen Sukuna took flight. Arm reached for him, stopping his prized body from colliding with the harsh concrete below. The hand on you left, desperate to make contact with The King of Curses. The band went on, the crowd’s scream piercing the air as they swayed the singers body this way and that. You clambered over to grab the inhaler, took a hit, and dove for an exit.

That’s how you found yourself where you were now, in a backstage hallway, staring directly into the fierce gaze of the lead singer. He smelled of sweat and cedar. A brow rose, hands stuffed into unimaginably tight pockets. Confidence wasn’t lost through Sukuna’s stature; shoulders back, weight slightly on one leg more than the other. What was lost, however, was the excitement. In fact, you felt like studied specimen, eyes scanning your limbs and stopping on your ribs. The bruise forming under your dress seemed to flare in response. His tongue clicked disapprovingly.

“What do you want? You’re not some rabid fan.” His voice was smooth as a sip of whiskey. He already knew the answer. For a moment you wondered why he didn’t just call for guards. He wondered the same thing. Just as he wondered why he leapt off the stage. Not that he regretted the act seeing as it got him trending for the umpteenth time.

Sukuna had become accustomed to certain responses. Some offered him their bodies in exchange for a few moments of his time. Shit like that was beneath him. If he wanted a quick fuck and a column, he’d find it himself. His free time was his and that was non-negotiable. So, he almost always cut them down to size. It didn’t matter to him if he made them cry or threatened their careers, he’d always say no. Pictures? No. Signature? No. Coffee? Get the fuck out of his face. Attention and fame may have been his drug of choice, but desperation and disrespect were one in the same and you do not disrespect the King.

“No. I didn’t even know who you were until 12 hours ago,” you admitted with a shallow breath. You stroked his ego like velvet rubbed the wrong way. He opened his mouth, ready to toss you out then and there. The look in your eyes was enough to shut him up. Hunger. And he was your dish of opportunity. “However, I do want an interview, maybe even film you for an expose,” Your hand reached for his.

His mouth pulled into a beautiful predatory grin. This one had ambition.

“I’ll allow it.”

#this is just me being indulgent #ryoumen sukuna #sukuna #ryoumen sukuna x reader #sukuna x reader #jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #🍺.fic #🍺.jjk #⛩.sukuna #⛩.fic

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green-socks · 3 years

Text

Hungry Eyes chapter 5

Pairing: Benny Miller x OFC (Dirty Dancing AU)

Summary: Dirty Dancing but Benny is Baby and the dance instructor is a female OC, Jolene. Benny goes to a holiday resort with his family and somehow ends up spending his time dancing and falling in love! This part is practicing the famous lift and like Eye of the Tiger training montage type moments.

Words: 2.1k

Warnings: None.

Notes: This fic is my own little world where I go when I need to. What you see on paper is only a bit of what happens inside my head, but it is what it is. I try. Inconsistent af about posting this bc my muse is a very "it's for me to know and you to to find out" type of gal, so I just follow her lead. Right now she's saying dance, Benny, dance, so he dances. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 4 | MASTERLIST

The next few days continued with more dance lessons whenever they could.

Benny had experience with working out. A lot. He pretty much did that for a living, after all. So he knew he shouldn’t get frustrated when some new bit of information didn’t immediately stick to his mind. And yet it was hard to keep himself from stressing out, because there was a time limit, and he didn’t want to let Jolene and Patrick down.

They had the steps mostly down already, now it was about getting the routine to look like dancing- tying the steps together as fluid movement. Jolene kept saying that it was about the feeling, but Benny was having some trouble with that. It wasn’t easy to try and express feelings while all his brainpower went to focusing on remembering where to step and where to look and what to do with his hands at any given moment.

On the fourth day of practice Benny finally started letting loose, and he noticed he was actually having sort of fun with it. They had had a whole lesson on how to feel the music and let it guide you as much as your muscle memory. Apparently, the music told when there was room to breathe and where to be precise and hit the right accents. Jolene made him practice same bits over different songs to make him focus on the different beats. Once he got the feel of that down more, it became easier to make the whole choreography flow better.

Patrick also came in to help them practice and fine-tune the performance, since he knew the part better than Jolene did. Benny had some trouble with turns and keeping his form at first, but his fight training combined with Patrick’s tips helped with those. Some parts were truly starting to go well, and it was beginning to come together. They were extremely sweaty and exhausted all the time, but happy to be making progress. Benny’s legs were tired, arms tired, feet blistered - “dancer’s feet,” Jolene told him - but despite all that he was having a great time. He thrived on the challenge and physicality of it all, it made him feel alive.

He did still feel guilty about spending less time with his family, and instead spending late nights working on the choreography and occasionally popping into the entertainment crew’s parties. Most of the crew had really taken a liking to him, and even Patrick was slowly warming up to him. Only Jolene was still a closed off, not really volunteering anything personal about herself outside of the dancing they did. They still got along fairly well - they understood each other. They both had a strong work ethic and their teamwork got results.

But their teamwork wasn’t always smooth sailing, of course.

One of the parts Benny was struggling with was a serious and tender moment in the beginning of the choreography that required them to be very up close and personal. He couldn’t stop snickering and making jokes or just bursting out laughing and not doing it properly. Jo got annoyed at him for that, because she thought it was a stupid thing to be stuck on, and she had felt a little like he was somehow mocking the choreography, making it seem silly. But the truth of it was that Benny was a bit afraid of how intensely he would feel things if he let himself be completely serious and truly try to live the moment, be vulnerable. He didn’t know if he could keep his emotions in check.

There had also been a small argument on the fifth day when Benny had complained about a part he didn’t like in the choreo, and Jolene was having none of his sass. The frustration and stress had started getting to her, and she had snapped at him about not taking it seriously enough and not learning quickly enough.

And Benny had bit back, “Hey, I’m doin’ this just to help you and your friend! And we haven’t even tried to go through the whole thing yet, we haven’t practiced the lift at all, so how do you expect me to get it all if I can’t have the full picture?!”

Jo had seethed at him, breathing heavily for a moment, until she had said, “Fine. You have a car?”

--------

That’s how they had ended up borrowing Benny’s brother Will’s car to drive to a place where they could practice the troublesome lift.

Jo had most of the day off, so she decided now was a good time to go and work on the lift, since it would be best to practice it outside the resort. Benny made jokes and laughed at her when she had to adjust every setting on the seat and mirrors of the car to suit her much shorter frame. Jo was used to hearing jokes about her height but somehow, she didn’t mind them from Benny. She found herself surprised at how easy she felt in his company, the argument from before long forgotten already. With the radio playing and both of them joking around, she started driving toward a secluded beach nearby.

Jo noticed that it was much easier to talk with him now that they were alone together and removed from the context of training for a moment. She found herself opening up about her background in dance, how she had started and how her dream was to open her own dance studio someday. She also told him about her family, how she didn’t see them often because her younger brother was in college far from her and her parents had retired and moved to Australia. Benny was a surprisingly good listener, letting her talk and asking questions, seeming genuinely interested in her. Before she knew it, they reached the destination.

Under normal circumstances she would have started with some balancing and trust exercises, but they were past trust exercises, and Benny’s fight training meant he had great balance, so she decided to jump into the thing itself right away.

“Okay. We’ll just- go for it. I’ve shown you the video of what it’s supposed to look like, I’ve shown you where you’re supposed to put your hands and everything. We’re good to go, right? Or do you have any questions?”

“No.. I think I know what to do in theory, at least..” Benny says, rubbing his beard nervously.

She took a deep breath. Okay. There was nothing to it but to just try, it would be fine.

But after tumbling down to the grass a few times Jo realized it wouldn’t work, because they were both holding back for fear of falling. She was afraid of Benny not being able to lift her and then hurting him when he had to bear the brunt of the fallings. And Benny in his turn was scared of hurting her. There was also the added difficulty of their height difference - Benny would have to lift with his legs a lot more, and she would have to adjust a lot from what she was used to with Patrick, too.

So, they would have to make sure the fall was less scary..

“What if we get into the water? It’s safer to fall down there at least,” she suggested.

“What? You serious?”

“Yeah! What, you scared or something?”

Benny rolled his eyes at her childish taunting but shrugged and started taking his shoes and shirt off.

When she had first met him a few days ago, she had dismissed him as just some random dude crashing their party - a seemingly pleasant dude, sure, but nothing special. But now, given the opportunity to admire his back and arms without having to focus on being a dance instructor first, she couldn’t deny the view was very.. inspiring. She had seen him shirtless before because they did work up quite the sweat dancing in the summer heat, and the guy seemed very comfortable with his body. It was different, though, in this new environment and this new, more relaxed energy between them. It was a nice change of pace, truth be told.

Benny started opening his belt and Jo stopped in her tracks.

“What are you doing?”

“If you wanna deal with my brother when we return his car with the seats all wet, be my guest, but I learned to not get any fluids on his car seats when I was sixteen,” he said seriously, shaking his head while pulling his jeans off.

“…You know what, I’ll take that chance. I’m keeping my shorts on,” she said, thinking of the not-covering-much-at-all underwear she had on.

“It’s totally fine, I have a hoodie you can sit on. Plus, he wouldn’t even know how to be mad at you,” Benny smiled.

They got in the slightly chilly water, Jo determinedly not looking at Benny until they were deep enough.

“Alright, let’s try again!”

The added support of the water was a big help, and after a few tries they managed a perfect lift for a moment until Jo lost her balance and dived into the water.

“Yes, yes! You did it! That was so good!” Jo shouted after she resurfaced. “I lost my balance, but you did it!”

Benny’s eyes seemed to light up, and the next few times he tried even harder. Jo had noticed during practices that Benny was good at following orders when working out, and that he responded to her stricter coaching really well. But she had also noticed that when she praised him, he seemed to get an extra boost of energy, and usually performed even better after that. It was as if the hard training kept him focused and sharp, but a few compliments helped free his creativity more. She wanted to keep the compliments genuine though, and not overdo it.

They still ended up underwater more often than not, but they were starting to get the hang of it at least. They were both tired and had wet hair plastered to their faces as they stood there catching their breaths before a new try.

Benny brushed his hair back from his eyes in the way men do in commercials and Jo found herself staring. He looked unreasonably good like this when she was sure she was a total mess. His blue eyes were shining brighter than the water, and the droplets on his chest made her eyes follow their trajectory downward. Oh boy was she staring. How to stop, though?

“Hello?” Benny’s voice was trying to pull her out of her thoughts. “Jo?”

That was the first time he had called her that, and not her full name. She lifted her head to meet his gaze again, and she was sure her face greatly resembled a tomato.

She didn’t know what to do to save the situation when she was so obviously caught ogling. So she splashed him.

Benny spluttered. “Oh, really? That what you wanna do?” he asked with a big grin.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Jo said, and splashed him again.

“Sweetheart, you’re gonna regret that,” he laughed, and started swimming after her.

Then it was a mess of screaming, laughing, splashing, trashing, and wrestling in the water. Jo was breathless from laughing and the exertion, and she couldn’t remember having that much fun in weeks. She was no match for Benny’s strength, though. He caught her, lifting her up and threatening to throw her back in the water. (Which was essentially what they had done all evening, but this was a different situation entirely.)

“I surrender, you win!” Jo managed to shout out through her giggles.

“Hah, told ya!” Benny gloated as he lowered her back to stand on her own legs.

Suddenly it hit Jo how near each other they were standing, and how very little clothing each of them were wearing, especially Benny. And this was no training situation anymore.

She cleared her throat, avoiding his eyes. “One more go with the lift?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure.”

But the sun was already setting, and it was getting chilly, so they only tried a couple more times before calling it a day.

They drove back to the resort, Jo sitting on Benny’s hoodie to protect the car like he promised. The radio was playing again, both of them still making jokes and talking, but this time there was also a different kind of tension in the air. Tomorrow they would have time to practice a little during the day and then it would be time for the performance. But Jo wasn’t sure the tension she felt was just performance jitters.

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tagsies: @writeforfandoms @starlightmornings @lorecraft @niki-xie@salome-c @ickleronniekinsemotionalrange @sgnjimmy @marvelousmermaid @velocibee @killyspinacoladas

#benny miller x ofc #benny miller fanfiction #benjamin miller #triple frontier fanfiction #dirty dancing au #nobody puts benny in the corner #i accidentally wrote something #garrett hedlund fanfiction #benny miller fic

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cognacdelights · 4 years

Text

pleasure doing business with you

the chronicles of cognacdelights

add yourself to my taglist

summary: this is for a secret santa fic exchange. @sortagaysortahigh here you go bby, i hope you enjoy. sorry that it took so long.

warnings: swearing. sexual content. alcohol.

You were sat, perched comfortably in the bespoke, leather chair, as you watched him pour the expensive, honey-coloured liquid into the decorated, crystal tumblers. His dark, obsidian eyes fluctuated between you and the decadent bottle of whiskey, before he nonchalantly guided the nearest glass in your direction — his ring-cladded middle finger pushing against the cold glass as he did so.

“No, thank you, Mr Stilinski,” you responded in your naturally low and sultry voice, “I like to keep a clear head when discussing business.” Your lips subconsciously pursed as the words left your mouth, your rigid gaze meeting his as he grasped the wide-rimmed tumbler between his thumb and middle finger. He held it so casually, as he tipped the brim towards him and took a generous gulp of the premium whiskey.

“Suit yourself, Miss,” his gravelly tone reverberated throughout the small — but luxuriously decorated — office, dismissing your declination of his offer with a lackadaisical turning of his palms. His tall, broad and muscular stature towered above you as he leaned against the edge of the grand, mahogany desk, perching ever so slightly atop the overhang. “So, we’ll try this your way. Let’s discuss business.”

“The Lenora Company would like to purchase the land south of the docklands. They’re willing to offer you market price, plus ten percent,” you proposed, confident in your sales pitch. An assured smile threatened to pull the corners of your lipstick-coated lips upwards — however, your features fought to stay in their professional, rigid state. Your eyes remained fixated on the well-dressed man before you — slightly in awe of his impressively authoritative aura.

“Market price plus ten percent, huh?” Mr Stilinski appeared to mull over, swirling the remaining amber-coloured liquor around the bottom of his fancy, crystal glass. He took a sharp inhale — his cold, impassive eyes flitting to you and boring deep into the depths of your soul — before downing the rest of the expensive whiskey. The sound of the delicate glass hitting against the varnished wood of his desk pulled you from your slight daze and prompted you to think of a swift response — not wanting to look or sound any less competent than you were.

“Yes, Mr Stilinski, that’s an exceptional offer considering today’s property prices,” you confirmed. Your voice started off strong — composed and collected — but you found yourself wavering towards the end. There was something about this impeccably emotionless, callous man that had overwhelmed your unsuspecting senses; you had found yourself faltering under his icy, apathetic gaze. However, it was not because you were unsettled by his presence, but because you found yourself rather at ease under his wandering eyes. You couldn’t help but furtively relish in the fact that his dark eyes were lingering across your chest — liberally indulging himself in the view behind your provocatively unbuttoned shirt.

He stood, straightening his posture, “you can do better than that, Miss.” His fair features remained unphased — stringency etched into their perfectly chiselled contours — as he took a step towards you. The slightly cool air which circulated the room became thick and oppressive — your mouth drying ever so slightly — as he took yet another step towards you. You could feel the pit of your stomach whirling in anticipation of his next move, his court=shoe-clad feet leisurely closing the gap between you.

“I must insist that the original offer is exceptionally generous,” you somehow managed to choke out an argument — his brawny silhouette now standing over you in a domineering manner. Peering down at you, he cocked his head to the side — admiring you for a brief, fleeting second — before crouching before you. His warm palms instantly found their way to the plains of your inner thighs, prying them apart with a gentle force. Your tight, figure-hugging pencil skirt offered little decency, as he was met with an exceptional view of your lacy, champagne panties.

“And I must insist that you can do better than that,” he countered — an arrogant, audacious smirk contorting his fair features. However, it was short-lived — his lips taking it upon themselves to explore every inch of your inner thighs. At first, he placed gentle kisses against the sensitive skin, but quickly progressed to sucking and nibbling on favoured spots.

“Mr Stilinski,” you breathed out — your flurry of hot air accompanied by a subtle, pleasure-filled whine as his teasing tongue caressed the upper most plains of your inner thighs. Your chest began to heave gently up and down as you felt yourself relaxing under his salacious touch. You knew it was wrong — you knew it was abhorrently unprofessional — but the way his tongue circled against the sensitive skin, and his teeth grazed against the favoured patch, sent euphoric tingles along your spine.

“Yes, Miss?” he questioned, an innocent flair to his tone, as he continued venturing ever further towards the now dampened heat of your core.

“I—“ the words hitched in your throat as you felt the soft, smooth pads of his fingers slide up the length of your thighs and slip beneath the lacy waistband of your panties. Within a flash of a second, your panties had been guided down the voluptuous lengths of your thighs and had been carelessly dropped against the carpet.

Once again, his dominant, bear-like palms placed themselves against both of your inner thighs — spreading your legs even further apart in a bid to make your soaking heat as accessible as possible. He leaned forwards, his taunting tongue tracing one long, slow stripe along your folds. A soft, lascivious moan surpassed your crimson lips and prompted him to repeat his actions once more. He continued to caress your wet folds with his tormenting tongue, increasing the pace with each sensual lick. Your hands gripped onto the arms of the leather chair as your back arched ever so slightly, pushing your hips forward in anticipation of his next move.

“I’m sure that we can come to some kind of arrangement, Miss,” his low and gruff voice sent sensational vibrations rattling through your core — pulling carnal whines and a concoction of pleasure-filled expletives from the depths of your throat.

“Will market value pl—” a high-pitched, emphatic moan slipped for between your parted, scarlet lips as he delicately sucked on your sensitive bud — his stubby, ring-cladded fingers now toying with your folds and teasing your heavenly hole, “plus fifteen percent interest you?”

“It interests me, but it doesn’t satisfy me,” he admitted, the vibrations of his low and lustful voice compelling your voluptuous hips to buck against his smirk-adorning face — eager for more contact. He continues in his salacious assault of your clit, his tongue swirling in masterful motions as he slips a finger inside of you. He’s rough, thrusting his digit deep inside of your aching core so that the cold silver of his ring sends electrifying sensations through your drenched folds.

“Th— that’s as high as I can offer,” you stutter through jagged, heavy breaths as you roll your hips in synchrony with his thrusts — a second finger slipping effortlessly into your dripping, yearning pussy. Another elated whine fills the thick, steamy air of the office as he increases his pace, continuing to suck sensually on your clit.

“Market value, plus twenty five percent,” Mt Stilinksi demanded in his unforgiving, authoritative tone. He fingers pounded deep inside of you, curling against your most sensitive nerves and forcing you towards the metaphorical ledge with each rhythmic thrust.

