#wip: a dark and dreadful thing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nereidprinc3ss · 10 months ago

Text

hourglass

in which spencer disappears from fem!reader's life entirely for three months, right as it seems they were finally about to make things official. when he comes back they reunite, all the while knowing things can't be the same as they were.

18+ (smut, angst) warnings/tags: oh god so many. NOT canon compliant in the slightest, i make shit up, softdom!spence, nipple stuff prob, fingering, oral f receiving, piv sex, unprotected sex, pet names, tara mentioned, depression, mentions of trauma cause its the prison arc duh, passing mentions of alcohol, mentions of spencer losing weight, reader mistakenly thinks spencer tried to kill himself BUT ONLY FOR A SECOND, where is diana reid, nobody knows or cares, probably filming glee, optimistic ending a/n: haven't posted smut in forever but this wip required it and the angst was so angsty i just had to finish it. it was started in jan or feb and subsequently added to and changed months apart and then edited so the writing quality varies from section to section which i apologize for. originally based on good guy by julia jacklin... also the odyssey by homer? can't really explain that one you'll just have to see for yourself anyway byeeee ilysm!!! PLS tell me if you liked it! or if you hated it! but preferably if you liked it! MWAH! wc <12k

It’s been about three months since you last saw Spencer Reid.

About three months since you had an early Valentine’s Day celebration (even though you weren’t a couple) complete with champagne (even though he doesn’t usually drink) and slow dancing (even though you swore you’d be terrible and he spent the first ten minutes laughing at you as you stepped on his toes.)

About three months since you finally settled your head on his shoulder and let the warbling vinyl carry you somewhere distant as the two of you danced slow circles on the parquet floor for what felt like hours.

You’d have liked him to stay later that night. You’d have liked him to stay all night if you were being honest with yourself, but at 11:45 he gently pulled away and told you he had to go.

“Curfew?” you joked, the corner of your mouth lifting a little and you hoped you were hiding your disappointment well.

“Actually, I’m going down to Texas for a few days to speak with one of the leading doctors in experimental Alzheimer's and dementia treatment. I’m going to see if he can get my mom into a clinical trial. I leave early tomorrow morning.”

“Oh my god, that’s amazing, Spencer! What are you doing still here? You should be at home getting ready to go!”

A rosy blush stains his cheeks and he looks down at the ground, laughing that little self-deprecating laugh of his. It makes your heart dance to see him so happy, makes you want to wrap your arms around him and never let him go so that he knows how much you absolutely adore him—but you settle for an affectionate squeeze where your hands have come to rest on his biceps.

“I wanted to see you tonight because I won’t be here for Valentine’s Day... but I still really wanted to spend it with you,” he admits meekly.

If before your heart was dancing, it is now melting.

The dreaded ‘what are we’ talk has been lurking in the dark corners of every conversation you have with each other lately—at least, in your mind it has. What you have with Spencer is not easily defined, and near impossible to explain to your friends—you act like a couple, you go out on dates, he introduces you to his team like you’re his girlfriend without ever putting it into so many words—but this validation that your pseudo-relationship might be evolving is better than any flowers he could have gotten you (although the peonies he brought will look very nice on your bedside table.)

“Four whole days... what will I do without you?” you whisper, brushing a hand along his face, and your chest aches with the heavy truth of it—despite the fact that he often is gone for stretches about that length. They don’t ever start to feel shorter.

“Well, you can start by reading that copy of The Odyssey I annotated for you.”

“Depressing,” you admit. “And a little ominous, considering you’re about to embark on a hero’s journey.”

“I think you’ll like this one,” he smiles.

You chew on your bottom lip, looking up at him as you think.

“Give me something to look forward to,” you say, earnestly.

“I—well, honestly, I just really want to kiss you and I’ve wanted to for a long time now and, you know, if that’s something you’re maybe also interested in then we could, uh, figure out a time to—”

“You want to kiss me?”

“Wh—you couldn’t tell?” Spencer says, like he can’t believe it.

As if on reflex, you lunge up and capture his lips with your own. It obviously catches him by surprise, but when you lower from your tiptoes he follows you, pulling you in closer and holding your face in his hands.

It’s too natural, too right, to be exhilarating. There’s no rush of adrenaline—it's more like stepping into a hot bath or warming your freezing hands at a fire. Like pieces clicking into place. It’s a relief.

You breathe into it, letting more and more of yourself melt against him. He keeps coming back to you deeper and deeper like a rising tide, and you want more than anything to keep getting closer to him—but then he stops. He stays close enough for you to breathe his air, but dodges your kiss gently before supplanting it with a gentle one to the corner of your mouth.

“I really have to go,” he breathes, before moving away from your mouth to kiss your forehead and speak softly against your skin. “If I don’t leave now I’ll be here all night.”

Which is exactly what you want, and the implication does little to make you want him less. But you care about him too much to be so selfish.

At some point, his hands found their way into your hair, and you gently grab his wrists.

“Incentive for you to come home.”

Nearly three months since that night.

At first when he stopped answering texts, you’d assumed he just had too much going on down in Texas. Which you could understand—you knew how stressful this situation with his mother was.

Even when four days came and went without even an alert from him that he was back in town, you thought, okay, maybe he’s been called away on a case. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s disappeared because of his work. But even then, he’d at least text you enough information so that you would know he was alive. Now, radio silence.

So you tried not to be clingy. You tried to act like an adult, to focus on school and your life outside of Spencer, but when Tara Lewis cancelled your weekly meeting due to an “unforeseen work-related emergency”you called her immediately. Tara was something of a mentor, and it was she who had connected you and Spencer to begin with. You had met the other members of his team by that point, yes, but none who you knew as well as Tara.

When she had informed you that Spencer had been arrested in Mexico and was now facing prison time for murder, you laughed.

Laughed until you realized her end of the line was silent.

Realized it was not at all a joke.

In a catatonic state of tranquility, you asked her for more details. Beyond assuring you of his innocence, she couldn’t (or more likely, wouldn’t) provide them. Asked where he was now. Asked all the right things that made sense to ask.

Then you hung up and had a panic attack because Tara said something about 25 years and you saw Spencer evaporate from your future like an apparition.

Slowly, you felt him evaporating from your past, too. Those memories from the night he left, became visions of you swaying with a ghost. Holding nothing but light between your hands as you kissed the peony air of your apartment.

He doesn’t want to see you, she had said into the phone one night, her tinny voice cutting in and out. You’re not on his list of approved visitors.

“You asked him about me?” you had whispered, curled up on top of your made bed in the dark.

I tried. I’m sorry. I’ll call you when I know more.

All your days melded together like a muddied smear of paint. Suddenly you felt you had nothing to look forward to. No anchor, no goal. Yes, a PhD... and then what?

The only thing that punctuated one 24 hour period from the next was the time you spent crying because Spencer was in prison and he didn’t want to see you and by the looks of things you may never see him again. When you weren’t crying, you were thinking about how your life was a big cosmic joke. An unfortunate statistical anomaly that didn’t mean anything to anyone else, and that you couldn’t do anything about.

That copy of The Odyssey, which wasn’t even bound and instead was a thick stack of printer paper organized by a single black clip, became something of a manifesto for you—a tome that your poured over, reading and re-reading each note in the margins, each word beautiful and imbued with meaning because you knew Spencer had selected every single one specifically for you. You traced the letters reverently, because in a way this was the last thing he had said to you—about Lattimore’s faith to the original text, Merrill’s strict use of dactylic hexameter, the stylings of Wilson and Lombardo, and how he thought you would enjoy Hammond’s prose just as much as he did.

Day by day it was becoming more prophetic than fictional, and you allowed yourself to sink into madness. You would rather be a deluded zealot than be nothing at all.

He didn’t want to see you.

He might as well have been dead, for all that you were grieving him. And you started to hate him, because he wasn’t dead, but wouldn’t do you the kindness of proving it. Like a festering wound, scratched open day after day so as not to ever heal, you had to live knowing he was less than an hour away. So no, you weren’t exactly over it. You lived day by day, waiting for the occasional call from Tara to keep you updated on Spencer, but either she didn’t want to share much about how he was doing, or he had specifically barred her from doing so, because she was always sparse on the personal side of things. That thought actually lifted your spirits, because it meant he was at least acknowledging your existence in some tiny way.

But your routine was becoming more regular, and so you staid on top of your classes and your non-Reid related meetings with Tara once a week, and you learned to dip your toes into existential dread and the oily black pool of depression every night without ever fully submerging yourself. You learned hope, because it was pretty much all you had, and the BAU had confidence that they would get Spencer out one way or another so you did too.

So you didn’t really think about it when you missed a couple of calls from Tara some evening in May. You were preparing for finals and had way too much on your plate academically to think about anything else which was a welcome relief so you fully embraced it. I’ll call her back tomorrow, you think, as you clean up from dinner before going back to the living room where your textbooks and papers are completely covering every available surface. Maybe I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life after school, but I’ll be damned if I don’t even make it that far.

Hours later, well into the night, you’d all but forgotten about the calls. A knock at the door takes you a bit by surprise, and you frown as you stand again, tugging your Georgetown sweatshirt down over your shorts as you shuffle to the entrance of your apartment. You’re not expecting anyone, so you crack the door, peering around the edge of it.

And you couldn’t even consider trying to hide that shaky inhalation of dead air when you see Spencer standing on the other side.

Surely you’re hallucinating.

Surely this man in front of you who looks like he just got back from a day of work didn’t spend three months in prison pretending you didn’t exist.

He looks the same. Hair a bit longer, maybe—and gaunter even more than is normal for him.

But it's him.

You can’t think about the apprehensive look on his face—you can’t think about the impossibility of him being here. You can’t think at all. Without your explicit permission, your body surges forward into his, and he’s real, and alive, and warm, and he is an anachronism in the hallway as he accepts everything you pour into the embrace, doesn’t flinch when you move your arms from around his waist to loop around his neck and back to his waist again with crushing force because you just can’t get him close enough.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mutters into your hair, I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorry, he keeps saying, rubbing your back as you try to find a solid grip on the sleek material of his suit—try to gather all the pieces of him, already afraid he might fall apart and float away again.

“You—dis—disappeared,” you hiccup after an eternity, pulling away enough to look up at his pretty face. Tears blur your vision and darken the front of his jacket, bending the florescent lights so they form a kind of halo above his head.

Through the surreal haze you can see his throat bob.

“I know.”

He knows?

You scoff.

“You have no fucking idea, Spencer. What the fuck is wrong with you? I—I'm—”

The hot anger is such a relief for a second, boiling the oceans of your despair into a wrathful, scorching fog, but as soon as you try to tell him how you feel, the barbed wire cuts into your throat again. You shove him away, skin burning where his hands had been.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, hands hanging uselessly at his side. There’s that kicked puppy look about him—and it’s familiar, but now there’s more damage. You don’t know anything about his time in prison, you haven’t heard a damn thing, but beneath the glassy desperation in his eyes there is an unfathomable void that seems to be preventing him from being fully present—and you realize for the first time that he is different.