“My boss wouldn’t be impressed with that offer,” you let slip — your voice consumed by a breathy, high-pitched whine as he continued to increase his pace.

“Your boss isn’t the one that you need to impress, Miss,” he countered almost instantly — his spare hand gripping onto your bare thigh in a tight, vice-like grip. He continued to swirl his tongue in sloppy, lackadaisical motions, becoming negligent in his precision as he felt your walls contracting around his large fingers. The smirk which had previously occupied his fair features returned, tugging the corners of his thin lips upwards, as he thrust his fingers inside you vigorously and nibbled against the sensitive nerves of your clit ever so gently. “So, how about that additional twenty five percent?”

“Deal,” you exclaimed — your voice echoing against the wooden panels of the walls. The tight, twisted knot that sat in the pit of your stomach began to unravel as your walls pulsated around his stubby, ring-cladded fingers and your hips rolled recklessly to meet with his rigorous thrusts. A haze of euphoria consumed you — like that feeling of slipping into a warm bubble bath — as he took his time in slowing his pace. His eager tongue lapped up your heavenly juices, cleaning your glorious pussy and thighs masterfully.

Eventually, he retreated from your warmth and peered upwards at you with those dark, callous eyes of his. An imperious smirk, once again, occupied his pale complexion, “it’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”

#teen wolf #void stiles #void stiles x reader #stiles stilinski #stiles stilinksi imagine #stiles stilinksi x reader #dylan o'brien

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philosophicalparadox · 3 years

Note

I couldn't choose one ^_^; but for mephirin how about one of these?

3. “Am I dead?”

18. “Would you quit moving around?” “It’s not my fault we’re tied up together!”

57. “Wait a second.. are you jealous?”

86. “You’re getting crumbs all over my bed.”

111. “Is that a challenge?”

151. “Times up!”

191. “Don’t give me that look! You started it!”

204. “It’s midnight, what do you want?”

(I promise I used one of these, it's just at the end!) TW for talk of suicide, death, self harm(minor) and angst (with a little fluff at the end. But first you must suffer the cringe that is Mephisto + feelings)

....................

Rin sat down in front of Mephisto's mansion, letting the weight in his stomach anchor him to the concrete, even though his mind felt a million miles away.

"You do realize it's the middle of the night." A smooth voice chimed behind him. Rin had expected his company - in fact that was the very reason he was there, or so he thought.

Getting no reply to his passive statement, Mephisto came up on his flank, dressed in a dark purple velvet robe that was left largely open at the top, exposing his pale chest to the humid night air, his bare, clawed feet making not a single sound. It wasn't hot, but it wasn't cool either, not that Rin would have noticed anyway.

"I'm surprised you didn't ask why I'm here." Rin said softly after a long, wet pause.

"Did you want me to?" Rin felt his teeth clench. He didnt have the energy to play stupid games. But he also knew Mephisto was right. He really needed to stop expecting human responses from a cosmic demon entity. It wasn't good for his sanity.

"I want you to sit by me." He stated. If Mephisto wanted him to be forthcoming with his desires, so be it. Rin half expected a retort, but couldn't say he was all that disappointed when the older man obliged. He sat at arms length, predictably uncomfortable with intimacy in these situations. And Rin knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he knew why he was here anyhow.

"Nothing can live forever, Rin. I know that better than anyone."

"Except for you, maybe." Rin replied sarcastically. "And only because you choose to live through it all." Rin responded bitterly. His grimace turned to a body-wide tremble. "How? How do you watch people die again and again and just keep doing it?"

"Doing what, precisely?"

"Living."

"Hmm." Mephisto hummed as he thought, bringing a thin, sharp clawed finger to his jawline. "That is actually not a bad question." Rin turned a curious gaze to his elder, surprised how compliant he was being tonight. Usually the man was as rigid as iron and as slippery as smoke whenever it came to feely-stuff like this, not that such a vague statement was out of the ordinary for him.

"And why isn't it a bad question?" Rin parroted his typical sing songy voice at him as a jab, but they both knew there was no heart in it.

"That is a good question." Mephisto smiled leerily at Rin, who was so used to these kinds of interactions by now he was hardly fazed. "And is it one worth answering? Or are you too intimidated by me? By this?" The look that morphed onto Mephisto's face like a sculptor playing with clay was priceless.

"Excuse me?" He said incredulously.

"You're intimidated by touchy feely stuff, though I don't know why. Me being all fucked up and hurt right now creeps you out, I know it does." Mephisto pursed his lips into a hard line, and Rin knew he was spot on. He decided it felt good to torment the man a little and dug in deeper. "So if you're going to sit there and mock me because you're a coward who is allergic to feelings, then you can fuck right off."

"Coward?" Rin felt a tiny ripple of panic tear through his already heightened body, the tone Mephisto used indicating that that might not have been the best word to use. But it was too late to back out now.

"Yes, a coward." Rin swallowed, refusing to be fazed. "And if you want to prove me wrong you'll answer the damn question instead of beating around the bush. But you're too scared of feelings to do that," Rin sighed, suddenly overtaken with a sense of fatigue. "So I don't know why I try. Or what I came here for, anyway. Company? Comfort? Hah. Don't know where I got that idea from."

A long, pregnant pause ensued. Rin glanced up at Mephisto once or twice, expecting a sharp retort, and seen him ruminating on an apt reply. What he said next was not what Rin was expecting though.

"Is that a challenge?"

Rin met cautiously determined eyes and was a bit unsure of what to say. "Only if you plan on taking it, Mr. Tough Guy." Rin tried, and failed, to stop the little smile that graced his lips. "Or do you think you cant be that open with me?" Rin could tell from the apprehension that drifted across Mephisto's glowy irises like a tiny cloud dims the moon that he was right. This man was in the business of trusting no one with his secrets. Not even his best piece. Especially not his best piece.

"I'm not going to think less of you for feeling things. Quite the opposite if anything. Besides..." Rin cringed when the thought of his brother's freshly dug grave. "I could use the distraction from my own thoughts."

"So you've elected to pick through mine. How charming of you." Mephisto pinned his ears with a sarcastic grimace before returning to his thoughts, though his expresion was a touch softer.

"I am not unfamiliar with death, of that you can be sure - and I don't mean the entity either." Mephisto began. "I have died before. But as you know by now, death for demons is not quite the same. Indeed, neither is the death of Nephilim." Rin felt his heart throb achingly in his chest and fought the sudden, unbidden urge to cry. He was the last one left. All he had was Mephisto now.

"And suicide?" Rin asked boldly, unsure of where, even, the question rose from. "Are you familiar with that?"

"Yes, actually, I am. In a way." Mephisto's voice took on a somber tone (for him) and Rin had to resist the urge to ask if he was being serious or not. Mephisto looked to Rin's face and could read everything. "I am not immune to my own mind, unfortunately. Boredom, depression - these things are not beyond me. I have experienced them, in my own way. I admit I have trouble understanding why some humans end their lives, but not all of them."

"So..." Rin's mind was reeling trying to catch up. He wasn't precisely surprised, exactly - Mephisto could be very macabre when the situation allowed, but Rin didn't trust the integrity of his words just yet. "Have you ever tried to kill yourself?"

"Not intentionally, no. By which I mean that I have most certainly damaged myself and my body needlessly, but it was never with the exact intention of dying."

"So you've hurt yourself? On purpose?"

"Yes. Sometimes out of boredom. Sometimes for other reasons." The sudden, though subtle tension in Mephisto's voice told Rin that was as close to disclosing those reasons as he was going to get.

"I can understand that, I guess." Rin thought about it. He'd injured himself on purpose before, although it was out of curiosity more than self loathing. He couldn't say he hadn't considered it before while he felt really low, though.

"What happened to Yukio was not your fault."

The statement came out of left field and hit Rin like a train. He couldn't stop the tears from flowing now. "He did what he felt he had to do." Rin justified weakly. "He was getting old. His body was eating itself. I don't blame him or me for not letting him suffer." Rin's voice cracked. "I just wish I could have been there. Said goodbye. I know it didn't hurt, but..." Rin couldn't keep his composure. "There were better ways to do it. No one would have told him no. No one." Rin garbled through sobs.

"I tried to talk to him about that actually. He didn't want anyone else doing it for him. He wanted to be in control of his life to the very last second."

"I know. I know." Rin heaved a heavy sigh to try and calm down, but everything, every part of him was shaking and he just wanted to run away from the pain. To curl up and die because the last part of his world had gone to a better place and he desperately wanted to follow. He didn't want to be alone. Anything but alone.

A cold, spindly hand on the small of his back shocked him back into reality, and he realised he was clenching his jaw so hard it hurt.

"Don't drift away. It wont take you anywhere you want to go." Mephisto advised wisely. The, Rin wanted to call it sovereign, look in his eyes proved what he knew from experience. Don't drift away. Rin focused his mind on the surprisingly cold hand, not because of it's temperature but because of how lightly it touched him. Gentle might have been a part of gentleman, but he had never really known Samael to be either the former or the latter with any amount of honesty.

Rin got an idea then, and pounced on Mephisto before he was able to object, bowling him over lightly and straddling his chest. Confused and slightly concerned eyes met his own stern and jaded ones. He wasn't going to feel any better by sitting here feeling the hard concrete dig into his ass, that much was true.

"Then help me stay right here." Rin offered, his tail wiggling somewhat enticingly, Mephisto's face lighting up in realization.

"Is that a challenge?"

#ao no exorcist #blue exorcist #mephisto pheles #ask response #this was fun #tw suicide #tw sh

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dancedelion · 4 years

Text

A Dangerous Thing

Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending Word Count: 4202 Summary: Just when Geralt thinks he might have a good day for once, he is surprised by drowners and has to fight them off without weapons. Jaskier wants to take care of his wounds and Geralt is sure the only reason for that can be that Jaskier wants to pay him back for letting him come along on his travels. (Jaskier doesn't quite agree.) ao3: A Dangerous Thing

Geralt is humming under his breath, just quiet enough that Jaskier will not hear him over the current. Jaskier, who is leaning back against the rocks on the bank of the river and playing a song on his lute, one of the old favorites. Geralt watches him over the water, only interrupting himself briefly when he drags his shirt over his head and throws it to the side. Glowing, he thinks. Jaskier is glowing in the light of dawn, red illuminating him like visible magic.

He sighs deeply, contently, and runs his hands over his wet arms. This will get Jaskier off his back about the smell for at least three days. Washing is a low-priority activity, fairly useless in the scheme of things, so the fact that Geralt is doing it anyway rightfully earns him a reprieve from Jaskier’s lectures on cleanliness and hygiene, and Melitele, Geralt, is there at least a chance you heard about the existence of soap, even in passing?

Maybe later, Geralt can hunt for deer in the forest. Or even fish right here in the river. He wouldn’t have to go far. They could make a fire in the spot Jaskier is sitting and lay their bed rolls right next to each other under the starry sky. Geralt lets a smile curl in the corner of his mouth like a small secret.

It’s ridiculous, really. All over the continent, men lie and start wars and make foolish mistakes to get what they want, when all anyone really needs is something like this, the sun on your bare back, one of Jaskier’s songs in your ear. There’s nowhere Geralt would rather-

“Geralt!” Air – water in his lungs – no air – hands clasping his hair – where’s the fucking air – claws hooked deeply into his shoulder, there’s no -

Strength always concentrated, but the fingers are everywhere, grasping his legs, around his wrist, precision is impossible, Geralt can only buck upwards, feet lashing out, his whole body shaking. One of them grabs his hands and tugs, and it hurts and he screams only he doesn’t because no sound comes out and more water pours into his mouth.

Fuck.

It’s drowners, bloody drowners, dragging him under. Where is he?

He’s a child, he’s supposed to fight, no, survive, but he’s only a child and the water is everywhere and they won’t let him lift his head. Survive. A body only learns when it has to.

He swallows more water, everything is black, but it must be drowners, musn’t it? Corpse-like, fish-like humanoids. That’s what they’re doing, they are drowning him. Teeth grazing over his calves.

His body is small and he is screaming at his lungs to grow the fuck up, to hold enough air to make it through, because he has to make it through. He is under water for months, he doesn’t try to come up, he stops squeezing his eyes shut. Poison in his blood, yellow-eyed, he came up after minutes and did not drown and was not a boy.

He is -

He has to get a grip. He presses his lips together and starts holding his breath. One elbow hits the drowner’s stomach and it eases its grip. He struggles with his whole body, until the fingers slip from his legs and he can come up – finally, finally come up and breathe again.

With a few quick strides, he’s on land again and he stumbles backward, his movement still not as smooth as he would have liked. He counts three of them and they close in on him.

And he –

doesn’t have a weapon

doesn’t have a plan

doesn’t have the slightest amount of common sense, what moron would leave his weapons at camp, would listen to the birds, would take off his shirt -

He won’t be subdued so easily, not by drowners, he could kill those in his sleep. He casts Aard to knock one of them backwards and Igni on the other two so they go up in flames.

He should have been able to smell the foul stench from miles away, should have heard the water moving around them, should have seen them in the corner of his eye, he should have sensed them some way, any way.

A punch straight over the ugly grimace knocks its head back. It doesn’t matter. He closes his fingers around the thing’s throat and lets his other fist rain down. He will learn from his mistakes. The drowner’s eyes start bulging, its pale skin turning to gray. It doesn’t matter. He won’t let his swords out of his sight again. He will keep a dagger in his boots. (He won’t take off his boots.)

He lets go off the drowner’s lifeless body once he is sure it is lifeless and gets up, still breathing heavily.

“Jaskier,” he says.

Jaskier is still where he was, only now his eyes are wide and his lute is the wrong way around in his hands, like a haphazard weapon. One quick glance tells Geralt all he needs to know – that Jaskier is safe. The drowners didn’t get to him. He is still whole.

The breath leaves Geralt’s body.

He frowns deeply, then, and walks over to one of the rocks by the river to sit down on. He doesn’t spare Jaskier any more glances. It was all his fault anyway, with his dumb lute-playing and his hang-ups on bad smells. With his contagious idiotic optimism and perpetual good mood. A mood so good even Geralt could feel it and isn’t that just hilarious? He shouldn’t have moods, good or otherwise. He should only listen and watch and ignore anything even remotely resembling a feeling. Eyes on the path. That’s all that’s important.

He is aching all over now, which puts a bit of a damper on his plans. None of it seems bad enough to require tending to, but for a while the pain will slow him down. If only Jaskier hadn’t been there, none of this would have happened. Geralt growls silently.

“I’m sorry,” says Jaskier.

Geralt huffs, presses a bit of bitterness through his nose.

“You should be.”

Finally, too curious not to, Geralt turns his head to look at Jaskier, too reachable over the short distance between them. The last rays of sun still make him look other-worldly. It’s just not fair.

“I -” Jaskier puts down the lute, seemingly irritated to be holding it. “I don’t know what was happening, suddenly I was just frozen – and I didn’t now what to do and I couldn’t think and then it was over so quickly. I should have grabbed one of your swords, done something, anything, other than just stand there like an idiot.”

Geralt’s mouth drops open. “What?”

He shuts it with a snap, suddenly, impossibly, angrier.

“Are you insane? Are you honestly telling me you feel bad now that you don’t have a death wish? You get to live another day. How tragic. The whole country is weeping.”

Geralt shakes his head and continues: “For Melitele’s sake, Jaskier. If you came closer and made me protect you as well, we might have both died. You should have just run.”

Run from the drowners or better yet, run from him. That’s what would have saved Jaskier, could save him still. He doesn’t have to die violently, die tragically, die young. No one ever chose this life for Jaskier. He can walk away. But Jaskier is bristling.

“And leave you to the drowners? I think not. I know friendship is a foreign concept to you, but some of us try not to be complete bastards all the time.”

“Listening to common sense is not bastard behavior, it’s smart.”

Jaskier tilts his head at that. “Well, I did turn by back on the academics.”

“Apparently, you turned your back on being alive.” Each word hurts more than the wounds on his body, but Geralt can’t stop spitting poison. “Honestly, if you had tried to participate in the fight and somehow made it through, I’d have killed you myself for being so stupid.”

“And you’re surprised no one ever offers to help you,” Jaskier has turned to him fully, a stoic look on his face. “Is this how all Witchers respond to affection? With scathing insults and threats of violence? No wonder people throw tomatoes at you.”

Affection? Geralt is supposed to be insulted, he’s pretty sure that was Jaskier’s intention, but his mind is stuck on this one word. Affection?

“I’m not surprised,” Geralt says, just to say anything. “I don’t need anyone.”

Jaskier only scoffs and does not dignify him with an answer. Instead, he just scrutinizes him. Geralt almost balks at his measuring glances.

“That’s enough of that,” Jaskier says softly and steps closer, which he shouldn’t, because Geralt is sitting by the water and any minute drowners could leap out of it and drown them both. “It’s over now, I didn’t do anything and you got hurt. Just… Just let me -” Geralt flinches back at Jaskier’s reaching hand. He won’t be coddled. He’s not broken yet, the pieces are still holding together. Jaskier has got the wrong of it – Geralt doesn’t need to be fixed. So what if he can’t even tell where he is bleeding from? So what if he can already feel the bruises forming beneath his skin? Geralt’s skin will mend itself eventually. There’s no use in tending to wounds that will have to do the hard part themselves one way or another, only in carrying on.

“Don’t,” he tells Jaskier and turns to the river, ducks down to the water. He was here to wash, so he will wash again.

This is not pain. Geralt has had half his ribs bruised and the other half broken. A werewolf once took out a whole chunk of his leg. He has been stabbed below his heart and barely survived it. He has held a red-dripping dagger in his hand, could wipe off the blood - but never the guilt. He has seen Jaskier on the brink of death, pale like a corpse. This is not pain.

(The dizziness will pass if he closes his eyes for a moment.)

(So long as a sword is sharp, it does not need to be clean.) And he drips away into the sand. His jawline washes away, not a word to be said. Turning dirt an ugly red.

He drips and loses himself. There goes the price, there goes the pain, there goes the monster that was a boy a long, long time ago. His lips drip away, not a word to be said, in the angry sand.

A little less shape, a little more nobody. Dripping away.

The scratch on his thigh, deeper than he thought, starts to burn. Let it, Geralt thinks. Let it burn. The scratches hurt, but so do the scars. The bruises ache, but he’s had them before. He barely feels them anymore.

He reaches over to rub his side, but a stab of pain shoots through him – the groan is out before he can stop it. And Jaskier heard, of course. He never listens except at the most inconvenient times.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Jaskier says and Geralt can hear him coming closer. Why does he always come closer to things that will only hurt him in the end?

“It’s nothing.”

He’d forgotten about his hand. It hurts, of course, but it is a dull throb among everything else. He chances a downwards glance but quickly looks away again. Surely his hand is not supposed to hang away at that angle.

“Then why the whine of agony?”

Jaskier, unbearably gentle, reaches out toward Geralt’s arm where one long scratch bleeds profusely and Geralt bats his hand away, with the hand that doesn’t feel numb.

“You could barely hear me,” he tries to argue.

“Okay, then why the small, tiny, hardly-audible whine of blasted agony?”

Why is Jaskier so stubborn in his pity?

“Might have broken my wrist,” Geralt admits. “Oh,” Jaskier says dumbstruck, then waves his hands around furiously. “Oh! Did you, now? And that was not in any way worth mentioning?”

“I can handle it.”

Geralt switches to rub at his rib cage with his other hand, but he brushes against his hurt wrist and has to bite down on his lip not to gasp again.

“Clearly,” he can hear Jaskier say.

“I have healing powers.”

“So do us mere humans, it’s called taking care of yourself. And your wounds. And it’s not like you can just snap your fingers and tada – wounds all gone. You’re still in pain.”

Jaskier is in front of him again, thinking he’s weak, thinking he needs something he doesn’t. Jaskier brushes the hair out of his eyes and holds his shoulders steady and each of his touches is inexplicable and foreign.

“How about,” he says gently, as though to a child, “we give your fascinating healing powers some guidance? Hm?”

“You want to set my broken bones?”

“I’d count that as a step of improvement!”

Geralt grunts, but he’s tired now. Letting Jaskier perform his useless healing rituals will be easier. And Geralt has never had the stamina to protest against whatever has gotten into Jaskier’s head.

“Just a minute,” Jaskier says and flurries off, toward their bags.

Geralt sinks down on one of the rocks, exhaling sharply and feeling like he just fought another battle and lost.

Why is Jaskier so insistent on this? Jaskier has always insisted on all kinds of non-sensical ideas, on accompanying him on monster hunts, on following him from town to town. But he has no benefit from this. Or is it about keeping a Witcher happy? Making him more agreeable?

Non-sensical ideas. Geralt never knows how to say no to him. Might that be it? A thanks, a gift? No. A price. Geralt lets him stay and in exchange… This. Touching a Witcher. Caring for him, against his every instinct. Yes, that makes sense, but also – (red-dripping dagger, broken ribs -)

Jaskier returns quickly and holds up a piece of cloth in front of Geralt’s mouth, clearly intending for Geralt to bite down on it.

“Here.”

Geralt can feel the annoyance rise in him again. “I don’t need -” “A tongue? I beg to differ, even if you don’t use it much.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, but he takes the piece of cloth anyway. Jaskier puts a piece of wood against the underside of his arm and Geralt lets out a small hiss when it touches his wrist.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Jaskier says, voice high. “Geralt? Am I doing this right?” “I’m not sure. I know how to fight. Was never too concerned with the aftermath.”

Geralt knows the basics of course, knows how to get hurt and keep fighting anyway, but he isn’t familiar with the details.

“You’ll have to push it back into place.” “That’s what I was afraid of.”

Geralt puts the piece of cloth between his teeth. Jaskier turns white when he looks more closely at Geralt’s limp hand – (white as a corpse, as pain disguised as bravery, as a cursed wish) – but he takes Geralt’s hand, almost as gentle as a lover’s touch, and Geralt can barley feel it but something warm rises up in his chest.

(Jaskier has already paid, hasn’t he? In blood, in headaches, in those small hurt expressions on his face.) “Oh my,” Jaskier mumbles, “I should have just become a – oh wait, I am a bard. Why do I have to deal with this again?”

Geralt would tell him he doesn’t have to, if it weren’t for the dry fabric in his mouth. But then Jaskier pushes and Geralt screams, only that he doesn’t because no sound comes out. In a second, it’s over and his hand looks less like it’s hanging from a string.

(And Jaskier still holds on to his hand, for one moment, two, three, four -)

“Now imagine your crazy Witcher powers had grown your bones together in that position – the water hags would have been very impressed,” Jaskier says with an invisible smile.

“Hm.”

Finally, Jaskier wraps some bandages around Geralt’s arm and a few around his palm, keeping the piece of wood in place. Geralt doesn’t know what to do with this kindness.

Pain is easy. Pain is passive. You only need to endure it. You don’t need to talk to it. You don’t need to be afraid of scaring it off.

Once Jaskier has secured the bandages, Geralt moves to turn away again, glad the whole ordeal is over, glad he doesn’t have to see the horror in Jaskier’s eyes any longer, but Jaskier grabs his elbow to make him pause. (Again, so gently, like Geralt is breakable – no one has ever seen him this way, something must be wrong with Jaskier’s head.)

“No, no, I’m not letting you off so easily,” Jaskier says.

(But he doesn’t want Jaskier to grit his teeth.) (He wants to be paid in laughter and lute melodies.)

Jaskier won’t be subdued by his glares. Instead, he grabs a bottle of alcohol from his bag and brings it to the wide gash on Geralt’s arm. The liquid runs over the wound, burning him.

Pain is the price. And Geralt doesn’t want to owe anything, so he always pays. Sticks and stones in exchange for yellow eyes. Bruises and broken bones in exchange for brute strength. Heart like tender meat in exchange for a bit of magic. Geralt doesn’t accumulate debt, he pays and pays and pays. (If he didn’t, if he let the debt grow, he might not live through paying it off.) Jaskier wraps him in more bandages and each point Jaskier touches with his fingertips burns too. Each brush hurts sweetly.

Ease me, placate the darkness in me, satisfy my pain.

Jaskier moves on to the scratch on his thigh. He moves the fabric of Geralt’s trousers and pours more alcohol. Geralt holds still and holds his breath. He can’t intrude on this moment. It could pop like a bubble if he made any movement that wasn’t careful.

Ease me, calm the storm in my mind, humor my misery.

For a moment, it hurts more, but then it hurts less. It’s not the alcohol or the bandages, it’s those touches, the tender ones that Jaskier bears for him out of a misguided sense of honor.

Ease me. Take me apart slowly and take care in putting me back together.

Once every wound is treated, Jaskier is standing close to Geralt and he looks up at him with wide eyes, like he hasn’t even noticed it.

You, with your soft smiles and your beautiful eyes, I can not touch you. I would absorb you. I would devour you. I will be your predator, just look at your small hand next to mine.

Jaskier has soft looking hair, but here is what Geralt does not touch: clean silk clothes. Porcelain dolls. Dainty flowers. Anything he wants to keep whole.

And then, as if he has to give Geralt anything more, Jaskier takes a rug and one of his expensive soaps and lets them hover above Geralt’s skin, asking for a permission he does not need. Geralt knows he should put a stop to it here, should have put a stop to it right after he set his wrist or before, but nobody has ever touched him like this. He lets the protest rest in his mouth, feels the bitter taste of it on his tongue.

(Don’t feel obligated. I know you want to pay me back, but you don’t owe me a thing.) (I won’t be your currency, don’t let me be your pain.) Jaskier moves behind Geralt and starts washing his back in circular motions. Geralt braves the touches like he braves any fight. One minute the world is kind, the next it could be scratches or even a knife. That’s how it goes. But the movements continue and his skin stays whole.

But then – and this might be too much to bear – Jaskier steps in front of him again – and how could Geralt let Jaskier touch him and have to look at him?

Jaskier seems reluctant too, his hand hovering right above Geralt’s chest, right where -

Please don’t touch my battered heart, please… Is it not enough it keeps beating? Slowly, but beating?

Thrum… Thrum… Thrum…

Barely, but beating.

I will let you touch my calloused hands, I will let you wash my hair, but please don’t reach into my chest, I couldn’t bear it.

When it comes to this, Jaskier is not merciful. He puts the cloth onto Geralt’s chest and lets it rest there. Geralt wants to say he can do it himself, but his mouth won’t open.

Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.

Why must you do this to me? A heart this dark will blacken your hand. Jaskier starts cleaning him slowly. Each time he moves the cloth, his fingers brush against Geralt’s skin. And each time it burns, with warmth and something shaped like love and Geralt should stop and really look to see that it’s not.

thrum thrum thrum

How could you make demands? It was beating, wasn’t it? What more do you want? Geralt wants to catch Jaskier’s wrist, but that would be too much. As if he were in a trance, Jaskier suddenly drops the cloth, but instead of picking it up, he splays his fingers against Geralt’s chest.

thrumthrumthrumthrumthrum Who gave you the right to make my heart human? So quick, so fluttering, so fit for love.

Jaskier keeps his hand there and Geralt is afraid he can feel it, will know a Witcher’s heart is not supposed to beat like this. He can’t stop himself any longer – he places his hand over Jaskier’s, just to hold it, only once. He finds Jaskier’s eyes and they are big from this close.

But he has forgotten what even the children playing in the forest know – when you are looking at something, it can look back.

“Oh,” Jaskier says and looks down at their joined hands in wonder.

Obviously, he didn’t expect this.

(Jaskier will not love the anvil. He will not love the mill that grinds and grinds. He will love the metal and he will love the grain, but he could never love Geralt.)

Geralt swallows, manages to press out: “Sorry.”

(Geralt is not unfinished. He does not have potential. He is all done, all ready, all used up.)

Jaskier draws his hand away and covers his mouth with it, as though to hold the shock in. Geralt does not sigh. He pays his dues.

“Why are you sorry?” Jaskier’s eyes are still wide. “You didn’t ask for this.”

Geralt is almost ashamed, not to feel this way, but to burden Jaskier with it.

“Of course I didn’t ask,” Jaskier says quietly. “You’re… unattainable. But I would have liked to.”

“But you’re just here for the adventure. Are you saying this because -”

Jaskier has done so much already. What if he’s willing to go further? What if he would give even this to Geralt, thinking he owes it to him? It does not sound like something Jaskier would do, but neither does the alternative.

“I’m here for – for this, for -” Jaskier reaches out to Geralt again. “I mean, someone has to take care of you. You certainly can’t manage it yourself, and where would I be, if – I mean, where would everyone be -”

“Better off?” “No. No. Stop being an idiot.”

“You’re the idiot. Are you saying you want this?”

Geralt gestures down on himself, half-naked, bruised and scarred. Age in the wrinkles around his eyes, menace in the yellow of them. Everything about him clunky, misshapen. Him and Jaskier like two parts that don’t fit.

“Want it? I lo-”

Jaskier breaks himself off, but Geralt’s breath still catches. Geralt lifts his uninjured hand to Jaskier’s head and impossibly, Jaskier leans toward him. Jaskier’s hair is soft and Geralt draws a small circle on Jaskier’s cheek.

Geralt can have this, Jaskier seems to be saying, and among all the things he can’t have, this is everything.

“I just want you to live,” Jaskier mutters into the space between their lips. “Not just live. Live well.”

He leans his head closer, until their lips are almost touching. “I want you to take off that gruff uncomfortable armor every once in a while. I want you to let me take care of your wounds, even if I can’t stop you from getting them. And I want you to sit with me. Just that.”

Geralt kisses him and hopes Jaskier knows this is every permission and every demand. I will let you kiss me and I want to kiss you. You can have my palm. You can have my open back. Just give me this.

And Jaskier does, kisses him like it’s a promise and Geralt hopes that it is. He does that now. He hopes for everything and thinks he might even deserve half of it.

Jaskier is holding his heart in gentle hands and Geralt can’t stop it, but he doesn’t want to. After all these years, it’s on the mend.

#the witcher fanfiction #geraskier fanfiction #geraskier fic #witcher fic #the witcher fic #the witcher #geraskier

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ambientstars · 4 years

Text

In need of a friend - part 2

(Dark!13 x f!reader)

Gif credit: @queerthasmin

Note: how do you write a peeing scene without it being awkward? Anyway, here’s the second part of the series, the previous part can be found here. Enjoy!

Warnings: just a lot of angst I guess?

- - -

You’d been trapped in the room for what felt like a lifetime, the lack of windows to give judgment on time due to the light and colour of the sky meant that you couldn’t know for sure how long you’d really been there.

It was quiet, too quiet. You’d fiddled with the radio on the bookshelf, but nothing happened, not even static came from the small speakers. Nothing else in the room, except your breathing, provided sound.

It was unnerving to be somewhere so silent you could hear a pin drop, the hairs on your arms and the back of your neck stood on end, your muscles tense, just waiting for something to scare you, to break the silence that weighed heavily in your ears.

Your finger delicately traced the spines of the old books on the shelf beside you, your eyes following behind as you quickly read the titles. Your curiosity piqued at one in particular, it’s deep red cover mottled, the golden lettering that read the art of science beginning to fade where it had been handled so much.

The book was heavy, it’s hardback cover adding to its weight, but it was ultimately the thousands of thin sheets of paper inside that gave it its body. It certainly wasn’t a light read, it’s owner clearly fond of lengthy reading sessions or perhaps a long time of short bursts of reading a few chapters here and there.

It also suggested that the owner was smart and a lover of science, it’s contents informative and filled with jargon you couldn’t even begin to understand.

With a sigh, you returned the book to its original position and continued your finger’s journey across the rest of the reading material available to you. Again you paused, this time pulling out a book that you knew from your childhood. A ghost of a smile played at your lips as you traced the title Mary Poppins, the memories of sitting down at bedtime as a child and leaning into your father's embrace as he read aloud to you coming back and filling you with a warmth you so desperately needed.

You took the book over to the bed and made yourself comfortable, your legs crossed and the book in your lap, just like you did as a kid. Inside, the pages were scribbled with almost illegible writing in red ink, questions like the bag is bigger on the inside? And sonic… umbrella? written in the margin, and unfamiliar words such as TARDIS and timelord wedged between the typed writing of the story.

You could hardly read the story, the red of the ink pulling your focus away from the intended words. You huffed in irritation, snapping the book shut and flopping back down onto the bed, your head hitting the soft pillow.

The one thing that could’ve brought you joy in this less than ideal situation, ruined.

You sat up abruptly at the sound of the door unlocking for the second time you’d been put here, your heart picking up speed in anticipation and your hand quickly pushing the book under your pillow in case you weren’t meant to have touched it, scared what your punishment might be.

Just like before, the small blonde woman came into the room with a gentle smile. In her hands, another offering of food and drink to which she placed carefully in the same spot as before on the bedside table, her thin fingers pushing the plate away from the edge so it didn’t fall to the floor.

You watched silently, waiting for her to say something, anything to break the tension that was rapidly building in the room.

The stranger’s face was soft and blemish free, young in appearance although her eyes held quite the opposite. She looked sad. Not the type of sad that made a person cry uncontrollably or hide away behind a mask of false happiness, she seemed the kind of sad beyond those stages, the kind that left you feeling numb and hopeless for any emotion other than despair.

A feeling of empathy spiked within your chest, your stomach sinking. It felt wrong to feel bad for the person who had captured you and held you hostage against your will, but something about her made you want to reach out and hold her hand.

She turned and made her way back to the door without a word, her head tilted towards the ground. She moved slowly, unafraid of what you might do to her with her back turned to you, uncaring if she experienced a sudden attack from behind, not that she would fight back at all.

“Wait!” You spoke before you thought, the words panicked and quick, almost slurring.

She stopped in her tracks, half way out of the door. Her head turned and she looked at you expectantly, waiting for you to continue to explain your outburst.

“I er… I need to pee.”

You inwardly cringed, hating yourself for even opening your mouth at all. You hadn’t planned what you were going to say, all of it so sudden, and quick thinking was never one of your strong suits, but a trip to the bathroom would be greatly appreciated.

She frowned for a moment and then softened her face once again, forcing a smile. “Of course, follow me.”

Her voice wasn’t anything like you expected, and yet it was much better. The subtle accent, the smoothness, all of it hitting your ears perfectly.

You scrambled up from the bed and followed behind her as she left the room, taking a sharp right and gesturing to the door right next to the one you had just exited. You barely had a chance to look around before she opened the new door for you and stared until you made your way in.

It felt odd to be in a new location, but the change of scenery, if only for a few minutes, made you sigh in relief. Your eyes studied everything in the bathroom, taking in the dark blue walls and white porcelain facilities and again you realised, no windows.

It felt awkward trying to rush, knowing someone was waiting for you on the other side of the door, but you tried to give yourself enough time to revel in this bit of freedom you’d been granted.

You turned on the sink and washed your hands, enjoying the way the warm, clean water felt on your skin. You splashed some on your face in an attempt to wash off the muggy feeling all the crying had left there, your skin feeling refreshed immediately after. You knew you’d need a shower soon, but decided not to push your luck. You’d just have to ask your capturer another time.

You wiped your hands dry on the hand towel beside the sink and opened the door, the blonde stranger waiting just outside, her shoulder leant against the wall. She smiled small and gestured back in the direction of what you now presumed to be your room.

You didn’t dare run off or even so much as make a movement that would have her believe you were going to run off, walking with careful precision back into the bedroom and placing yourself back onto your spot on the bed. You’d seen enough movies to know that if you made an attempt to escape now, your life could be ended.

The blonde came into the room also, perching herself on the edge of the part of the bed furthest away from you, her back facing you. It seemed odd to have her follow you and make herself somewhat comfortable now after only having been in and out wordlessly before, but you said nothing, again waiting for her to speak and break the silence.

“I’m…” she fiddled with the sleeves of her coat, her head hanging solemnly. “I’m sorry.”

Those were the last words you expected to hear from her, but here she sat, apologising with a genuineness that made your heart hammer and your palms grow sweaty.

“Why am I here?” You had so many questions, too many to think of in this impromptu moment. You knew that eventually you’d ask them and demand an answer whatever it took, but for now you kept your voice quiet and allowed her the time to answer.

She sighed heavily. Her shoulders were slumped and her hair fell over her face, blocking your view from her somber expression. “I just need a friend.”

Taglist: @another-doctor-who-blog @queerconfusionthings

#13th doctor #thirteeth doctor #jodie whittaker #doctor who imagine #dark!thirteen #dw imagine #dark!13 #doctor x reader #thirteenth doctor x reader #13 x reader

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shinidamachu · 4 years

Text

Neighbor Crush (The Thread)

Summary: modern AU, anyone? This was heavily inspired by a twitter thread I read a while ago, about a guy who developed a major crush on his neighbor’s voice and, with his roommate’s help, managed to ask him out.

Word Count: 2.015 Genre: fluff Fandom: InuYasha Pairing: Inukag Format: oneshot AO3 Link: 🌹 Fanfic.Net Link: 🌹

“I’m home!”

The abrupt sound of Miroku throwing his keys and briefcase at the table made InuYasha jump on his sit. It was a rare thing to do, taking him by surprise that way.

Unfortunately, Miroku knew so.

“You’re eavesdropping her again, aren’t you?”