It chills you.

Before, you and Spencer shared everything. There wasn’t one part of his internal machinations that you didn’t understand, nothing you kept from each other. But as you study him now from a few feet away, you realize there might as well be a yawning chasm between the two of you.

He is so different.

Those eyes look deeper. No gears turning just behind the slashes of gold and brown anymore—only an endless dark corridor that goes places you will never go.

Gone is the perpetual boyish up-turn at the corner of his lips that always made him look slightly vacant in a way that you found incredibly amusing. Something you had been so fond of, even if you teased him.

He seems to have aged ten years—if not physically, then in demeanor. And now you feel like a little kid throwing a tantrum.

You cross your arms, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

You’re embarrassed. And pissed. And relieved. Everything is worse and better. You want to fall back into his arms, but you have been jarred by the revelation that this might not be the same Spencer. It might not be the same relationship. You have no idea where you stand.

He says your name gently, with so much familiarity you’re briefly jerked into the past. It makes you wish you could look up to find him as he was three months ago. Wish this was just a bad dream. But that’s not fair to him.

“Sorry,” you mutter, studying the grey carpet fibers instead of looking at him.

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says immediately, “you’re right. I don’t—” he clears his throat— “I’m being incredibly selfish. I shouldn’t have just shown up, I’ll just—I'll leave. I’m sorry.”

A silent moment passes.

You don’t look up as he turns and swiftly begins to move down the hall toward the stairway, leaving as quickly and silently as he had come, like a few bars of a song sighed in and away on a fleeting breeze.

Your bare feet are concretely planted, imagining him jogging down the steps and speed-walking away from your building—

And suddenly you’re sprinting after him, feeling like you might puke because Spencer was just here and you let him go again—and even though you’re still so mad and confused and hurt, the realization that he is leaving again makes the entire building spin and lurch.

“Wait!” You yell, almost wiping out as you run down the stairs and whip around corners in your slippery fucking socks. “Please, wait!”

The lobby is already empty as you spill out into it, and cold dread tightens around your neck like a fist as you shoulder your way through the double doors and right into Spencer.

“Please don’t leave again, you just—I'm sorry, I really need you to not go—” you blabber, lachrymose once more, gripping onto his forearms for dear life.

“I’m not going,” he breathes shakily. “I tried to leave because I think you were right and maybe I should and maybe it would be better for you but I can’t.”

“You can’t,” you agree, more sob than spoken word. He cups your jaw, then your cheeks, wiping tears and brushing away hair like he can’t figure out how to hold enough of you between his hands. The wild kaleidoscope of his eyes, bright and alive and real as he scans you desperately captures your attention enough to slow the tears to a trickle. He notices this and stares back, entranced.

A silent agreement is made, or maybe an inevitable fate is accepted—either way, something was set in motion three months ago and it matters to see it through. Spencer kisses you and you’re ready for it. You don’t need slow or tender. You need to feel how he feels. You need to know what he knows.

You sling your arms around his neck and he pulls you closer until you almost tip backward, chasing the bruising kiss even as you regain your footing. You want to drink him in and you do your best, breathing deeply as he kisses you deeper, backing you inside and toward the elevator.

“Is this okay?” he manages, only after blindly reaching for and mashing the up button on the wall panel.

Ideally it wouldn’t happen like this, but the world you live in obviously isn’t ideal and your personal situations as they coincide are far from ideal, so this is how it has to happen. But it’s hard to explain, and you’d rather not admit that this is so far from what you wanted for both of you and follow up with the fact that despite that you need him like you need water. So you don’t say a word as the metal doors slide open promptly. Instead you pull him in and let him press you to the chrome wall as he hits your floor button, and that very hand comes back to grab your ass like you didn’t think Spencer Reid capable of. It almost aches as his fingers dig into the flesh, but it’s a good ache because it means he’s real and he’s there.

You gasp as he hitches your leg up, arching into him. The shorts that you’re wearing leave very little to the imagination to begin with, but they become downright indecent like this.

Quickly the elevator stops and the doors hiss open. You don’t hesitate to pull Spencer by the hand down the hall. When you notice you left your door wide open, you don’t even care. Neither does he, apparently—once you’re inside he slams it shut, flipping the deadbolt while his eyes are glued to you like you’re already naked. Now Spencer is shameless in the way he drags his eyes over every curve, every place your clothes and hair are disheveled from his touch and eye-fucks you so obviously it makes your face warm. Three months ago Spencer would have at least been bashful about it when he met your eyes again, but this Spencer is far from apologetic as he pins you with his burning gaze once more. His hand stays stuck to the door like he’s holding himself back.

“Is this what you want?”

There’s an undercurrent of sorrow below the gravely arousal, like this isn’t what he wanted for the two of you either. But you’re both at the mercy of fate. This is all you have, and it might be all you can do for each other anymore. So you don’t need to say that, because he understands.

“Yeah. Yes, this is what I want.”

For just a second more he watches you from his place by the door, and there’s an unexpected softness to it. He looks at you the way he would have looked at you before. Like as long as he stays there he can entertain the idea of being that person again.

Need wins out quickly, though, and he surges forward. Immediately you’re caught in the riptide of him, helpless as he kisses you all the way to your bedroom.

He’s never been in here before. You find yourself glad it’s relatively clean—one of the pastimes you’d picked up in his absence was keeping everything tidy. It was something you could control.