It was hard to say what pissed InuYasha off the most: that Miroku had startled him, that he got caught in the act or the infuriating smugness in the bastard’s tone.

“Mind ya business.”

Ignoring his temper, Miroku went to their refrigerator and returned with a loosened tie and a couple of beers. He handed one to InuYasha and sat beside him on the couch.

“Come on, this is getting ridiculous. You have been obsessing over this girl for what? Three weeks, now? Just go downstairs, knock on her door and ask her out.”

Miroku took a long sip of his Heineken, as if rewarding himself for giving the world’s greatest advice. InuYasha wished he would choke on it.

“I’m not knocking on her door and asking her out, dipshit! We have no idea what the girl looks like!”

“Then do us both a favor and go find out!”

To be totally honest, her appearance was what mattered the least about this girl, although he couldn’t deny his curiosity.

Her voice.

It was her voice that started it all.

For two years he had been sharing this little apartment with Miroku and for two years it had been easy for them to ignore each resident of the building without a second thought. InuYasha was in no way a social guy and even though Miroku had a weak spot for the ladies, he had vowed not to get involved with a neighbor, ever.

“Location, location, location.” InuYasha remembered Miroku explaining once. “It’s simultaneously the best pro and the worst con. I’d rather not risk it, it could get pretty ugly.”

Knowing his tendency to hit and run, it was probably the smartest call.

And life went on as usual.

Until InuYasha heard her voice.

It was exceptionally loud. That was the very first thing he noticed. The second thing was that he incredibly didn’t mind at all. There was a sincerity tone to it that was ever present. Almost as if physically unable to lie. Sweet. Gentle. Smooth. But not in a generic way. He could download it into his GPS and drive forever. Her laughter had over him the same effect of sunbeams reaching out the untouched ground of a frozen forest and when she talks too low, something primal and urgent wakes inside him, letting him dying to know what his name would sound like between her whispers.

Then it became less about how and more about what she talked.

Her name was Kagome. She was in her twenties and had just graduated from pedagogy school. Three weeks ago, she had moved in with the girl who lived precisely in the apartment below theirs to save money as she adapted to the new job of substitute teacher. She had a cat named Buyo, couldn’t swear for the life of her, sang a lot, a bit clumsy, definitely a half full kind of person... Single, as far as he could tell.

Kagome had the most hilarious stories, most of them starring her little brother, her grandpa or her friends. He was especially fond of the ones in which she tried to be nice and it ended up blowing on her face spectacularly. Her heart was too big for her own good.

On the floor below, the girl in question left what InuYasha assumed was her kitchen and walked to the living room, turning the TV on. Even now, when the current conversation was supposed to be his focus, he found himself painfully aware of her moviments.

Miroku didn’t have to know any of that.

“That’s insane.”

“Why? How is that insane?”

“Hi, I’m InuYasha, your upstairs neighbor. You don’t know me, but I’ve been listening to everything you say or sing in your apartment since the day you moved in. Often on purpose, like a creepy person. Anyway, wanna have dinner sometime?”

“Lose the ‘creepy’ part and you’ll be fine.”

“Drop it, it ain’t happening.”

“Well, at least you recognize your obsession. Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recover.”

“You’re my problem,” he mumbled.

“Wrong, my friend. I’m the solution. You just gotta listen to me.”

“Yeah, don’t count on it.” Miroku laughed. “So how was work?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Damn straight I am.”

They made small talk and drank for a while, then Miroku pulled out his phone to check his notifications and InuYasha searched Netflix for an action movie they haven’t seen yet. The girl was binge-watching a sitcom. A good one, judging by the way her laughter reached his ears every now and then.

He smiled.

In moments like these, it was crazy tempting to walk down the stairs and go for it, but InuYasha wouldn’t dare. He was perfectly fine just hearing her life from a safe distance so they couldn’t hurt each other, because this is what love inevitably leads to — and that was assuming she wouldn’t reject his advances, in the first place.

Might as well save them both some pain.

“So what do you say? Shall we eat ramen for the third time in a row or order some pizza? InuYasha?”

But he wasn’t listening. In the apartment below, a door opened. Her roommate, Sango, had arrived.

“Hey!”

“Hey!” Replied Kagome. “I hope you’re hungry, ‘cause I just made lasagna.”

“And I hope you’re thirsty, ‘cause I just bought Tequila.”

“Tough day, huh?”

“Tough week.”

“Balcony?”

“You bet.”

The girls turned the blender on.

The balcony was their favorite spot to chat. It was also where the acoustic sounded better. To the point even human ears could catch the words.

One look at InuYasha and Miroku realized what it meant.

“Is she going to the balcony?” He asked, but didn’t wait for an answer.

InuYasha ran, intercepting Miroku just in time. One hand securely covering his friend’s mouth, the other holding him still. They were now in their own balcony.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

There was an attempt to speak, but it came off muttered. Even so, InuYasha refused to budge his hand. Until Miroku licked it. “Ugh!”

“What does it look like?” He questioned while InuYasha compulsively wiped his hand on his jeans. “I’m being your wingman.”

“I don’t need a wingman and will you shut up, already?” His whispered, angry. Miroku was ready to deliver a cunning comeback when the blender stopped and the girls stepped into the balcony.

“So I had to break up with Kuranosuke today.”

“Break up? I thought you guys were friends with benefits or whatever.”

“YES! WE WERE! THANK YOU! Now could you please be a lamb and go tell him that? Maybe I didn’t make myself clear the first four hundred times! Oh, stop laughing!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Go on.”

“It was a nightmare! The whole week he kept sending flowers and Valentine’s Day cards to the precinct. It’s not even february!”

“I’m surprised you didn’t get him arrested.”

“Believe me, I was this close. It’s hard enough getting their respect, you know? Being a female cop and all. He wasn’t helping.”

“I know. But hey! Someday you’ll find the guy for you. Someone who’ll understand how much your job means. I’m serious! You will!”

“Nope. That’s it for me. I’m done with men.”

“Funny, I’m in the opposite vibe.”

“Really? Now that’s interesting.”

“It’s just… I haven’t dated anyone since Koga.”

“Damn, you’re right! I haven’t realized it.”

“You know what? You should set me up with someone.”

Miroku playfully punched InuYasha’s shoulder, getting his attention. “That’s your chance,” he mouthed. The half demon shook his head.

“Hmmm… Wouldn’t Ayumi, Yuka and What’s-Her-Name be a better option for that? I’m usually cuffing most guys I meet.”

“Eri. And no way! They would just set me up with Hojo.”

“Right! And why won’t you date him, again?”

“Because he’s my friend!”

“He is cute.”

“A cute friend.”

“He likes you.”

“Not my fault.”

“Fine. I’ll d—”

“HEY, NEIGHBORS! NEIGHBORS!”

Mortified, InuYasha watched Miroku make a fool of himself. Like in a movie, his body seemed to forget how to react.

“Hi!” Greeted Sango. “I’m sorry. Were we being too loud? We’ll keep it down.”

“No, it’s okay, the walls are really thin. Listen… I have this friend. And he’s really into your friend’s voice. I was wondering if she would be interest in going on a date with him.”

“What?” Kagome let out a shaken giggle.

“Is this for real?”

“Yes! I gotta go, but check his Instagram out. It’s @InuYashaTaisho.”

Apparently very pleased with himself, Miroku walked inside.

“You’re a dead man!”

“What do you think?” Kagome asked, while InuYasha chased Miroku around the apartment.

“It can’t hurt to give a look,” Answered Sango.

“Five years from now, when the two of you get married, you’ll be thanking me for this.” Miroku dodged the pillow InuYasha threw on his direction.

“Don’t ya worry. Imma make sure to write this on your tombstone.”

“Sango!”

“Wha—Wow! This is him? What are you gonna do?”

InuYasha threw another pillow. Miroku caught it in the air. He was cornered on the wall and nothing could save him now.

Bzzt! Bzzzt!

Impertinently, his phone choose that exact minute to vibrate. InuYasha fished it off his back pocket and the notification took his breath away.

Kagome Higurashi started following you.

“Is that her?”

InuYasha ignored him. The only important thing was the dark haired beauty smiling brightly on his screen. Her eyes were big and warm, framed by extremely long black lashes. She had adorable bangs and sharped cheeks. The perfect shape of her lips rivaled those from a greek statue and they seemed to be painted in a natural shade of pink in almost every picture. Except when they were burning red.

He couldn’t have put a better face to the voice if he tried.

Scrolling down her feed, InuYasha continued to connect the features he didn’t know with the names he did. Sango. Her mom. Sota. Buyo. Her grandfather.

“Let me see!” Miroku ran to his side and hang on his shoulder like a parrot, whistling in approval as InuYasha went on. “Woah, wait, wait, wait! Who is that?”

“That’s Sango, the girl you just embarrassed me and yourself in front of.” He followed Kagome back.

“I think I’m in love.”

InuYasha glared at him.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“He followed me back!”

“Oh, it’s going down!” Sango laughed.

“Watch me.” Defied Miroku.

“What the fuck happened to the ‘not dating neighbors’ rule?”

“If four years of law school taught me something was that every rule has its exceptions. In this case, the exception is the absurd level of hotness of said neighbor.”

“On a second thought, go ahead and date her. It’s about time someone put you in jail.”

Miroku smirked.

“Should I say hello?”

“Definitely!” Encouraged Sango. “Don’t schedule anything until I check him for bad precedents, though.”

“You’re such a cop.”

Bzzt! Bzzzt!

Hi!

Hi! I’m sorry about my friend. He thinks ‘boundaries’ is an indie band.

She chuckled.

“Hey!”

“Don’t you have a pizza to order?” InuYasha faced him, eyebrows raised. Miroku narrowed his eyes and left.

“This isn’t over.”

That’s okay. So... you’re a dog demon. I’m assuming this is how you can hear us down here?

Actually I’m half demon, which means I’m only half responsible for invading your privacy. The other half is on you for being so damn loud.

Excuse me?! I thought you liked my loud personality! Wasn’t that the whole point?

To be fair, what I liked was your killer cover of Livin’ On A Prayer.

OH MY GOD! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU HEARD THAT! Okay. This isn’t fair. You’ve been listening to my voice since I moved in, but I have no idea what yours sound like.

The next text he sent her was his phone number.

A/N: it’s been a while, yes? Tell me if you guys enjoyed this one. Fluff is not really my thing. Let me know if I can interest you in a Part II of them dating and send me sugestions of where they could go, if you want to. If I liked them better than the ideas I have in mind, I might end up writing it (is not a priority, though).

Also, I want to dedicate this piece to @xfangheartx. Thank you for always being a sweetheart.

#Neighbor Crush (The Thread)#InuYasha #Kagome Higurashi #Inukag #Inukag Fluff #Inukag Oneshot #InuYasha Fanfic #My Writing #Inukag AU #InuYasha AU #Inukag Modern AU

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nurseofren · 4 years

Text

Keeping Your Promise - Chapter 22

Read on AO3

Read chapter twenty-one

Title: CONNECTION LOST

Words: 5800

Warnings: Rape (bow out if you need to, I will include a brief summary in the end notes), graphic descriptions of violence, graphic descriptions of trauma.

Summary: When it rains, it pours. And then the world starts to explode. So it's all just a giant mess.

ST Rambles: Did not upload yesterday because I wanted to take my time instead of rush this thing out. I truly hope you all have enjoyed the story thus far.

Okay, so. My ADN classes and clinical start again on Thursday. What this means: I'm taking a 2-3 week break from writing so I can get into a good rhythm for school and just find my bearings. I think this is a perfect place to take a break. It'll act as an intermission in a way. Jeez, I think you all have earned one by now.

[MASTERLIST]

Excess saline dripped in crimson creaks toward the floor, a bog forming beneath a shaking foot onto a towel. Two empty flushes laid in their respective positions, remaining diagonal to each other as they’d landed earlier. Another towel was set below your thigh as you propped it onto the bathroom counter with your knee bent over the edge, choosing to remain standing rather than chance losing the ability to crawl up from the floor if you’d sat. With every thumb-push of the syringe plunger new streaks of liquid agony soaked into the red, throbbing, raging wounds; each lick of searing solution reminding you of their harbinger, your tongue stained in acrid remembrance of the words which had fallen from it.

I hate you. The phrase you’d feared most had turned out to be the least insidious, its existence light-hearted in relation to the ones that came quickly after. The simple statement had catalyzed the catastrophe, its memory burning what remained of your heart, ashes now dormant and gray within your chest, each beat superficial in the way it sustained a life you no longer wanted. It was difficult to name what you were feeling, the uncertainty rooted in the fact that you were twisted in the clutch of grief and guilt while also floating in a nebula of numbness, the contradiction dissonant and dizzying.

With each haunting phrase, each sharp with a venomous bite, new collections of misery scathed into the scarring tissue, each tear acidic in its salty existence. A recoil was earned whenever recalling the wrath that inhabited Kylo Ren’s tone when he called you a liar, its mental presence ricocheting between your ears and setting your skin aflame with goosebumps, each wave of heated chills revitalizing the blistering burns as they settled into their intentional permanence.

Upon your left thigh, bright and belligerent and baleful, sitting just above the hem of your uniform, stung the evidence of Kylo Ren’s indignation. Staring down at the welts – two pointed, laser-sharp letters – shame accompanied the initial longing regard you held for the brand. You now bore the undeniable truth of your time with Kylo Ren, a raised K set in finality next to a partnering R, the pain-inked initials tied to a turmoil laden conflict you didn’t want to acknowledge. It was too pitiful, too pathetic and disgusting even in the infancy of its consideration.

At the fringes of your mind, the dark corners of consciousness you rarely visited, sprung an aching truth that thrashed against every belief you thought you’d once held. Yet, with each shiv of shaky air, every dagger of dread pitted in pain, you came closer to accepting it. Barely below the surface now, even as the injury pulsated with piercing torment, smarted in sync with the blatant beat of your heart, you could not deny the fact that you felt deserving of its detriment and relieved by its reality. As you tended to the wounds, using whatever scrapped supplies you’d accidentally brought home from the med bay, you fought to react in a way that would be appropriate to this situation.

The malice-born mark should have tinged your blood with fury. In its wake, the aura of red which bled outward from each initial should have filled your lungs with an indisputable hostility towards their maker. Right now, suffering in solitude, you were supposed to be cursing Kylo Ren, spitting his name and screaming hellfire over him as he’d singed into you. There was an overwhelming presence of heavy self-set expectation to sink into an unrivaled hatred for the creature you’d left in that room, the same who’d left less permanent proof in the past. Though, while the targeted tissue throbbed below your trembling hands as you attempted to apply an antibacterial protectant, you found it impossible to feel anything but misery for him.

The haunting image of Kylo Ren’s fleeting soul tore talons into your chest, a coughed sob echoing in your empty residence as you replayed the tangible change in his demeanor. Had light been scarce you swore you could’ve seen the shroud of darkness fog into his sclera, set his jaw flat and firm as he’d backed away from you. Swiping the salve over your wound you shuddered into yourself, time barely hindering the void tone with which he’d rescinded his trust, the abandonment in his voice contradicting the promise you’d made him the night he’d spoken protection over you.

Time ticked on, each second one of slow suffering. As you healed the outward wounds, inward ones formed fresh and raw, head pounding with pain and regret. Even that made wrought you with guilt. The whole reason you’d gone through with Snoke’s plan was to save Mason; his life had been equated to a trading card and it had been your doing. The least you could do was free him from the hell only intended for you. But, similar to the way regarded your new scars, shame took root in the acceptance that you didn’t deem the deal a fair wager.

Maybe it was just the immediacy of the situation, or maybe you were crueler than you’d once believed, but as you’d watched Kylo rip away from you, there was a silent moment where you wished you could allow yourself to embrace the selfishness that would keep him in your life. If you’d had the time to think on it, or if the ultimatum had been less dire, less fatal, in that moment you were swallowed by the fact that your choice would have been Kylo. Completely, entirely, wholly, undoubtedly, instantaneously. Mason had been a comfort for years, someone to rely on, the boy you’d founded a fictional future with. But you’d never wanted him the way you did Kylo. It was the most foreign, mortifying thought you’d ever held, but, however small, there was a part of you that would always choose Kylo. Over Mason. Over anyone.

“Fuck!” Anger swelled as a flare of pain lashed under your touch while applying a saline saturated gauze. “I hate this!” No one was around to hear you, but that was always when the harshest truths hit.

Steadying yourself with the counter and the door, you hobbled away from your working position, affected leg just barely grazing the ground while you made your way into the kitchen. “How did this even fucking happen? Why did it have to be me?” You stood away from a drawer, activating it and digging around until you found a roll of paper tape. “I left here this morning hating him. Why can’t I just go back? I-,” a strangle of tears came, fingers prying uselessly to find the start. “I want to go back.” Thick and faltered, the words fell from devastated lips.

Giving up on your hands you ripped your teeth into the waxy material, spitting the torn tape from your mouth once you finally found the start tab. A rush of hysterics hit, lungs stuttering in defensive laughter. “You can probably fucking hear me, I bet! What, you saw me then, why not now? Why wouldn’t you see me like this, you fucked, disgusting, wretched, voyeuristic scum!”

Pressing down on the damp gauze, keeping it in place, you reached into the drawer once more to grab a roll of left over Kerlix. Tearing it open – again, with your teeth – you pressed it against your upper thigh and held it in place, regarding your scars covered the surface area that spanned the length of your pinky, both horizontally and vertically. Wrapping the rolled gauze continuously around your upper thigh, you couldn’t help but appreciate how precise and clean the letters were. Even brandishing a pen of pain Kylo Ren’s handwriting was beautiful, the thought bringing you a hesitant warmth with a short burst of guilt. The uproar of conflict currently battling in your soul would surely be the death of you.

Taking the last strip of tape, you secured the dressing, smoothing your left hand over it to make sure friction was minimal. While doing so, you caught sight of a flashing message scrawling across in bright red capital letters. The radar had disappeared altogether, not only vacant of the red dot indicative of Kylo’s location, but even of the faint red lines it had moved across. Waiting until the message cycled through until the beginning, you felt your lungs empty as the last letter solidified the severance from your Master.

CONNECTION LOST

“No. No. No no no. Why?” Frenzied fingers tread through sweat sodden roots, pain shooting up your leg as it bore new weight. “I didn’t ever want this! Why? Why? Why?” Sinking to the floor, willfully basking in the pain, you crumpled onto the tile until ice bit the backs of your calves.

Heaves of air collected and left in rushed lungfuls, choked cries reverberating through the room while the heels of your hands dammed the influx of tears. A frantic effort was made to think of anything else, a distraction sought in the face of your now official loss. Cycling through this morning you recalled conversations held by stormtroopers on the Command Shuttle, sharing news and celebrating in the fact that the Republic had been destroyed just prior to landing on Takodana. Mason had gone out of his way all those weeks ago to tell you of the mandatory rally, only for neither of you to be on Starkiller to attend it. It had to have been at least two hours since it occurred, its contents and importance still a mystery to you. A shawl of shivers fell onto heavy shoulders, that feeling of dread you’d felt this morning reminding you of how this day had begun on an off note, like it was destined for doom.