A lamp glows at your bedside. You lean against the footboard of your bed, hands timidly behind your back and suddenly shy to have in him in your intimate space. Both of you set aside the heaving desperation long enough to catch your breaths, and for him to scan the room like he too is being forced to reconcile with the innate and unexpected intimacy of the moment. He cuts a harsh, dark gash in your sweetly decorated bedroom, radiating something wild and powerful and unsure of himself like a chained bull as he takes in the soft, pale bedding, the paintings and photos taped to the walls, the woven rug and the sheer drapery. His breathing slows as he studies it all—eyes eventually catching on something behind you. Looking is unnecessary. You’re sure he’s spotted the dried peonies in their ceramic vase. Or maybe the now worn stack of papers that is his Odyssey, marked up and soft around the edges from constant flipping-through.

Then Spencer looks at you, and that softness seeps in again. Along with something like... fear? Grief?

In some other universe your first time with Spencer is sweet and giggly and kind and he smiles at the decor in your room and looks around with wonder because it’s another way he gets to know you. It’s a different way to learn you from the inside.

You sense that he’s caught in between universes right now as well, painfully aware of what he would have given you that he can’t anymore.

He breathes your name like an apology, and foolishly you let a second go by in which you think he might offer you one. But he doesn’t. Not with his words, anyway. His eyes tell a different story.

“It’s fine,” you say unprompted on a whispered exhale, then a little louder as you push off the footboard, crossing the space until your hands are on his chest. You focus on his tie, not making eye contact as you rush to undo it. “It’s fine.”

He lets you do this for a few seconds before finally covering your trembling hands with his own. You still can’t meet his eyes.

“We don’t have to do—”

“No! No, please. I want to. I need—I need us to be okay.”

“Hey,” he murmurs, catching your chin and forcing you to look at him. “We are okay. Me and you are fine.”

It’s a pretty thought, but it’s not true. In fact, it’s a hideous and abject affront to the truth. Sure, maybe you’re fine in comparison to last week. Maybe anything feels fine compared to an eight by six cell. But it would be impossible for you and Spencer, for your relationship, whatever that relationship may be, to be fine. It’s especially impossible for him to make that claim, after all he did or rather didn’t do while he was gone. What you need is for him to stay anyway. What you need is to find a way to be with him, to exist with him, even when you are so clearly not fine.

“I just need you to stay,” you whisper, and he’s already nodding, wide-eyed like he’d do anything for you. You ignore all the bitter venom rising in your throat. You pretend this isn’t all happening after he cut you out of his life with a dirty switchblade. Instead you focus on his hands on yours, the familiar smell of him, which invites you to let go of each and every thought and worry. He must’ve showered before coming here, you realize. How long has he been out? What happened?

“Okay. Okay, I can stay. What else can I do? How do I make it better?”

You sniffle and look back down.

“You can untie that for me.”

He hesitates, then nods some more, fingers working under yours to undo the tie around his neck.

“Okay.”

A moment goes by and after that final whispered word, the tension begins to build again. Spencer senses it in the way your fingertips linger on his chest and you step even closer, dragging them down to his belt. The metallic sound of it unbuckling, despite being your own doing, still manages to flip your stomach. How many times have you pictured this? When was the first time you realized you wanted it? You’re sure you haven’t stopped wanting it even once since then.

Spencer tosses the tie away and is shrugging off his jacket now, then before you see it coming he’s kissing you again, ducking down to do it. He feels taller this close up, and especially in your bedroom, where he just seems rather out of place. But you want him here. God, you want him here.

You break the kiss, forced to look down as you fumble with his belt.

“Sorry,” you gasp, embarrassed by your lack of dexterity. The light is barely sufficient to see what you’re doing, especially when he’s wearing black on black and your eyes are still bleary.

“You’re okay,” he assures you, and it’s so Spencer a fresh round of nerves electrifies the tips of your fingers. That thing is happening—the thing you’d hoped to avoid if you hadn’t lost momentum partway through, where you’re allowing your actual feelings for him to get in the way rather than getting swept up in the pathos of the moment and letting everything be easy and mindless. “Here, can I help you?”

But he doesn’t actually wait for an answer before he’s finishing off the belt for you, tugging it loose from his hips till it’s a leather coil in his hands. Your fingers brush the material and he lets you take it as if it were your prize. It’s heavier than you thought it’d be, and you just feel the weight of it in your hands for a moment, your dropped head brushing his chest.

You have a terrible feeling that if you do this now, it doesn’t mean everything will be alright. Because it can’t just go back to normal. Spencer has told you nothing of what must be an enormous trauma, and you haven’t spoken about it at all, but you sincerely doubt that after this he’s going to be ready to just jump into that committed relationship the two of you had been toying with for months before his absence. You’re almost... scared of him, now. Scared of where he’s been and what he’s endured—things you’re sure you couldn’t have taken. What that does to a person, you can’t imagine. He seems so solid and real in front of you now—but you know that’s not always enough. Maybe you’re just scared that somehow whatever he’s been through will have made him care for you less. That you were too far removed from the whole ordeal, and now you’ll never understand. If you could understand, maybe you could fix it for him. Maybe he’d stick around.

Still—even if you do end up pushing him further away in the long run—won't it have been worth it to have had him so completely, even just once?

You toss the belt to the ground, compressing all of these very complicated thoughts and feelings into a few seconds so short he can’t ask you any questions about them. Instead you find his top button, and just as you manage to undo it with relative ease he’s gently grabbing your wrists. You look up at him, immediately surrendering.

“If we’re going to do this I need you to relax a little bit.”