A click and a hiss came from behind, your heart stalling and nose sniffling. The only other person who could have access to your residence was-

“Kylo?” It was a quiet plead.

There was no response, no movement. Unease struck the hairs on the back of your neck. Looking back to your watch, the same message still running across the screen, you didn’t know what to think. The first thing that came to mind was to grovel, to take his sudden presence in stride and fulfill your wishes of selfishness. This was your opportunity to tell him everything, already knowing the excruciating truth of not doing so earlier. Him coming back gave you the chance to right all the wrong done today.

Sloppy, careless movements brought you to your knees. Seething, you remained here while the stinging diminished. “Kylo, none of it was true! You were right. I don’t hate you. I don’t. I promise, I don’t. I can’t.” Confessions were abundant while he evaded your senses. “Snoke. It was all Snoke. He threatened Mason, and, and I had to. Please, you have to understand!”

There was still no answer, but a hiss; it was similar to the mask’s muzzle, but not exact. The difference was strange, like your ears were playing tricks. The sound was closer than the door, still out of sight.

“Kylo, I’m so sorry! I’ll do any- ah!” No matter how tender you tried to be, attempting to stand without pain proved impossible. “I’ll do anything. But please know that I didn’t mean any of that! You aren’t irredeemable. You’re not a bastard. I never… I never want to forget you.”

“And you won’t, I promise. Though, I’d prefer you call me by my name.”

Just as soon as you’d regained an upright posture, you nearly lost it. It was Robbie. He was in your residence. He was here. Robbie was here, talking, with you. At you.

“You know the one.” He came into view, armor intact other than his helmet. “Miss me?”

“How are you- how did you get-,”

“Mm, you really should be more careful, especially with belongings like this.” Robbie, wicked eyes slithering down your stature, held a black rectangle between two fingers. “You never know who might get a hold of them.”

As light glinted over the object your chest sunk in instant realization. It had been so long ago, such a minute occurrence that you hadn’t thought anything of it. All those weeks ago, only a few days after Kylo had barred your practice, you had lost the keycard he’d given you. The one that had been folded into his note was lost in an accidental run-in with a stormtrooper. Its absence had only been noticed a few hours after losing it in the cafeteria, when leaving Mason’s and having to get an emergency replacement that day.

“Don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.” A hobbled step neared you towards the counter.

“I told you the last time we spoke—” the card hit the floor with a booming clip, its sound lost in your pulse “—this isn’t over.” A slow step carried him forward, sending you back further. “Almost, but not just yet.”

His presence was mutilating, every muscle tensing even as your leg throbbed in rejection. The edge of the counter bit at the small of your back, hands gripping into the edges.

“Why are you doing this? Why now? Why me?” It seemed that was the question of the day. Two quivering lips took turns quieting pain and hiding fear.

“Why am I doing this?” He was a madman, visage void of sanity. Another calculated step forward, your pulse peaking. “I knew you were stupid, but this? Come on, you don’t actually think you’re completely innocent here, do you?”

One final step and he was smothering you, fury sweltering as it drifted from his skin to yours. His jugular vein was throbbing to match one prominent on his forehead. Kylo’s eyes may have resembled the emptiness of death, but Robbie’s were swimming with a vengeful desire to deliver it. Vomit rose when you smelled his breath, felt it hot over your nose in his proximity.

“Maybe you can learn, though.” He brushed a piece of your hair behind your ear, clammy hands slick over burning skin, scanning eyes set in thought. “Maybe you’re not completely helpless after all.”

Two hands strangled your own, tightened them to the counter as he pressed his chest against you, leaning down until he could bury his nose in the collar of your uniform. A complete breath hadn’t come since seeing him, head dizzying with thoughts of blame, rejection, and emergency.

“Why are you apologizing to Ren, huh?” Violating lips pressed into your neck, a whimper leaving as you fought to escape him, searching for the fasted route to safety while he couldn’t see you. “Say sorry to me, baby. It’s that simple.”

Self defense was useless against his armor. His lips pulled at your lobe, a gag forming at the touch. Twisting away from him, you peered down to the drawer and found a pair of scissors, their red handle bright in your periphery. The crushing weight over your hands became bruising, your throat thirsty for escape. The only way to evade him was to indulge him, to distract him with the very thing he sought most.

Repulsion clawed at your stomach. “You want me to apologize, correct?” Sultry words hid the sickness they brought.

Robbie hummed into your neck, nose now buried in your hair while he bucked his hips into you, fire sprouting from your wounds under the pressure. “That’s all I’ve wanted this whole time,” just as Snoke had claimed your last name, Robbie clutched your first, rolling it off in a purr.

“I bet you want me to say your name, too, right? You’d like that a lot?” Today had tested your ability to hide your true intentions. Brushing your thumbs along his hold, as much as you could under their restriction, you eyed the scissors. “The name I gave you?”

A grunt left him, another thrust into your brand fuzzing your vision. “Yes. Say my name. Apologize to me.”

Eyes shut tight while Robbie continued in his unwanted nearness, you swallowed hard. “Kiss me, then.” He stopped moving, shoulders still as air stalled in his lungs. “Kiss me and I’ll apologize. I’ll say your name.” It was a desperate hope to hold that he wouldn’t hear the shakiness of the offer.

“Dammit,” he breathed, “you can’t be taught.” Rage grated against his throat, grip leaving your hands and wrapping around your neck. He leaned you back over the counter, the stance awkward and agonizing. “What a stupid bitch! You think this is a trade? You ruined my life! You gave me an identity and ripped it away like it was nothing! Like I was nothing!”

Black pulsed at the corners of your vision, his face doubling and dizzying as you reached for the drawer, fingers inching over nondescript items. “Apologize! And maybe, maybe! I will let you leave here. How does that sound?”

Grappling your free hand over his clutch, you gagged for words, none escaping his compression while you collected saliva at the back of your mouth. You mouthed his name, eyes full of feigned pleads while your fingers found the scissors’ handle.

Robbie’s jaw quivered more while he watched you struggle. Your manipulation was working. That seemed to be a theme today. Though, this one was much easier to endure. Two murderous eyes flickered between yours, quicker and quicker with each movement until he released your throat just enough for you to form words.

Fist locked onto your weapon, adrenaline readying, you stared directly at him and hocked a gob of hot spit into his eyes. He went to shake it free, but your hand came up and slashed down through his brow and over his left cheek. Robbie’s hands flooded towards his face as you pushed him out of the way, scissors still in hand while you rushed for the door. But your leg was a hindrance, dragging behind you, eventually only hopping on the one when the pain began to cut deeper with each stride.

The door activated per your touch and basked you in the light of freedom, only for your head to fly backward as a fist dragged you away from safety. A string of winces left in line with a pouted scream. It barely registered but the exit hissed shut again, your forehead cracking against it with the same force that’d just been around your throat.

“This is what I’ve been waiting for—” a harsh inhale came at your nape “—you knew it all along. Away for months only to get new fucking security the moment you return?”

He had you pinned, legs splayed and arms flung out. Your forearms framed your head, his hands flat over your wrists and stealing every bit of opportunity. The scissors hung loosely under your hand, teetering closer to the floor with each second.

“You left me! I woke up and you were gone. Such a fucking cunt, and for no reason.”

“You are psychotic you sick, vile creature!” Pain seethed into your tone, bandage rubbing into the raised skin.

Robbie trembled with anger, his body vibrating at your back as he pressed further into your right hand so the scissors finally fell. “Maybe that voice was never beautiful.” His right arm bent your elbow behind your back so his abdomen could trap it there; when he was satisfied, he reached it around you so it lay flat in front of your mouth, grip wrapping around your left forearm. His head pushed into yours so your mouth went flush with his arm and your nose could barely attempt at breathing. “Maybe it was only ever annoying. Useless.”

You couldn’t escape him. There were no defenses left to attempt, the only one now bloodied at your feet. All you could do was endure. There was nothing left. No time. No saviors. All that remained was an overwhelming sense of guilt and a pestering question: did you deserve this? After all you’d done, all you’d been forced to do and go through with? In some way, was this karma? In turn for hurting the one you loved, you would be hurt by one who you’d wanted to love? Was this the restoration of balance?

A stifling hand rushed under your skirt, taking time to grope at the flesh over your underwear. Every effort to flex away from him was wasted, and there was so little left to fight for. The message that flashed over your left wrist taunted you, held you just as captive as the monster behind you; in saving two lives, doing what you thought was right, you had given up every aspect of your own. Robbie had snaked his touch beneath the thin fabric, now moving it aside and preparing his own clothing, and the only thing you could focus on was the patterned scrawl on your watch.

It was mocking you, emphasizing its point in the darkest moment of your life, your body stiff and scared with no lasting dignity. There was less than a person, less than a shell now. Each organ working to keep you alive was doing so in vain, purpose fleeting from your foggy thoughts; you’d returned to heal wounds you’d grown to want, and now you wouldn’t live to see them scab over.

You wretched onto his arm, biting down onto the flexed muscle, when you felt the head of his penis swipe over the back of your injured leg. Vomit threatened when his hips circled and he moaned, breath thick and satisfied.

“No, you’ll never forget me,” he huffed, “You won’t have the time.”

Robbie readied himself for penetration, your tears hot and obstructed at his arm, your eyes peering over at the watch as you tried to die at your own will first. Furious, unrefined disgust and shame stabbed your soul when you felt him proceed, felt him buck into you. Your brain couldn’t decide whether to catch fire or burn out, didn’t want to accept this as one of the last things you’d feel.

His breath shuddered at your neck, your cries silent and shattered beneath him. He attempted to speak, but something happened. Something sudden and fleeting and rapturous. A miracle born in the absence of hope.

The lights went out. Pitch blackness swallowed you, enveloped him and in tow distracted him. His restraints weakened and you slammed your head back against his, adrenaline softening the blow.

“Fuck!” Robbie tripped backwards, leaving you completely.

Stunned at the event, you stalled, not knowing what to do. You couldn’t move quick enough, Robbie catching your knee in his bent over position. It was nearly impossible to see him, but the red cast of your watch threw crimson shadows just far enough to glint off his bloodied features. He wasn’t going to give up until one of you was dead.

“Get off of me!” Of course he’d attached himself to the leg currently rippling pain through your body.

“We’re not finished!” A rough tug brought you down next to him where he attempted to climb on top of you, your fingers digging into his eyes and sending him to his back.

“No—” scrambling fingers searched the dark for your earlier weapon, drying blood sticking when you found it “—we’re not.”

Red. Everything was red. Robbie’s face. The blood which dripped from it. Your hands, the same blood streaking and drying in place. He couldn’t see you’d gained the upper hand. In a final glance over the animal beside you, searching him for humanity and drawing a blank, you felt your heart stutter with a decision that would mark you for life. A mark you’d make yourself.

Interlocking your fingers over the red handle, two steady hands pulsating over the hard object, you brought your arms up and slammed them down with insurgence, hitting the break in his uniform over his right inner thigh. Robbie roared in response, his howls echoing into the nothingness which surrounded him. The red haze of your radar glinted off the pool of blood forming beneath him. With each second, each flashing moment, it grew wider and fuller.

With a hard swallow, relief barely recognizable, you looked into his wide eyes just as the ground began to shake. “Now we’re done.”

Without dropping his stare, your hand slammed to activate the door and you backed out of your residence, watching him fade from view when it locked in front of you. It had to be done. He would’ve done the same. It was him or you. In searching for a reason why, you saw a change in the light coming from your watch. The flashing was different, and it started vibrating. Lifting it to your face, you found the message missing and the radar returned. It was fading in and out, though.

No matter, you were rushed back into the reality of people running past and into the floor lobby. A crowd surrounded the elevator, anger being pushed into the button when it wouldn’t respond. You and your floormates were exiles, the floor continuing its violent shaking. A cloud of rushed and flustered conversation plumed down the hall before every face turned towards you.

“Stairs,” said a quiet collection. “Stairs!”

A group of two dozen people stormed in your direction, their speed scaring you past your pain and into the stairwell. The group moved over each other, the leader switching between you and two men. It was a hushed chaos of stomping feet and fast breath. Nobody would make any noise other than the occasional grunt. On the fourth flight of stairs, more and more people piling out from the doors of their respective floors, your leg began to ache again. Though every step burned into you, you knew you had to escape this. You’d escaped much worse just a minute ago, and, for whatever reason, you were still living. Unknown to you, only revealing itself when it was entirely too necessary, there was a fight in you, and whether it be for yourself or someone or something else, you indulged in it with each step.

When the now stampede of officers of all backgrounds pushed past the doors into the Elite docking bay an alarming new mayhem ripped into realization. Hoards of people were fumbling and climbing over each other while screams tore through the room from all directions. TIEs were being crowded with as many bodies that could fit, and then some. The group you’d arrived with all flailed out, each person on their own journey towards safety.

Right where you’d left it earlier, before every horrible thing had gone on, sat the Command Shuttle. Even this far you could hear the engines stirring. Your legs took over and carried you as fast as they could, no matter the injury or barricades of people. The hell that had been born on this forsaken base would die with it, but you refused to do the same.

Each stride brought you closer the now ascending ramp, watching it close as you caught a glimpse of the future you wanted and were going to fight like hell to protect. One, two, three sloppy paces and your foot caught on the elevated ramp, your body sliding into the ship as it closed completely under you.

Desperate breaths stifled a groan as you slid across the floor. A white boot stomped in front of your face as you remained splayed and heaving beside it.

“Clearance?” It was a command, however useless as you felt the ship lift from the ground.

A dark thought crossed your mind – well, do you want my watch, or my keycard, or my uniform, or my leg? Rolling over you found General Hux standing on your opposite side. A thick gulp came as you patted your left arm to your chest, tracing over R – E – N to point towards your position.

“I’m his nurse.” Each word was separate and gasped. “His. I’m his. Commander Ren, I’m his nurse.”

The stormtrooper looked to Hux for approval, only for Hux to look at you with grim, stunned eyes and nod his head. “She’s authorized,” he said. He turned toward the bow of the ship. “Proceed to Ren’s location.”

Remaining on the floor, you felt the ship vibrate into your tired chest, felt the adrenaline course through you in violent pulsations. A veil was cast over your mind, everything close yet distant, present yet past. The only thing you registered was when the ship descended once more and sent your body towards the hatch again. Gripping onto the edge of a seat you strained your arms to keep still, not knowing what was going on, just aware you were still breathing.

Six pairs of boots crowded and fled the now open hatch, frigid air stinging over heated skin. “We’ll get his right, you three get his left!”

Ren’s location? Get his left? “What’s going on? Where is Ren?”

Your questions fell on absent ears, Hux now standing and staring out at the threshold until turning his body to allow the men more room.

“He’s breathing, General, but-,”

“But what?” It was the loudest you’d been since screaming in the halls.

Forcing yourself onto your knees, relying on the adrenaline keeping your own pain at bay, you stood to see your Commander being lowered onto the ground, three men at either of his sides seemingly struggling under his weight.

It was an automatic response to rush to him, to begin searching for injuries and checking for airway, breathing, and circulation hindrances. There wasn’t much hiding the emergency residing over his right side, splitting the skin and muscle apart in a broken, bloody stripe. It flayed his face, red streaks spilling from it and glinting in the low light of the ship.

“Stars! Someone get me some light!” you screamed, command taking over. This was your patient. This was your future. You were going to protect him. No matter what, that’s what you were going to do.

Two soldiers jumped at your voice, flooding away and falling into the wall when the ship catapulted upward once more. One grappled for the back wall and pulled a black box with a red medic symbol engraved on top. He threw it to the second and the three next to you scattered so he could open it for you and shine an overhead light.

“Hey! You three—” you barely glanced at the men before gesturing them down “—take these and apply heavy pressure when I say, understand?”

None of them moved when you threw three dense collection pads toward them. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?” They all quickly grabbed one and waited for your go ahead.

Angling yourself so you could finally find Kylo’s eyes, you leaned over him and watched as he seethed away; you didn’t know if this was a reaction aimed towards you or due to the very obvious pain he was in.

“Kylo,” you whispered, knowing it was too loud and chaotic for anyone else to hear or care, “you’re going to feel pressure and then it’s going to be really painful, but I need to make sure the bleeding stops. Just be prepared.”

He looked up at you like he’d never met you, like you were a perfect stranger. It wasn’t the nothingness from before, but instead something more alive. Wonderment, almost. Or shock. That was a more reasonable emotion at this moment.

Keeping his stare, you gestured the three waiting men with your hand. “Now.”

The men plunged the sponges into his wound and watched as the material expanded and filled with blood. Kylo’s jaw set firm and fluttered by his ear. A quiet grunt left him while your own breath caught. Watching him so pained and wounded was an impossible act. The only thought you’d allow yourself to have was of the relief you’d have once he was being cared for by a team from wherever the ship was heading.

Something warm washed over your right knee. Looking away from him you found it was more blood, another wound on the side of his abdomen dripping through his uniform.

“Fuck, I swear!” You threw your hands over it, pushing deep into his tissue. “How much longer till-,”

The ship answered your question before you could finish it, slightly angling to the side as it went into a rough, screeching landing. Kylo grimaced at this just slightly, lip trembling only a second before he returned to that same shock, staring up at you in silence.

Light seared into the ship when the ramp fell without effort, hitting the floor with two loud bangs. Before you could register, a team of medical professionals slid a transfer board below him and went to move. You grabbed one of the handles on the side, remaining at his waist while you watched him, keeping steady pressure over his abdomen. Blood sopping onto your hands and burying Robbie’s.

“How long has he been like this?” came an indiscriminate voice from behind you. A man, again. The same one who’d helped you with Talia. The physician you’d worked with to save your patient.

“We collected him probably five minutes ago. Initially I only noticed the one gash but found another two minutes ago. There has been constant pressure applied since discovery. The patient is semi-alert, not responding verbally, but appears to be awake.” There was no time for stuttering, the group closing in on the entrance to the Elite med bay.

“Another one right over his shoulder, sir.” Another voice, female this time, came from behind.

“I’m ordering stat fluids and blood replacement therapy. Along with that I will instruct the pharmacy to have antibiotics ready and for the arrival team to gain the appropriate IV access first thing.” The team pushed into the assessment room you’d come to know all too well, your feet stopping as the physician’s did next to you.

“Do you approve of those orders?” He snaked his head to get your attention.

Stunned, shell-shocked eyes peered up at him, head dizzy and ears rushing with blood. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You’re his nurse. You got him this far. Do you think anything else needs to be added to the immediate care plan?”

You’d meant to say no, to agree that the physician was appropriate and logical in his treatment. Instead, your eyes fluttered shut as sound began to fade. The ceiling grew in distance while you felt your knees give out.

“Get her head!”

The last thing you registered was a hand at the back of your neck and the sound of urgent feet rushing toward you. There was a faint set of three beeps which accompanied your fall, monitors running beyond the threshold where Kylo was receiving care. A team was caring for him. He was safe. You could rest now. You could heal now.

And so you did.

#kylo ren #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren x you #kylo ren fanfic #kylo ren imagine #ao3 #st kyp

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jay-and-dean · 5 years

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I don’t need you Chapter 6 : Wild cat

Dean x reader

Summary : She’s a warrior, she’s a loner. Nothing can stop her, nothing ever had. She doesn’t need Dean, does she ?

This is a request by @magssteenkamp that I decided to turn to a serie, see the original request on the serie Masterlist.

Serie Warnings : Swearing (duh). Mention of death. Smut, probably all kind from rough to fluffy, I’ll precise in the chapters if there are specific warnings. Fluff. Angst of course.

Chapter warnings : Swearing. SMUT, a hint of Dom!Dean, kinda Brat/brat tamer vibe. Unprotected sex (You’re smarter than this). Horny Dean. Violence with a hint of cruelty. Mention of past murder and abuse.

Words : 3.2 k

Note : I’ll try to stick to the 3k rule, like for Rescue You

If everything goes as planned, you’ll get one chapter every wednesday (Thanks to @magssteenkamp, I call it WednesJay, lol. Sorry okay, I shut up).

***Want to read more ? => MASTERLIST***

*** I don’t need you MASTERLIST***

_________________________________

6. WILD CAT

Dean’s Pov

Living with a woman…

Living with Y/n.

No one warned me. Living with a girl, and a girl you want. I never knew that.

In my life, I lived with Sam, with my dad, I “lived” in Hell and Purgatory. And in my car for months. I have shared rooms with Cas, and occasionally with other hunter friends during hunts before Sam came back. And for one year, I lived with Lisa, but it was different. It was her house, she was my girlfriend and I was… depressed. And Lisa, she… She was not Y/n, she didn’t have that effect on me.

Now is very different. The bunker is my home for real, and Y/n… I have no idea why this woman makes me loose my mind like that. I want her. I crave her. And since I had her, it’s way worse, it’s unbearable... And now she’ everywhere.

She’s not invasive, not at all, she’s even discreet, and like I expected, very independent. Like a cat you only see when she needs to eat or walks in the same room as you… A cat you can’t touch because you can feel she’s still totally wild and has claws.

But she’s here. And every little thing brings me to the memory of her strong thighs crushing my hips in ecstasy.

The bedroom we gave her smells like her, and when I walk to mine, I hear her music on the way, muffled behind her door. That third toothbrush in the bathroom, and the smell of wax. The books she reads all day, eager to devour all bunker’s knowledge, and she forgets everywhere she goes.

Maybe the worst is hearing her sorry voice saying she will hurry when I find the bathroom door closed ; imagining her behind the door, maybe naked, maybe brushing her wet hair or whatever…

I really should focus on our researches to find a way to get rid of that vampire mafia, but I can’t really focus on anything lately. The contacts we have, the leads… It goes nowhere for now and I should work harder.

I walk to the kitchen and find her there, she’s wearing that sweatpants she took off to straddle me. Her back is on me, her head is low, she’s reading something, and my eyes fall on the curve between her lower back and her butt.

Was it bad ? Sex with me ? Was it disappointing ?

Don’t be so ridiculous Dean. Overthinking everything like a stupid teen. Do you think because a woman had sex with you, she would want more ? Why would she ? Not because you are obsessed with her, she would want anything to do with you…

Look at her. She doesn’t need a man, she doesn’t need anyone.

I haven’t had my first coffee yet, and I’m already losing my freaking mind. She’s there, she’s right there, and I know how she feels around me now...

“Hey” I greet her, trying to sound casual.

“Hi Dean” she turns around, a book in one hand as usual, a cup of coffee in the other. “I made coffee.”

I take a mug and pour some of that extremely strong coffee she makes every morning. Strong like her, black like that leather corset she wears in the battle field. That freaking corset that was drying on the bathroom the other day, that tight… Black… piece of clothing..

“I may have found a job, lame job but still. At the gas station” she says putting the book about demonic possession on the table.

“A job ?”

Why would she want a job ?

“Yeah, so I can pay my… you know my stuff, food and all” she shrugs. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t mean I’m settling in.”

I wouldn’t mind.

“I told you we had fake credit cards. If you need anything, just take the one I gave you.”

“Dean…” she smiles kindly, taking a sip of her coffee and I realize I just love my name on her lips. “Fake credit cards are a privilege for hunters, because you can’t risk your life at the other end of the country and have a job, you protect civilians… I’m not even a hunter. I’m a freaking vampire slayer.”

“Well, Buffy, Sam found a case, would you come with us ? Or do you really want to work at that gas station ?” I smile wide, showing teeth, trying to stop looking at her naked thigh sticking out of the table.

“What kind of case ?” she asks nonchalantly.

Looking at her innocent expression, I can’t help but think of what happened. She… She freaking straddled me and took me right there… Since then… Nothing.

It’s like nothing ever happened between us, like I never came deep inside of her, like I didn’t want her. She knows I wanted her, she felt it, and I felt her need, I heard her pleas on the phone and I saw her beautiful orgasm on her face... Now nothing. Except I’m going crazy.

She seems to think hard, and finally answers.

“Okay. Let’s hunt with the legendary Winchesters” she chuckles. “When do we leave ?”

“As soon as you’re ready, Sweetheart” I state, using that nickname on purpose.

Reader’s Pov

Eyeliner.

Those dark eyes look back at me in the mirror, their black line making them harder, colder, and those stern pupils I was so used to. I tighten the cords of my corset, strangely loving the strong feeling of being held so strong, and the pressure on my spine.

I remember the first time I dressed like this. I was way too young, sixteen maybe or even less, and I needed to infiltrate that club. A really shady club...

I couldn’t afford clothes, I could barely afford food ; so I borrowed a corset from that prostitute that gave me food once or twice, Silvia. She hid me from her pimp several times, and told me to never take free drugs and to stay away from men in general… She was nice with me, and she’s probably one of the reasons (with the Supernatural books) I never gave up to selling myself when fear and hunger were unbearable.

I had never worn anything else than that dirty hoodie I slept and lived in for years, and it was the first time I could actually dress up and look in a mirror, hurrying in her bathroom while Silvia wasn’t home. I used her makeup too…

I felt so strong when I left her shitty apartment, for once I had made a choice, for once I was in charge… I killed two vampires that night.

And Silvia was found dead before I gave her the corset back, one of her “client” decided rough wasn’t enough, he decided the bruises and the humiliations would be more pleasant if those fucking rapes ended up in murder…

I found him. I killed that son of a bitch.

But the time after she died was the worst of my life. Not just because no one gave food to me through the window, because after discovering monsters are real the hard way… I was discovering the worst monsters are human. And those monsters, there was no Winchesters to burn them. I was too young and I lost all hope…

But I had that corset and a sharp knife. So I decided, as long as I had that, I will make their blood flow… And I did.

A wave of sadness goes through me thinking that corset burned in my apartment, the original one, Silvia’s memory.

That is what Dean doesn’t know about me. That is the reason I can’t let go to that desire I feel for him. Not only I have to stay away from this naivety that made the child inside me crush on him, because naivety is weakness and weakness is death…

But also, he wants to see me as a hunter… And what I am is a killer.

I get out of the bathroom and walk to the war room with the bag they gave me to pack my things. I don’t have much, but I really don’t need a lot, the only thing is…

“Could one of you lend me a jacket ?” I say, putting my bag on the table. “My coat burnt and...”

Dean jumps from his sit, nodding, and walks pass me.

“Won’t be as fitted as your clothes though” he states, eyeing my cleavage for a second.

“That really doesn’t matter” I assure him.

When he comes back, he hands me that beautiful dark blue jacket he wears a lot. And I feel like a freaking cliché when our fingers touch, and even more when I wrap myself in that jacket of his. The little scared teen in me screaming in my head.

But that teen is dead a long time ago, and I intend that she stays dead.

Dean’s Pov

Y/n is fierce against vampires, but she’s just as much against any other monster.

Since we left home, we have solved one case after another, without any break like Sam and I did some times, mostly when one of us needed to unwind for some reason.

This time, all of us do need relief, for different reasons. And we make the best team… ever.

Everything is perfect, her sharp mind completes Sam’s brain, and her formidable fighting skills make our trio almost invulnerable.

And after the job is done, drinking a glass of whiskey with her really feels like hanging out with my best friends.

Y/n fights like this ghost, like this ghoul, like this shapeshifter was precisely the one who killed her parents. She is an efficient killer, if she decides that you’re dead, your head hits the floor before you realize it. It’s a freaking execution.

And watching her using those moves, both smooth and sharp to end the worst creatures of the universe makes me all dizzy every time.

She’s graceful in her ferocity and hunting with her adds something Sam and I never had, not even with Cas or Jack or anyone : an action movie vibe or something like that ; I think I never enjoyed hunting that much.

And I have to admit none of it helps with my obsession. I didn’t know I could be hard as steel while burning a corpse…

But as efficient as she is, able to kill without more than one stroke, she can also enjoy it… cruelly.

She’s like a cat that could end that mouse with a single bite, but plays with it a little.

She’s fucking scary.

Right now, the mouse is a 240lbs werewolf with a special taste for captivity and young hearts. He and his friend made their own little reserve in his basement, but it took us less than six hours to find who they were.

She broke his knee, stabbed him in the back, and watches him try to crawl to the forest now. She’s smiling wide, her face covered in red dots from the throat she cut just before.

“Crawl, crawl little bad wolf” she hums, turning around him like a shark.

“Dean” Sam tries to get me out of fascination, I know he things we should end the beast but I’m not giving her orders… It’s her pray.

My eyes are on her and I can’t really move, fascinated by her every move.

This woman is not like anybody else, and that monster massacre we’re on for a few weeks, it got me high on blood and on her. My body is filled with adrenaline, I’m horny and hungry constantly, my few hours of sleep are so deep I feel like dying every night…

“Y/n !” Sam calls her and she turns toward us.

I know my pupils dilate when her burning eyes find mine.

“Kill him” my brother almost whines.

She sighs, walking toward the car behind us, she hands me the gun when she walks pass me. It doesn’t entertain her anymore.

I take three quick steps to him and put a bullet in the werewolf’s head. Sam puts three little drops of that magic oil she taught him to do, says the incantation, and the body catches fire. That fire that wont spread, but that won’t stop until nothing is left of his target. This thing changed our life…

Tonight, Y/n has a room of her own.

When we can, we try to give her some privacy, and I have to sleep in a room so boring… a room that doesn’t have her in it.

“Y/n is really good” my brother says, putting his bag on his bed, but I know something bothers him. “And… I mean, with her we save twice more people.”

“But ?” I ask sternly, grabbing a beer in the fridge.

“She really likes to kill, Dean.”

“I do to, Sammy” I state honesty, able to admit it without a flinch now.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong” Sam ignores me. “I know she’s a good person and she proved a thousand times already that saving people was the real goal for her too. But she’s… I don’t know, wild ?”

When he says that, my heart misses a beat. She’s wild, yes, and she awakens something in me that I didn’t know.

“I feel like hunting with a time bomb sometimes” he sighs.

“I’ll talk to her” I say, ignoring the confused look on his face.

Of course, that was not what he was expecting, like you could just tell someone they’re a time bomb… But Y/n and I, we have a special relationship, and I really feel like I can tell her anything.

I knock and she opens with her gun in her hand, smiling when she comes face to face with me.

“You need something ?” she asks, letting me in.

“Just talking” I state.

“Okay” she frowns. “I’ll take my shower, after. Whiskey ?”

I nod and she takes a big sip directly the bottle, handing it to me.

“Sam thinks you’re a time bomb” I declare with no introduction, drinking way too much from that bottle.

She freezes, chuckling a little with her eyebrows raised.

“Sammy’s afraid of me now ?”

“He’s not afraid” I grunt, feeling the alcohol increase my desire for her. “He thinks you’re wild.”

“Wild, huh ?” she laughs, a mocking expression in her voice and on the corner of her lips.

I want to make it disappear from her pretty face, I need to see this grin turn into that ecstasy face that looks like a slight pain. I lick my lips.

“Well Sweetheart, you are” my voice is suddenly lower and she starts searching my face.

“And is that a bad thing ?” she shrugs.

I get up, and come near her, feeling my blood boil in a feeling between an inexplicable anger and a raging desire.

“Are you untamable, tigress ?” I groan, my eyes going from her bloody cleavage to her amused face. “Do you think it’s funny ?”

“A little, yes” she chuckles when I make her walk back. “What do you think you’re doing, Caveman ?”

I lose control of my hands and grip her waist, my nails digging in the black leather of that damn corset, crushing her body with mine against the wall.

When I try to kiss her lips, she turns her head slightly, offering me her jaw to bite instead, and I do. She doesn’t want kisses, she doesn’t want anything tender. I would love to give her more than sex, but so be it…

My hand finds her neck, taking it to keep her still and she groans.

Her hands fly to the thigh holster she’s still wearing and grab her gun. In a split second, the barrel is pressed against my temple, but I don’t flinch.

“I could kill you just like that, Winchester” she groans and I still don’t move.

“Go ahead, tigress. Kill me.”

She smiles hand I start nibbling at her naked shoulders with that gun still on my head, rubbing myself on her like a freaking dog in heat, groaning in her ear, my thumb spreading the mix of blood and sweat on the side of her burning neck.

When I let go of her neck to start undoing her pants, she bends and bites my shoulder, hard enough to make me scream in pain and wrap my hands around her throat again.

“Freaking cat” I grunt, struggling with her belt with only one hand.

When I finally manage to open it, I slip my finger in it and she lets the gun fall loudly on the floor. My hand finds her folds, and a grin appears on my face.

“You’re soaked, how surprising is that ?” I let out in a growl, slipping my middle finger through her folds, teasing her clit and entrance.

“Fuck you, hunter” she groans, but a desperate moan escapes her lips and my cock twitches so hard it hurts. So I let go of her delicious pussy, the smell of her arousal coming out of her panties along with my fingers.

With my shaking free hand, I almost rip my pants open and push it down, not realizing I’m squeezing her neck a little harder in my eagerness.

Her face is red and her mouth agape, she licks her lips and another insolent smile appears on her beautiful face. I know I can’t let go of her or she will attack me or run away.

“Take your pants off” I command unable to do it myself, and she lets her head go back. “DO IT WILD CAT !”

She pushes her jeans and panties down enough so I can take it off with my foot. And without losing another minute, I grab her thighs, spreading them for me, and carrying her.

“GRAH” she cries out when I enter her without any foreplay, burying myself between her throbbing walls in a sharp thrust.

I could come right now, the tension accumulated in me for weeks making me as feral as she is in battle.

“Yes, fuck yes !” I moan is her neck, as I start to thrust toughly, banging her hips on the wall each time.

She grabs my hair and tug at it hard, but I ignore the pain and keep chasing that ecstasy only her can give me so good.

“D-Dean…” she suddenly almost pleads, vulnerable.

I look up and notice she is struggling to breath.

“C-Corset” she whines.

Without withdrawing, I grab the knife on the table and brutally cut the lace caging her. The second I free her, she gasps and grabs my belt on the middle of my ass, encouraging me to take her harder.

And I do.

She can’t open her eyes now, her head back on the wall, her mouth open, and it’s too much for me to finally win that from her.

I reach my high so violently that I almost make the two of us fall, her hungry walls milking me strongly right away, her thighs shaking around me while her hands desperately try to push me.

“Y/N FUCK !” I yell, lost in both our orgasms mixing together.

Panting in her neck, I dread the moment she will push me away. So I enjoy every single second against her skin like it was the last… It probably is anyway.

________________________

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ineffablecolors · 4 years

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The Wife [24/24]

The Wife || Ch 24 ~ 8.8k || Ch1 Ch2 Ch3 Ch4 Ch5 Ch6 Ch7 Ch8 Ch9 Ch10 Ch11 C12 Ch13 Ch14 Ch15��Ch16 Ch17 Ch18 Ch19 Ch20 Ch21 Ch22 Ch23 || FF.NET & AO3

Summary: No one knows all that Emma has been through and certainly no one knows all that Killian has been through and being husband and wife doesn’t make them any less unknown to each other. And really, how can you help someone heal when you don’t even know how hurt they are?

A/N: First, forgive me. This is half a year late but life is unpredictable sometimes and the muse - always. This last chapter is the longest of this fic and I sincerely hope it makes up for the long wait. For a moment there, I didn’t think I would be able to finish this in a way that satisfied me but I’m actually quite pleased with what you are about to read. I hope you will be too. Second, thank you. This fic has proven to be my best experience in this fandom. Thank you for all the excitement, for the gifts and for the gifs, for the long reviews and for the “loved it” reviews, for the kudos and for the likes, for the messages and for all the little jokes. I never would’ve written this without you guys. This isn’t mine, this is ours. Thank you for the love!

The silver platter hits the table with a clatter – all empty cups and plates, she didn’t know the girl could eat this much even if she forced herself, which Mrs Lucas suspects she has.

“Well?”

“’Well’, well, he says. You couldn’t have picked one that isn’t stubborn as a mule, could you?”

“If we are being precise, Liam—”

“Oh, we’re being ever so precise! So precise she won’t let her toe graze the carpet.”

Killian frowns deeply and Mrs Lucas feels her shoulders slump even before she has decided to give up being vexed with him and his lady wife.

Truth be told, Mrs Lucas was plenty relieved at first. She has seen her fair share of foolish women frequenting dances and even riding while with child. Mrs Jones deciding to remain at home looked like a blessing alright, before it became clear that the girl had decided to order herself on bedrest before one could even properly tell there was a babe growing inside her.

That was almost two weeks ago and it seems to Mrs Lucas that they have tried every trick for luring her outside. All save for the direct one.

“It seems to me that it is her husband who must talk to her.”

Killian gives her a look that is part disgruntled old man, part petulant little boy and the way his mouth works tells her he is resisting the urge to argue semantics and point out that he walks to his wife every day. Just not about what needs talking about.

///

He opens their bedroom door a couple of hours after talking to Granny, after letting Roger take him as fast as he was willing to go. He’d decided even before saddling the beast but the acute absence of Buttercup beside him or Emma pressed warm and soft again his back certainly solidified his courage.