Gears grind in your chest. You feel need and anxiety comingling in every square inch of your body. It’s a sick buzz—a high on an empty stomach.

“I can’t,” you admit.

“Yeah, you can,” Spencer gently disagrees, slowly lowering your hands. When he’s sure you’re not going to try ripping his clothes off again, he releases, and his eyes lower to the zipper of your hoodie. His fingers follow, warm against the soft triangle of revealed skin at your chest as he grips the small piece of metal between barely shaking fingers. “You can.”

You match his eyeline, breathing shallowly and watching as he slowly drags the zipper down. You wonder if that sound has haunted his fantasies the way the sound of his belt has haunted yours. If he’s seen this hoodie on you and wondered what’s underneath, staring at you and daydreaming during movie night with you none the wiser.

Both of you have your eyes glued to the span of skin as the zipper parts. Spencer stalls with the zipper at your sternum, just below the band of your bra.

Right. No shirt.

You look up and find his eyes already on you, tinged with a curious kind of humor.

“I wasn’t expecting guests.”

The words come out shy. Spencer’s chuckle has its own nervous airy quality as he resumes tugging on your zipper, leaning down until your noses bump.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Then he kisses you again, a little sweeter now. Sweet enough to give you butterflies and for them to flutter right out of your stomach and spill from your lips in a little whimper against his.

It comes as a surprise when he pushes the fabric from your shoulders without looking or asking. Not that you’d have said no—you're just underprepared for how assertive he is in this foreign context.

Left just in your flimsy shorts and your thin bra, you feel quite exposed—but Spencer’s hands are as demanding and hungry as his mouth. They skim up your sensitive sides and sweep lower, suggesting less proper placement over your ass and pulling at your bottoms until you gently put a stop to their wandering.

“Wait. We’re... we’re uneven.”

It’s a struggle to get any words out at all when he keeps chasing your lips, nipping at you like he physically can’t stand not kissing you, but they catch his attention and he laughs airily, pulling back to let his gaze pour over your less clothed form. It lingers and catches and lights you up everywhere it touches, drops of heat soaking into your skin and making you feel all fuzzy and needy.

“We are,” he acknowledges, tone low and colored with the faintest smile. “You’re a lot prettier without your clothes on than I am.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The challenge comes immediately and thoughtlessly. Spencer’s golden eyes flash up to yours. He’s breathing a little harder than usual.

“You want me to show you what I mean?”

If that means getting him naked, then yes, absolutely.

You nod, but rather than immediately stripping, he takes your hand and holds his own open next to it. A thick pink scar bisects some pretty significant palmistry lines, but you don’t mention that. Instead you swallow—your thoughts, your words, your nausea.

“That’s new.”

You wonder how you hadn’t noticed it earlier.

He nods.

“A lot is new.”

It sounds almost like he’s challenging you—there's a kind of tremulous force in his voice, despite the perpetual softness there, like he’s inviting you to say it’s ugly. And you realize he’s referring to more than just the glowing scar cutting an asteroid trail against the flesh of him palm. The scars he obtained in prison must form a constellation over his body.

“I don’t care. I wanna see you.”

Spencer swallows, cupping your face with the scarred hand once more. You can’t feel it against your cheek but you know it hasn’t gone away.

“I’m sure you think you do,” he permits, and that’s where the conversation ends for the moment—with his hand on your face and his lips back on yours. “For now why don’t you let me worry about you?”

Obediently, you breathe, “okay.”

This is, for whatever reason, amusing to him. The brief levity dies as quick as it comes like a snuffed-out brush fire as soon as he lets his hands fall back down to your hips.

“I want... I want to give you slow. But...”

But slow is for people who didn’t lose three months of their life. Slow is for people who don’t know what it’s like to be starving. Slow is not for the desperate.

You understand the feeling.

“I don’t need slow.”

You’ll let him use you up like quick-burning fuel if that’s what he needs. You’ll go as fast and as bright and as hot as he tells you.

“But you want slow,” he murmurs, a secret acknowledged into your own waiting mouth. You’d keep it there forever. You could be the object he hides his soul in. “I know you do. You deserve to get what you want.”

“I can go fast. I want whatever you can give me.”

Spencer’s shuddering exhale is like a drug, dizzying as you inhale it and your eyes flutter at the high, pressed head-to-head with him. For so long you’ve needed him so badly. It’s overwhelming to have him now, all over you. If only your walls could breathe him in the way you are, if this room could remember what it feels like to hold him the way you will, if any inanimate object could bear witness to how you’ll give yourself, any part of yourself, over to him, so willingly.

“I’m going to try.” Spencer’s voice is hoarse as he walks backward to the bed, taking you by the hips as he goes. “I want to do it right. I want to do this the way I... the way I imagined it, before...”

Now he’s sitting, and you’re standing between his legs as he finds the clasp of your bra and undoes it, his fingers a comforting pressure where they ghost down the slope of your back. Your heart is pounding at the confession, at the way his tongue darts over his bottom lip and his fingertips journey back up to your straps, looking up at you with haloed irises as if he’d find anything other than the most dangerous kind of smoldering devotion in your eyes—the kind cult-leaders seek and spend years nurturing, and he’d earned with a mere brush over your bare skin.

The fabric slides down your arms, and as it falls to the floor, you watch something like despair flash-flood his eyes. It is a deep, distinctly human grief. The ineffable kind where something is almost too beautiful; so perfect it offends the mortal senses because it should be permanent, but nothing is, and the clash of divine beauty with unstoppable time which oxidizes copper and covers marble with vine is almost as grotesque as metal rending delicate flesh. It is the grief that drove the first poet to write and the first parents to press their baby’s painted hands to the walls of a cave. It is the desire to do the impossible—to capture ephemeral perfection and make it eternal, and the knowledge that it is hopeless. You recognize it because you’ve felt it for him.

“I thought about you all the time,” he whispers, doesn’t bother calling you beautiful but you don’t mind because he’s telling you with his hands and his eyes and the waver of his voice. “When I was gone, I thought about you—”

You’re just as quiet, just as soft.

“Don’t, Spencer.”

He doesn’t get to tell you about when he was gone. Not now. Not after he acted like you didn’t exist.

“Okay.” He swallows the things he’d wanted to tell you like you choked on the things you needed to tell him for three months. “I’m sorry.”

But his hands—his hands are perfect over your waist and his lips are perfect where they kiss your ribs like they’re his homeland. You could forgive a thousand wrongs for each kiss he puts to your skin. Light from the full moon stretches over the room like a blessing from the cosmos, and you have every intention of making the most of that gift, how the silver gilds the planes of his face and highlights curls like they were carved, and invites you to search for something in each shadow.

Some of his kisses land over the sensitive skin of your breasts though you doubt he has much intention or that there is any sort of end-goal with the trail he blazes—in fact, you have to root your hand in his hair and pull gently back when he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s making you wait again. His eyes are glassy and cheeks slightly pinkened—you weren’t expecting this wave of fondness to knock you on your ass but here you are, falling all over again.

“You don’t have to go that slow.”

A slow smile splits the heart of his mouth at your bashful tone and he’s emboldened to bring his hands higher for a moment, thumbs brushing particularly delicate though not downright indecent spots. Nonetheless, your breath catches.

“Impatient girl,” he scolds, and though it’s lighthearted it still inspires heat to dance across your face. Oh, I think I’ve been plenty patient, you itch to say, but you bite it back because it’s only sad and true and unkind.

Still, he gives you the beginning of what you want, really only the tip of the enormous iceberg that is your desire for him, by slipping his thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and tugging them down. His hands slide up the fronts of your thighs, tracing the trim of your underwear, and you’d swear he’s not even breathing. The moment one of his hand loops behind your knee and pulls forward until it’s pressed to the mattress and you’re half-kneeling, half standing, desire begins to truly cloud your mind. Manhandling never seemed like Spencer’s style, but when paired with how softly he reveals your hip, pulling gently down on the fabric of your underwear just to admire you up close, you don’t mind it.

More kisses are littered over your stomach, and he takes you by surprise a second time with a quick maneuver landing you on your back and him on top of you.

“I wasn’t doing you justice with my imagination,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I couldn’t have known.”

“Couldn’t have known what?” you pant as he shamelessly digs his fingers into the plush of your ass. You almost hope it bruises.

“How pretty you would be,” he coos like he means it, and you dissolve, slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass. “You were holding out on me.”

It’s a tease, not at all serious, but you manage to hit him with a, “Was not, asshole,” and he chuckles, placating your little hurt with another sticky kiss, and you get another disorienting glimpse of some other timeline where you’re both a little less damaged. Where it’s a little easier.

But in this timeline, his touch becomes starving and ragged and urgent, and you accept the drag of his thumb up your thigh and between your legs, gasping when he runs his knuckles up the center of you. This touch is metal on screeching metal. It does not pretend to be anything more than what it is—brute, powerful, executed to elicit sensation. You get the sense that Spencer’s never touched anyone this honestly, and while you do envy the girls who got to have him gentler, you’ll take this as the compliment that it is. A kind of vulnerability that is nearing primal.

His lips, though—always his lips—are kind when they brush and land on your skin guided by some invisible map. A dip down your neck and chest and then a plunge, his tongue dragging over your hips, chasing the fabric of your underwear as he almost pulls it off and then reroutes, making room for himself between your legs and pushing lace aside to mark the hinge of your inner and upper-most thigh. Your chest heaves and you don’t dare move for fear he’ll stop leaving signs of himself on your body and you won’t be able to reassure yourself that it was real and he was here and it was not another dream.

Because something in you knows, if only consciously recognizing it for the first time now, that he will disappear again. That this may be your only chance.

The desire to make the ephemeral eternal. An impossibility.

He’s clearly losing himself to something, eyes shutting blissfully. You wonder when the last time he let his guard down even a little was. You’re okay with being the thing he gets lost in, even if you’re not exactly okay with him—something you are becoming more acutely aware of as each touch makes a part of you want to cry. Maybe you still have some things in common. A strange pain that doesn’t quite feel like it belongs to you, for one thing.

You slam back into your body as his nose nudges against you through fabric, and his lips catch on cotton as he drags himself up, eventually settling a kiss against the little bow at the waist of your underwear. There he stays, eyes closed, mouth pressed to you.

“Is this okay?”

You swallow, buzzing. Is this really what he wants? After everything?

“You don’t have to...”

“But is it okay with you?”

Nothing more than an airy whisper, you reply, “Yes, if that’s what you want.”

Being emotional at this point seems wrong, but it’s difficult to ignore the fact that you have thought about this before and it’s finally happening but it’s not exactly as you’d imagined it. There is an indelible sadness to it, to the way he’s so hungry for you because he’s been deprived, to the desperation with which he touches you because he’s had everything taken from him.

For a moment, before he tugs your underwear down, he pauses, and you wonder if he’s freezing one moment in time, this moment, and grieving all the other ways it could’ve been, and accepting that this is the way it is going to be. You are.