The sun is starting to itch down and Emma’s fingers look like spun gold as they smudge the pencil lines on the sheet before her. Her ring doesn’t seem to reflect the light but rather absorb it into itself and it makes something possessive and very satisfied purr in his chest.

He sits on the edge of the bed and dives his hand under the blanket, searchingly blindly until he finds her ankle and curls his fingers around it – they close perfectly, the tips of his thumb and middle finger touching over the smooth hardness of her malleolus. He studied all the known bones in the human body in a fit of morbidness and cynical humour when he first lost his hand but the memory that comes to mind is one made in this very room, much too late into the night, and saturated with Emma’s almost constant giggles and sharp bursts of laughter as he recited all the names of her bones in the most tactile manner possible.

Now he circles the bone under his thumb and waits for her to finish drawing and look at him, not allowing himself to peak at her work, knowing she hates anyone seeing her sketches all the way until she grows either bored or pleased with them and abandons them on a windowsill. Her work was always good but he thinks it has been growing progressively better and he is having more and more difficulty holding his tongue about it until the right time.

Eventually, unhurriedly – he is both exasperated and incredibly pleased in her confidence that he will wait at the foot of the bed as long as it takes to receive her attention – she sets the sheet on the little bureau beside the bed – face down, pencil on top – and lifts her eyes to his. In the afternoon light, her eyes are golden too and this becomes one of those moments that make him very aware of how very beautiful his wife is.

He stands up and inclines his head toward the bath he sent Ruby to prepare before he came up.

“Trust me?”

It is not the layered question it might have been a year ago. It is mostly just that – I have only one hand and I want to lift you in my arms, will you trust me to do so? He doesn’t know if that is indeed what she hears, the way her eyelashes flutter, the way her mouth softens, but then she lifts her arms toward him – so innocent and child-like and trusting that Killian feels the space where his heart lies burning.

The flames in the fireplace reflect along the length of the white bathtub. There’s something different in the air, something tart and speaking of citruses because Emma doesn’t seem to like her old perfumes and soaps these days, because Ruby knows all and is – always, miraculously – prepared for it.

Killian’s arms are hard and firm as iron around his wife and yet, his step falters imperceptibly when her fingers first tangle in the ends of his hair. It’s hypnotic, euphoric. Her thumb glides over the muscles of his neck, pressing at intervals – curious and bold, as her fingers move ever so lightly through the grey strands. His hair has grown longer than is proper in the last month, he has taken advantage, delight even, in getting completely off the merry-go-round of society.

She is warm in his arms and slightly heavier – almost unnoticeable unless you are looking for that last confirmation the way he is, he stops half a pace from the tub and drops to one knee, lowering her ever so slowly into the water. She ripples all over at the first touch and he hides his grin in her hair.

“Oh, you are something else.”

He hums, inhales her before he pulls back to look in those molten eyes.

“All I am is yours, my queen.” His voice is the embodiment of reverence and supplication but the look in his eyes must betray his baser thoughts so he keeps them firmly on hers.

Her cheeks flush quickly, the warm bath and the blatant flirtation attacking in tandem, she lifts her shoulders slightly and gathers breath to pay him in kind. But he knows her ever so well, well enough to steal it again, ducking his head in the exact moment when the tops of her breasts peak out of the water and pressing his mouth to the soft skin.

It’s tempting beyond belief to touch and tease and enjoy her like this but he did in fact intend to help her with her bath and the ends of her hair are already growing heavier and darker. He rolls his left sleeve and watches her leave wet spots all over as she does for his right. He grabs a comb and shuffles behind her, pressing his body against the cool surface of the tub for relief, to keep his mind somewhat clear and starts working his way down her tresses.

“Emma.” He lays a curling strand over her shoulder and runs his knuckles over the long expanse of her throat – up and back to the nape of her neck, gathering another section of hair. “I’ve pondered— that is… I believe… love, I believe everything is going to be well.”

The air is still for a moment, the only sound the crackling from the fireplace. Then there’s a slight tug as she nods. Confirmation because of decisiveness rather than belief, he thinks.

“What I mean to say is that I want you to stop worrying.”

“I’m not worr—”

“You haven’t left this room in days.”

“My being careful does not mean I am worrying, thank you ever so.”

“Emma.”

“It does not.”

He presses his lips together and continues working the comb’s teeth between the strands of her hair. He itches all over to snuff out the tension in the citrus-scented air, to smooth his hand over her shoulder and embrace her and tell her that she is right. Alas, she isn’t always. His brother would laugh to death at him but Killian wants his wife to always be right, it makes him feel like he is losing his footing when she isn’t.

Emma’s sigh is deep, nettled but almost accepting now.

“Perhaps…,” her voice is small but she tips her head back on the edge of the tub and he can almost see her eyes. “Perhaps I’m a little scared.”

“That makes you a good deal less scared than me, love.”

She snorts – mellow and undignified and private and he drops the comb and slips his arm around her, resting his palm and forearm over her sternum and his cheek on her neck, wet hair sliding against skin.

“It’s going to be my fault if—” she starts.

“Nonsense. That is nonsense and you know it.”

“It is not. You don’t know. I feel… It feels like in all the world only I can protect this little thing that needs so much protecting.”

“Aye, I don’t know. What I do know is that you are the best protector anyone can ask for. And what you seem to forget is that… this time, this world, our world would do everything to protect you both.”

She is silent long enough that he picks up the comb again but when he takes a section of hair she hums and turns her face to the side, her lips pressing against the inside of his wrist.

///

She knows Killian means well, what is more, she suspects he might be right. But the thing is that Killian has already done this, he already is a wonderful father, he has already raised a beautiful, healthy and happy daughter. Killian could never muck this up. She just needs to be certain that she won’t either.

As with most things, Killian Jones changes her mindset and she has to give him extra credit for not even being present when doing it. It’s just that it does get insufferably boring to stay in one’s bed all day long, no matter how tall the pile of books by said bed and no matter how many different sunrises she draws. The house is still much too quiet without the girls there and somehow she manages to miss her husband any moment he is not being doting and overbearing. So, this is how Emma finds herself throwing off the thin blanket laid over her legs, wrapping herself in a shawl and tiptoeing out of her room.

“I did not know that I was married to a thief.”

Killian’s head comes up lightning fast, his neck pops audibly and his eyes widen in surprise and crinkle with joy as he finds her with a hip against his doorway. It takes him a moment and then another but Emma waits patiently for his mouth to quirk up and for him to lean back in his chair and meet her challenge.

“I’ve been called many a thing, my queen, but this is the first I’m hearing of my being a thief.”

“Everybody gets caught eventually, my heart, and you most certainly did not pay for that,” she says and nods toward the framed drawing hanging above his head.

Truly, it’s ostentatious and a little bit ridiculous to have it handing there. The sketch is good enough, if she does say so herself, but it’s old and messy and clearly abandoned much sooner than it would have been decent enough to display anywhere, let alone in a such a place of pride. It is far from the best rendition of this particular subject that she has been drawing ever since he told her.

“Oh, this?” Killian leans his head back so he can see the drawing and Emma can see the long expanse of his throat. “Why, Mrs Jones, I found this masterpiece just lying about on my property. I must say I’m rather in love with the style but for the life of me cannot seem to track down the artist.”

Emma shakes her head and moves further into the room, Killian pushes away from his desk and turns to face her as she circles his desk. She does so love every surface in this study.

“In love, are you?” she asks coyly even as she straddles his lap shamelessly.

“Hopelessly,” her dramatic husband says as both his real and wooden hand find her hips with studied accuracy and he rests his chin just below her belly, pressing a soft, absentminded kiss there that makes it flutter the way her eyelashes do. “Thank you for giving me my island, Emma.”

///

Alice and Robyn are back within a week of the three letters Emma and Killian pen, sharing the newest development in their life with their closest friends and family.

“Have you chosen a name for her yet?”

“Why are you so certain it should be a girl?” Emma asks, even though she is quite certain herself and delighted and anxious and impatient and many other feelings that she keeps stored beside her and Killian’s bed to unfold and examine only when it’s late and cloudy and just the two of them. The name of their child has yet to see the clouds of such a day.

“Oh, it is simply papa’s fate to be surrounded by ladies,” Alice answers as she winds another layer of wool around Robyn’s patiently extended forearms. Everyone but Alice is convinced that she has no idea what she is doing, mostly because she hasn’t even decided what it is she wants to make, but she and Robyn have been kneeling before the hearth and untangling Granny’s balls of wool long enough that now something simply must be done with it.

“Ladies?” Killian looks up from his papers and pulls his glasses a little down his nose, making a show of carefully surveying his surroundings. “Why, I cannot remember the last time I saw one.”

Emma gasps in a way worthy of her husband’s own theatrics even as Alice takes hold of one of the balls of wool and throws it like a true markswoman straight at her father’s head, dislodging the poor spectacles further, while Robyn agrees mournfully that she herself has forgotten what such a thing as a lady even looks like.

Emma couldn’t be happier to have them back.

///

One thing Emma never expected from her older and storm-wrought husband the first time she met him was to ever see the child that he surely must have been, the playfulness and innocence of youth. Emma remembers that assumption wobbling unsteadily the first time she saw Killian sitting on the floor and then a little more every time she watched him enjoy his cocoa a frankly undignified amount. She thinks this is the moment when the last rock of what’s left of that assumption topples, as she watches Killian lying on his stomach between her generously spread legs, head tilted to the side and tongue and teeth working over his bottom lip as he measures her breasts with his good hand with all the dedication a physician might apply to his life-saving research.

“Killian, they have not changed.”

Killian ignored her for a moment, then looks up with all the disappointment in the world gathered in his blue eyes. She suspects he positions the candles in their bedroom just so to give him the utmost dramatic flair when he himself is positioned just so between her legs.

“It is an outrage and a travesty how little attention you have paid to your own lovely form.”

“If I did, neither of us would get anything done, my heart.”

Killian’s grin is unrepentant, triumphant even.

“Precisely so, love. Thus, I am the expert on matters such as these and can assure you that differences are present, have been noted and must be properly appreciated.”

Even as she shakes her head, Emma arches her back a little off the mountain of pillows behind her, pushing her chest toward the warm radiating off of Killian. He obliges her with hand, stump and mouth and difference or not, Emma delights in being properly appreciated.

It is perhaps why the question catches her unawares later, somewhere in that state between the clearest pleasure and the deepest comfort, as she melts against Killian’s body and traces her nose along the edges of a long scar on his side – rhythmic and hypnotic and gradually putting herself to sleep.

“Have you given it any thought?”

The hum she lets him have is more than she thought herself capable of giving right now. It makes him chuckle, a hint of smugness in it that would make her roll her eyes if he had not earned it so thoroughly.

“A name. For our lass, according to all of you.”

“Oh.”

She follows that scar until her nose is buried between Killian’s hot skin and their silken sheets. Killian twitches a little and his hand tangles in her hair.

“I have no good ideas,” she mumbles somewhere under him and tilts her face so it’s now her mouth that brushes the raised skin, her tongue flicking out to taste the uneven texture. Killian groans above her and his hold tightens.

“Perhaps,” he swallows and gasps, delightfully out of control now as she digs further, following the routes on his skin and butting her head under him even as her hand slips between his legs. “Perrrhaps you could be… so good… oh, Emma, so good.”

“Mhm?”

“So… so good as to share them anyway?”

She takes her sweet time about it and he does not seem to mind terribly, not if the way he twists toward her and ruts against her is any indication. But, eventually, after she has been satisfied with his satisfaction, she comes out from under the tangle of sheets and blankets and Killian and combs the hair out of her eyes.

“I like nothing so well as to share,” she says, honest but almost petulant. “Evelyn. It’s the only one I like but not enough.”

It’s the first name spoken between them and it doesn’t fit quite the way she wants it to. Killian hums and mentions some he has considered and discarded himself.

“Mary Margaret says there is this new fashion to choose something meaningful. She and David wanted something brave. Strong.”

Killian props his chin on his left forearm and gives her a soft look, the kind that negates the need for her to ask for anything, the kind that says she just has to name it and it shall be. It always makes her feel terribly flustered, overwhelmed and rather powerful too. She wonders if that’s how queens feel at first.

“What do you want for her?”

Her lips twitch as his steady conversion, his blind trust in her equally blind belief that they are to have a girl.

“I just wanted her. And you gave her to me.”

Killian laughs, it delights her. “Rather the other way around. But after, what do you want after?”

She is still afraid to think too much about after, as if she will ruin it, if she imagines it too much. “I don’t… I just hope she is happy. I hope she is healthy and happy to be here.” She laughs, it sounds wet. “I hope she loves me.”

Killian’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth but she rushes ahead, can’t stop imagining now and it feels safer to do so here, with him.

“I hope I get to teach her to ride and Alice teaches her to shoot a bow and arrow and you teach her to read and, lord, I hope Ruby can teach her to dance because none of us will do it properly.”

She looks at Killian’s eyes and can’t tell if she loves the colour or the dark lashes or the lines around them more.

“I hope she falls in love. I… I hope…”

Killian’s eyes sparkle and the lines grow deeper.

///

Next come Liam and Elsa with all the fanfare and gifts that befits Admiral and Mrs Jones.

“She is not even born yet,” Killian grumbles even as he admires the toy horse his brother has deposited in the middle of their drawing room, on top of the table – much to Granny’s dismay and more genuine grumbling – like it’s the queen’s jewels.

“She?”

Killian’s face scrunches up and he waves a hand in the air.

“The girls have gotten into my head.”

“Then God help you when you get yet another one,” Liam grins smugly.

///

“You never asked.”

“Hmm?” Emma tears her head away from the target practice going on a few feet away from them. It’s not easy. There is something delightful about two young girls in billowing skirts embarrassing a naval admiral and captain and pushing them to the sort of language that Emma is certain neither Killian not Liam have ever permitted themselves to use off a ship before. When she looks at Elsa she has the same look on her face that she first gave her at her welcoming ball. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s quite alright,” Elsa turns her head toward the rest of their party and takes a sip of her tea. “I could hardly take my eyes off him for the first three years after we married.”

Emma smiles and resists the urge to point out that time hasn’t changed all that much for Elsa and she is quite certain it won’t for her.

“Why we don’t have children. You never asked.”

Emma’s eyes widen at the non-sequitur and Elsa’s matter-of-fact tone.

“I… I didn’t want to pry.”

She hadn’t, she hadn’t even asked Killian, too aware of how much she hoped Admiral and Mrs Jones would take their time before they start asking themselves and others the same thing about her. That and she had drawn her conclusion and felt nothing but desire to not bestir those waters.

“I never wanted to,” Elsa says in that same tone and Emma blinks at her – once, twice, until Elsa’s perfect blue eyes turn to her.

Once, after a shamefully long and indulgent dinner at their estate and a couple of glasses of cognac each, Liam Jones said that he no longer feels the need to go sailing because he has the ocean all to himself every time he looks at his wife. Killian teased him mercilessly until Emma was forced to bring to attention the fact that he has taken, perfected and elevated his brother’s talent for dropping into casual conversation the sort of lines that must belong on stage.

Elsa smiles gently at her surprise.

“Outrageous, I know. What sort of a woman doesn’t want to raise a child with her husband?”

“No, I…” Emma doesn’t know what she would have said, if Elsa hadn’t continued, it’s hard to imagine not wanting something that you’ve thought you simply won’t be allowed for so long.

“I’m simply a terribly selfish person, Emma.”

“That’s not true.”

Elsa smiles again, much more playful, the kind of smile Emma is used to from her, the kind that tells you you don’t know even as little as you think you do.

“It is. But I don’t mind. I rather like it. Love it. I love my life and my husband. I never wanted to share it or change it and I’ve never felt…”

Emma can’t help but know exactly how she herself would have finished that thought. “Incomplete?”

Elsa is surprised to find her knowing, pleasantly so.

“No. Never.” She looks back at their husbands and the girls and Emma catches the movement of her fingers, playing with her rings. She notices because it looks so out of place in Elsa Jones who is always in perfect repose. “Liam has never tried to convince me. He wanted children, I didn’t, so we weren’t to have any.”

Emma turns to look at Liam Jones who is bent in half, hands on his knees and nose almost brushing Alice’s bow as he watches with narrowed eyes how she pulls back her arrow. She has never thought him an unsatisfied man and she doesn’t now.

“I just wonder sometimes. Why he never asked again,” Elsa says, almost as if to herself.

“Would you change your mind?” Emma asks, equally quiet and utterly unsurprised as Elsa shakes her head. “That’s why.”

Elsa turns to her and gives her a brand new smile, the kind that tells Emma sometimes Elsa doesn’t know everything either and she is glad to be told.

///

Mrs Nolan comes last but she brings Leo and everybody forgets everything else the second he smiles his biggest smile and sticks Killian’s thumb in his mouth.

///

“This is ridiculous! Absolutely ridiculous.”

“Dearest—“

“Granny is in there! Why can’t I—“

“Alice, it’s… I’m sure it’s all overwhelming enough for Emma without the whole household being present.”

Robyn withstands her love’s glare admirably, if she does say so herself. Oh, Alice is sunshine made flesh and she loves her so much but when she is unhappy she rages like the wind whipping the whole world outside.

“I’m not going to overwhelm her. I want to be there! What if…”

Alice’s pacing comes to a sudden halt and Robyn furrows her brows and pushes off the wall outside Captain and Mrs Jones’s room, taking an instinctive step toward her.

“Alice, she’s going to be just fine.”

But Alice looks up at her from under her lashes and chews on her lip and Robyn realizes she doesn’t want anyone to see, let alone hear, her true fears. Robyn opens her mouth to reassure her again when Captain Jones appears at the top of the stairs and heads down the corridor toward them.

The change in Alice is instantaneous – her shoulders straighten and her eyes open and clear and she puts a little sway into her movements as she reaches out and takes her father’s hand.

For his part, Killian looks like he couldn’t compose himself even if he tried but he comes to a stop and kisses his daughter’s temple and smiles at Robyn.

“I’m sorry you have to wait outside but Doctor Hopper said—“

“It’s alright, papa,” Alice cuts him off and some of that sunshine that has kept Robyn warm even during the bitterest winter spills into the windowless corridor. “You go ahead and calls us in when she is here.”

Killian kisses her one more time and squeezes Robyn’s shoulder as he walks into the room. As soon as the door is closed behind him, Alice flushes and averts her eyes.

“Yes, I know I was just complaining about being made to wait but it’s not like he can—“

Robyn’s hand finds the back of her neck and her lips cut off the flow of her self-conscious explanation.

“I love you, Miss Jones.”

///

The youngest Miss Jones comes into the world in a tremendously dramatic fashion – a stormy night of swirling greys and dark blue, thunder and lightning and a wind that screams and screams in tandem with Emma. It’s a fact that will be cited over and over again in the years to come, mostly by Granny but certainly by her parents as well when weary enough and certainly by her sister and Ruby with all the pride in the world.