These higher realms of thought abandon you as he finally pulls the last barrier down your legs and encourages you to spread them further. You don’t have time or energy to be embarrassed, not even by his staring, or the way his eyes dart up to yours and back down again, wide and shining, as if to say, have you seen yourself? Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?

All you feel is the lack of him on you, the pull to have him closer so strong it’s almost sickening because he could be gone at any second. Maybe he understands that because he doesn’t waste anymore time before he’s kissing the most sensitive part of you. The drag of his tongue has you loosing a shuddering cry.

His mouth wanders, making connections you wouldn’t have realized the value of until you feel them on your skin. Your hips buck as he traces you and you’re unable to stop yourself from tangling your hands in his hair. Speech fails you—hell, you can hardly breathe as you watch his with a furrowed brow and parted lips, only expelling air from your lungs in the form of little cries and gasps and failing to hold your hips down to the bed.

The tip of his tongue teases around your entrance and he catches your leg as your foot rises off the bed, slinging it over his shoulder and consuming you more fervently until you have no choice but to moan though you’ve never been one for theatrics. Nobody has done this for you like he’s doing it for you. Locks of hair fall in front of his face and you hold them back for him, shuddering as he shifts his weight and presses the tip of his finger to your cunt.

“Ah—please,” you manage, your first words since he started. Spencer groans against you and the sound is so wonderfully unexpected, so much better than in your dreams. You cant your hips up in further invitation, chirping as he takes it, pushing two fingers into you at once. Your eyes screw shut and you bite back a whine at the slight stretch, unconsciously writhing your hips either to get further away or take him deeper, you’re not sure.

Spencer pulls back, kissing your hips and thighs and pumping his fingers very slowly as you adjust.

“’M sorry,” you pant, “it’s been awhile, I...”

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says like it’s simple, his own breath coming quicker. “How’re you feeling? Need me to stop?”

“No! No, it feels really good, I feel good.”

He holds your burning gaze, matching it with his own, and his hair is tousled and his cheeks are flushed as he continues to move his hand.

“Yeah?”

“...Yeah.”

This little show of obedience, of call and response, has him smiling before he occupies his mouth with something else once more. It’s a different smile than you’re used to from him, but you decide you don’t at all mind it.

Like that, with his tongue and fingers working tirelessly, your orgasm comes on quickly. The feeling is rare but not entirely foreign, and in that brief moment of utter disconnect between your brain and reality, of sheer white-hot pleasure, you don’t feel you’re missing out on anything at all. How could you be, when you are here and Spencer is here and for a moment all your neurons are lighting up and flashing neon? How could there be anything more to life than the searing feeling of him slowly withdrawing his fingers from you, than your hips between his hands like he’s cradling the world, and his lips, indiscriminate with where they kiss because every part of you is worthy of attention?

You’re reeling, and your legs are gelatinous as he so affectionately sucks the darkest mark yet onto your inner thigh like a parting gift, like he’s signing his trembling work. If you could clamp your legs shut around the almost painful aftershocks you would, but he’s climbing back up your body, so all you can do is wriggle against him and release delayed, stunted little moans. He stops to kiss your neck before he makes it to your mouth and drinks down all your sounds until you’re gentle and pliant for him like you haven’t been yet.

His voice is soft and sympathetic when he speaks. “Better?”

Wordlessly you nod, both comforted and unsettled by how well he knows you. What, exactly, has been made better, you’re not sure. Not trust. You don’t trust him anymore. Something cheaper, but temporarily effective. A sense of permanence, maybe, however fleeting it may be. You’ve completed something with him now, and he’s still here, still sweet.

He looks into your eyes, then, for a moment—and there is just enough light in the room for you to tell yourself that the shadows dancing there as he looks at you are love.

They morph as you watch into haunting, wild hunger. Pained even now.

He sits up abruptly and so do you, scooting back against your headboard and pulling your knees to your chest to protect your pounding heart as Spencer takes you in with darting eyes and quick breaths. His fingers find the collar of his shirt and he begins to unbutton.

“I need you to remember it’s all going to heal.”

He swallows, and you hardly have the wherewithal to study the way he unbuttons his shirt, a way he exists in the world that you had previously not been privy to. The words are too distracting.

“What?”

Sometimes he reminds you of a deer, with those big brown eyes that can’t help betraying anxiety. Moreso in those old pictures he’d shown you from his early days at the BAU—but it shines through occasionally even now. It’s reassuring to know that something inside of his has remained soft.

“Just...” his fingers don’t stop at their task, and you come to the disturbing realization that his knuckles are bruised. “Please don’t freak out, alright?”

Your mouth goes dry, eyes glued to the lengthening span of revealed skin.

And before he even has his shirt fully undone, something isn’t right.

He’s like a Pollack of bruises—starbursts and watercolor blots of discoloration blooming over his side and stomach.

You’re glad the light is off for two reasons: one, being that you don’t think you could handle the bruising in all its glory, and two, you hope the look of horror painted on your face is at least partially obscured from Spencer.

But you can’t. You simply don’t have the gas in the tank to freak out, as he’d said—at least not externally. Those bruises shouldn’t be there, but 96 days is a long time to be gone.

You drag your eyes back to his—nervous, deeply insecure and mistrustful. A deer. Just like those pictures of a 24 year old Spencer in an FBI jacket that was too big for him.

It’s enough to have you scooting on your knees across the mattress to him. Those big eyes stay glued to you as you draw near, falling as you carefully push open his shirt, cautious not to bump any tender spots as it falls to the bed. A flash of white gauze wrapped around his forearm that makes your stomach flip. How? You want to ask. Why?