Days later, when Killian is close to throttling the poor man because Emma still can’t get out of bed on her own, Doctor Hopper will tell him that it was a perfectly normal birth – if a bit longer and a fair bit louder.

Hours later, when Alice rushes into the room and demands a proper introduction, Killian will look down at the baby he has only let go of for minutes at a time so Granny can clean her up and Emma can hold her close and introduce Hope Evelyn Jones and it fits just the way Emma wanted it to. They haven’t talked about a middle name and the way Killian looks at Emma as if he knows she will be pleased makes her as happy as hearing him say it. As happy as Alice’s little sigh of pure love and the way she leans over and presses a kiss to Emma’s temple and tells her that she loves her and makes her cry all over again.

Seconds later, when Doctor Hopper tries to hand their baby to Granny to clean her up, Killian will intercept him and take his daughter in his arms with a movement that guarantees nobody but Emma will ever know he worried about how he will hold her only days ago. It’s one of these moments in life that you know you will never be able to recall perfectly. It would be too much, to hold all that emotion inside you for the rest of time. So Emma doesn’t even try, she doesn’t do anything but watch and bask in the love on her husband’s face and the love that overfills every little place inside her when he places their daughter in her arms – pink and squealing and so so warm.

///

The strangest thing is how calm she is in the weeks after, when she can do little more than feed her baby and herself. Doctor Hopper has sworn on everything Killian could think to make him swear on that she shall recover fully and Emma believes him. She believes him because she never once feels cold.

///

“Are you certain, love?”

“She is a bitter old woman, Killian, not an infamous brigand.”

Killian gives her a look that seems to imply that he doesn’t feel like the gulf between the two is wide enough.

“I’m merely suggesting you reply that her visit will be welcome at a later date,” he says but the inflection on the word “welcome” somehow manages to turn it into its exact opposite. Emma smiles at him and lets her hand run through his hair long enough that Killian sighs in obvious defeat and drops his forehead against her shoulder. “I do not see why we shouldn’t have her wait until you have fully recovered—”

“Because I do not want this visit hanging over my head. I’d much rather have it done and over with. And what is more,” she continues quickly when she feels Killian’s lips part against her skin to most likely explain how it needn’t be done at all. “I do not care to perform for Regina’s pleasure.”

Killian is silent for a moment and she lets the silence prove her sincerity. Emma was surprised herself when she received Regina’s card and realized she did want to see her grandmother one more time. She wants to close that door very firmly, lock it and abandon the key somewhere without even bothering to throw it away. What is more, she feels a queer thrill at the thought of welcoming her now, just like this, still recovering and as far from the perfectly staged lady as she can be without outright impropriety.

“Have it your way, my queen,” Killian sighs eventually. “But the second you want her out—”

“I shall show her out myself,” she bends her head and waits for him to look up so she can press her lips against his. “Thank you for trusting me.”

“Always,” he hums and scatters a few kisses over her cheeks and then down her throat – the light, soft kind that he has been giving her for weeks, the kind that she loves with her very soul but also make her skin tingle with an impatient desire for the future.

“I would like you to take the girls away, however. I don’t want her around them.”

Killian breathes out against her collarbone and swipes his thumb over the sharp raise of it before he glances up. “And I do not want to leave you alone.”

Emma huffs a little but decides she could give him that, knows she would like to have him close, just in case, just in case Regina’s presence affects her more than she thinks it will have the power to.

“Alright. You can have Hope, Robyn can take Alice out. Just for an hour. Just—I don’t want her near my daughters.”

His thumb stops, barely pressing into her skin, and Killian looks up at her. Fortunately, by now, Emma has learnt how to meet the steady and deep – bottomless, utterly without end, without corner or condition or caveat – press of Killian’s love. She has become something of an expert at how to welcome it, fold it and hold it and keep it. It feels indulgent and almost blasphemous every time, especially when there is so much happiness and gratitude mixed in with it like now. She takes it gladly.

///

Mrs Lucas bustles up the stairs at a speed that she thought she’d left behind in her years of running after little Miss Alice. She supposes it’s a good thing to check and find that she is still capable of it and the thought of the new miss running through the house before long manages to break a smile on her face even in her current foul mood. But that would be then, this is now and there is nothing but fury propelling Mrs Lucas toward the master bedroom.

When she storms in, Emma looks up at her as if it’s any other day. She is in bed but on top of the covers, a light blanket thrown over her legs and a shawl over her shoulders, her hair is messy, braided only at the very end, the way she does it when she’s had her hands empty for a moment too long. Mrs Lucas feels a rush of fondness coming up her throat so violently she think she is going to belch. It steels her resolve.

“Now, Captain’s saying you know all about this and, what is more, it’s you who talked him into allowing it. But I’ve spent too long around you two and watched you consume too much sugar right before bed to mind too much about what either of you says first time around. So, you tell me now and I’ll take that old wretch by whatever’s left of her hair and drag her out the door myself.”

Emma’s eyes are wide for a second and Mrs Lucas has the strange feeling that now this girl truly knows her. Then the skin around her eyes crinkles and she shakes her head and extends a hand toward her.

Mrs Lucas huffs and keeps away, hands on her hips and her mouth set in a steel line for all of five seconds because this damn house has made her soft as an overkneeded ball of dough. She steps forward and takes Emma’s small hand and bends forward to press her closer against her bosom because no matter how much Emma’s appetite has grown, her hand is still a fragile little thing in Mrs Lucas’s wrinkled palm.

“Let her up,” the silly girl says. “And make that godawful tea you keep at the very back for business meetings Killian wants over as quickly as possible.”

///

After all the fuss, Regina’s presence when she enters the room is rather anti-climatic. Emma hadn’t even considered how the couple of years in which they hadn’t seen each other might have changed her grandmother, and even if she had, she doubts she would’ve imagined this.

Regina’s hair is almost entirely grey now and the rigid and undoubtedly very carefully chosen coiffure cannot quite hide how thin it is in places. Her face is as cold and severe as always and there aren’t that many more wrinkles to tell of the passing of time but it’s her hands that shock Emma. If Regina were truly the evil witch everybody says she is, Emma would think she had cast a spell to gather all of her age in her hands – wrinkled and spotted and claw-like as they clutch her cane. The cane is new, as well, and obviously terribly expensive, black and shiny and looking like a rod for all that is bitter in the world. Emma is glad Regina didn’t have it when she was living under her roof.

“Most women would be out of bed and taking care of their child and household by now.”

Regina’s voice has always been cold but now it sounds like it has turned to icicles in her throat and pains her slightly as she talks. Her opening is the first thing that slots right into place in Emma’s expectations and almost makes her smile sardonically.

“You look well, Regina.” She allows herself this one jab, she does not care to play a game of veiled insults with Regina but this one slips out before she can stop it and, if the look in Regina’s eyes is any indication, it lands right on target. Emma gestures toward the armchair set beside a small table a little way from their bed, not too close.

Regina liked to stand tall and rigid over Emma for most of their life but it seems to cost her too much effort now. Her back stays as straight as possible, her hands spider like and just as restless. This is also new and Emma does not care to observe for too long.

“The child?”

“With her father,” Emma says with a finality that should alert Regina to the likelihood of seeing Hope with her own eyes.

“Your servants could certainly improve on their manners,” she says next and this time Emma does let the corner of her mouth quirk up. “Though I suppose I shouldn’t expect you to run a tight household from your bedchambers.”

“Captain Jones and I find them perfectly suited for us.”

She can see the reply in Regina’s cold and sharp eyes but that is when Granny comes in to bring the tea and display her improvable manners. The look Regina gives her assures Emma that they will be coming back to her household’s shortcomings but she turns in a different direction when the door closes behind the cook.

“Yes, I suppose your husband must be less than concerned with propriety to be taking care of his babe, while his wife lazes around in bed weeks after it is all done.”

Emma has the vague notion that such a comment from Regina should incite things in her but all it does is make her crave the image of Killian with their daughter in his arms, which she is sure to be treated to as soon as Regina leaves.

“Frankly, Emma, I believe you should thank me. I don’t know who else would’ve put up with you.”

She hears the tinge of annoyance, almost desperation, in Regina’s voice and realizes her grandmother is now grasping, scrambling for whatever she came here for. Emma is not certain what it is exactly that she is withholding but she knows full well what it is that Regina doesn’t want to hear.

Well, that’s too bad, isn’t it? Because Regina’s not wrong and for this one thing Emma doesn’t mind admitting it. Emma’s smile is serene and she would think herself benevolent but for the twinkle in her eye that makes Regina’s spider-fingers spasm.

“Thank you, Regina.”

///

She wakes up next to the inferno that is Killian even barefoot and on top of the covers. His left sleeve is rolled up to his elbow, the right one just pushed up, his wedding ring catching the sunlight as he holds his papers in front of him, his glasses hanging precariously on his nose.

Emma pulls herself up and huffs at the way the pages drop to the bed and his hand immediately settles on her arm.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

“I’m fine. Better,” she says pointedly. She is not perfect but she has been better every day, yet every day he fusses just as much as the one before. “Where’s Hope?”

He kisses her sweetly and she pushes his glasses up before they fall on her face, then takes his hand off her arm so she can roll up his right sleeve properly.

“Ruby took her about an hour ago but I’m sure Mrs Lucas has gotten her hands on her by now.”

Emma feels the stretch in her smile at that. When Granny holds their daughter in her arms you can’t tell she can ever be anything but smooth edges and soft places and softer lullabies.

“You should have some breakfast, let me—”

“Can I have it outside?”

Killian’s already on the edge of the bed but he turns back at that – his face a mix of anxious hope and consternation.

“Emma, I don’t think you should be walki—”

“That’s what I have a strong, gallant husband for,” she says and makes sure her smile is enticing and not just plain spoiled as she throws off the blankets and extends her arms in a gesture he has never once been able to refuse.

Killian developed an amazing fascination with carrying her around during her pregnancy, even when there was no need and long after it was probably advisable for his back, the way his face positively melts tells her that their daughter’s birth hasn’t changed anything in that respect.

“That you do, my queen.”

He helps her change into something less prone to blow in the wind than her nightgown and shrugs on his coat directly over his shirt, which Emma decides is definitely a look they should revisit when she can appreciate it properly, and takes her into his arms.

There is nothing quite like being carried in Killian’s arms. It’s not just how safe she is, it’s how precious it makes her feel. The thought never fails to make her blush and she promptly buries that blush in Killian’s neck.

After months of this, they navigate doors and corridors and stairs with barely a thoughts and she is being lower on the swing in the garden before anyone has probably even noticed they’re outside. Killian disappears through the back door of the kitchen, much to her displeasure, because he claims food is more beneficial to her than being able to lie in his lap. Emma disagrees but she is more than willing to have both.

They stay out long enough for her to track the movement of the sun, long enough for Granny to find them and roll her eyes at them in a way that Emma knows means she likes what she sees.

“The little miss is hungry,” she says with all the reluctance of someone who would give anything to not have to let go of the baby in her arms.

Emma grins as Killian wraps his arm around the entirety of her waist and helps her to sit up and lean against him. Confined to bed as she has been, she is more than aware of the tug of war in the house and how anyone who manages to get Hope in their arms will keep her there until they have no other choice. She has seen Ruby folding the bedsheets in their room one-handed and Killian somehow juggling baby, ledger, pen and inkwell with only two spillages as a result.

So, Emma feels rather smug in her privilege. They can hoard her baby all they want, eventually they all have to hand her over to be fed, and as Granny settles Hope in her arms and Emma feels the warm weight and the sweet smell of her, she really can’t begrudge them the hoarding.

However, she can and does begrudge Killian the speed with which he steals their daughter’s attention with barely a finger pressed to her pink little nose.

“Killian, my breasts are bared to the whole world,” she huffs, even though there is no one else around.

“I know,” she doesn’t even need to see the grin on his face. “I’m paying rapt attention, love.”

“You are distracting her.” She tries to be stern but it is so very difficult when she is practically molded to his side and he is making Hope smile her big toothless smile and making the most embarrassingly endearing sounds next to her ear.

“Am I, princess? Am I distracting you? Are you not giving mummy’s luscious breasts the attention they deserve?”

“Killian!” And she is scandalized and indignant, she really is, but she is also laughing so loud her sides ache a little.

///

Killian combs Emma’s hair back and watches his daughter’s blissful face as she feeds. His hand stays, stroking and scratching lightly, running his long fingers carefully through the tangled strands even though no pin has come anywhere near her hair in weeks, maybe months, and he raises his left forearm to Hope’s back, the whisper-soft hairs at the back of her neck brushing against the hard skin at the end of his wrist. He can’t feel that but he feels the way Emma drops her head back, closing her eyes and entrusting them both entirely to his arms and he presses his smile against the crown of her head.

///

Mary Margaret declares herself utterly enamored the second Hope spits on her shoulder. It takes another hour, during which Mrs Nolan wastes no time in adopting the habits of the household and refuses to let anyone else hold the happily gurgling baby in her arms, for her to come up with the idea that nothing will be better than a match between Leo Nolan and Hope Evelyn Jones.

Emma watches Killian and Mary Margaret haggle over the advantages and disadvantages of this only slightly premature plan and cannot help but wonder if Killian is so scandalized because “she was literally just born” or because he didn’t think of the match himself.

///

Emma is just pouring out the cocoa when she hears the door open behind her. She glances over her shoulder, surprised at the sight of Robyn – not at seeing her there but rather at the rumpled state of her, the sweet, almost child-like way she is rubbing her eyes and the braid that’s keeping less strands in place than letting them fly around. Alice and Emma and even Killian, but never Robyn – she cannot remember ever seeing Robyn on the verge of sleep.

“I could hear Granny grumbling all the way down the hall,” the young woman teases and Emma just rolls her eyes.

“Don’t worry. Killian and I have decided that we shall be introducing Hope to hot cocoa as soon as we can. Just wait and see how quickly Granny decides sugar before bed is the most precious idea in the world.” She offers Robyn a cup but the girl just shakes her head – she doesn’t have Alice or Killian’s sweet tooth and she does look like she is just about to lie down and go to sleep on the kitchen floor. She also looks very, very amused and a little impressed.

“You guys are ruthless.”

“Are the rest still awake?”

“Not for the last hour,” Robyn says and Emma laughs and picks up her tray.

“Are you coming?” She asks at the door but Robyn shakes her head and yawns, her impeccable timing making Emma laugh again as she heads into the corridor. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Goodnight, Emma. Please direct her upstairs when she wakes.”

Emma smiles as she nears Killian’s study and pushes the door slowly, in no rush to wake Alice or anyone else just yet.

She is less used to seeing them here, in this smaller, darker room that is more Killian than anyone else. That must be why her breath backs up into her throat and the mugs rattle on her tray as she looks at Killian behind his desk. His chair is pushed back, almost all the way to the window, his hair is very dark and the silver streaks in it seem to catch all the moonlight outside, his spectacles reflect the fire at the other end of the room, his left forearm is bare and wrapped securely around one dozing daughter while the smaller one is sleeping soundly in his right elbow, pressed close to his rest. Alice must have been holding the book he was reading but it’s now lying face down in her lap, precariously close to toppling to the ground.

It’s a lot for one chair and Killian looks like he has never been more comfortable in his life. When he dips his chin and looks at her over the tops of his glasses Emma feels his contentment travel down her own spine. She sets the tray on the desk and is just wondering if she can lay down on the settee and go to sleep just staring at them, when Alice grumbles and snorts sharply and jerks a little, book finally falling to the floor. Emma bends to pick it up and snorts, giving her husband a pointed look.

“Aren’t pirate stories a bit on the nose for a naval captain?”

“A good pirate story cannot be resisted,” Killian and Alice say at the same time and Emma sits on the floor with the book because… well, she is a little overwhelmed with how much she loves them is all.

Alice laughs sleepily, stretches and kisses her father’s cheek, then promptly steals the baby in his arms. She ignores Killian’s grumbling completely but stops by Emma to allow her a kiss goodnight.

“We’ll be up in a moment.”

“No, you won’t.” Alice grins before losing interest in them completely and bending her head over Hope as she whisks her away, telling her all about how their parents eat too much sugar and go to bed too late.

Emma shakes her head and looks at Killian.

“We need to be careful or—“ The words die in her throat as she is confronted with the very incriminating scene of Killian with his eyes closed in bliss and his nose buried in one of the mugs she brought. It would be easier to get the sun back in the sky than to stop her gentle laughter.

Killian looks at her and pushes his bottom lip forward, a trace of chocolate smeared on the inside of it.

“What? I have been left cold and bereft.”

“Oh?” Emma raised her eyebrows and takes her laughter down to a simmering smile as she gets to her feet and sways toward him. “Do you need me to warm you?”

If there was ever a double entendre, this should be it and yet. She settles against him with her legs swung over the arm of his chair and her head nestled perfectly innocently in the crook of his neck, feeling the spaces where the girls were and where the cold must have rushed in upon their departure. It gives her more pleasure than straddling his thighs would have – to warm him. So, Emma gratefully takes the second mug Killian offers her and relaxes completely, feeling the lift and fall of her husband’s every breath against her.

“Emma?”

“Hmm?”

She watches him place his mug on the desk and his hand settles on her knee, drawing little circles over it with his ring finger.

“Do you want to get married again?” he asks and continues on when she doesn’t immediately answer. “We can do it properly, invite Mr and Mrs Nolan and Nemo and Belle, the girls will be there and— or it can be just them. Just them and us, in the garden again or anywhere you like. Somewhere by the sea perhaps or—“

She has been surveying his study – the book still on the ground, the baby blanket Granny made for Hope on the settee and the ribbon Alice must have left on the mantle, the island drawing hanging over their heads, the mugs of cocoa on his desk – and now she twists around to kiss him and goes on kissing him and kissing him.

She can hardly remember the last time they kissed like this – long but chase, with nowhere else to go, nothing more to do. It reminds her of the first time she kissed him, she wonders if it reminds him of that night too because his lips keep twitching under hers.

“Do you always smile so much when you kiss a woman, captain?”

He pulls half a breath away from her and keeps smiling.

“It would appear I do.”

“I don’t want another wedding, my heart.”

“No?”

She watches his face carefully but he doesn’t look disappointed, he doesn’t look like he is missing a single thing in the world. She remembers coming into this room minutes ago and knows it’s because he isn’t. She shakes her head.

“No. I never wanted to marry you,” she lets her own lips tick up and takes his hand in hers, their rings clicking together as she leans forward again so her lips brush his as she speaks. “I just wanted to be your wife.”

*******

If you really enjoyed this monster of a fic, I have one of those Ko-fi things. I will also be crying over having finally completed it for the next week so come join me whenever.

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