He doesn’t seem to know what you’re going to do, and neither do you, until you’re grabbing his hands, bruised knuckles and all, and just... holding them for a minute.

“I lost weight,” he says quietly, as if that’s the most shocking thing about his current appearance, though it is noticeable.

“You’re still pretty.”

He smiles at this—a true Spencer Reid smile. Flattened lips, eyes tinged silver with sadness, voice quiet and anxious and wavering.

“I didn’t have a lot to spare.”

A moment goes by.

“I’m not going to ask you about them,” you promise, though you care so much and you want to know but you already understand that he won’t want to tell you.

Another moment. It doesn't surprise you to watch the shiny vulnerability in his eyes to freeze over completely. But he squeezes your hands once in thanks, and you know it’s still the same Spencer.

“Lie down.”

Oh. Right.

This.

You do as he says, taking a deep breath to try and exhale the concern twisting your stomach like a poison. Somehow your room feels so unfamiliar, so new with him in it. Even the whorls on your ceiling look different as you study them, trying to time the pattern of your breathing with the pattern of the paint and plaster and not let the sound of Spencer further undressing quicken your heartrate too much.

Soon he’s coaxing your legs apart again, reverently, and kneeling between them, studying every part of you—lingering not on the parts you’d expect. He traces the scar on your knee with his thumb, follows a line down your thigh to the freckle on your hip. The scrutiny is unnerving and warms you everywhere. Perhaps he senses the microscopic clench of your thighs as you imagine pushing them together, if he weren’t in the way.

“You alright?” He asks, still stroking your hip. Tender again. It’s so hard to keep up.

“I...”

Suddenly your heart beat is a deafening echo in your own ears. The tide of your breathing is too powerful, too in and out and whooshing, leaving you always too empty or too full but never comfortable.

Maybe he’s changed, and he’s harder to know now, but he is the same Spencer. He is the Spencer you’d fallen in love with. The hard part is knowing that now you may never get a chance to tell him that. You don’t know if he’d be able to hear it.

There are things you can’t have with him anymore. Not now, at least. Maybe not ever. But you can have this. It will be different, but you’d rather him be different and here than the same and only in your memory.

You swallow.

“I’m good.”

Tangling your hand in his hair once more, you pull him down into a kiss. It’s hesitant, at first—maybe he can taste your thoughts, where they’d been balancing just on the tip of your tongue. But the uncertainty fades and he kisses you deeper, harder, in a way that is hard to keep up with. You like the messy overwhelm of his lips, teeth, tongue. That’s the only way he knows how to want you.

When you go to wrap your leg around his waist he catches it, running his hands over the soft plush of your thigh. The hard line of him presses against you like memory foam and you gasp and he breathes it in deeply as your brain short-circuits, as you realize this is really going to happen, that you’re going to have him like you’ve never had him before and in ways you’ve only imagined and immediately felt ashamed for.

“Spencer,” you whisper. He ducks to leave open-mouthed kisses along your neck and your eyes flutter shut, craning your neck but not losing sight of your objective as you reach down blindly. When you find what you’re looking for he freezes, groans against your neck at the same time as you breathe the tiniest whimper. Just in your hand he feels impossible, hot and imposing and hard. Your heart palpitates.

Without thinking, you angle your hips up and encourage him closer, until the tip of him is smearing through your folds, and you both go utterly silent like the breath had been stolen right from your lungs. The moment crystallizes, time around you hardening like preserved amber to keep you frozen there forever.

And then he rolls his hips, catching the underside of his cock on the crux of you, and then he does it again, and you choke out a moan and so does he, and it’s beyond perfect—it's nirvana, more than you could ever have conceived of, with his weight pressing you into the mattress, arms caging you in, his heavy breaths hot against your neck and vice versa as you twine together like serpents on a rod, your foot floating in the air as you widen your legs to make more room for him.

And you’re not even fucking yet.

“Oh my god,” you whine, just for him, barely audible under the heavy cloak of night, the thickened air in your bedroom and the sound of panting and fabric shifting. It’s like your heart is trying to reach through your chest to his own where they’re pressed together—that is how hard it’s beating.

Spencer only breathes a long, low curse and shifts so he can grasp himself. Your fingers drift down the shaft of him as he slots himself at your entrance, notching half an inch in and you hold your breath, and you brace yourself—and then he’s kissing you again, but gentler this time. Reassuring. You soften, you can’t not, releasing all your air in a soft gust through your nose, and then he’s pushing in.

Your lips part at the stretch as it fuzzes your mind, but he stays right there, nose pressed to your nose, lips ghosting over your own. He’s not going anywhere, you think, and you’re glad for it, when it burns ever so slightly, and the tiniest whine escapes your open mouth.

“Shh,” he soothes immediately, low and soft, only fractionally louder than you had been. “You’re okay.”

Spencer. Your Spencer.

For a moment, you’re living in that alternate universe. The kinder one. The flash of pain you feel then has nothing to do with the way he’s opening you up.

This is the closest you have ever been, and in some strange way, the furthest apart.

Together, fingers brushing, you guide him until he settles at not quite your deepest point. You can feel that he’s not giving you everything yet, but you’re okay with that, as you adjust to the full feeling. Spencer again senses your desire to close your legs against the deep intrusion, and gives you the best he can by encouraging you to wrap your legs around him.

“Good girl,” he whispers tenderly, nudging at your jaw with his nose and dragging kisses along the ridge of it. Your stomach flips at the moniker and your brain turns to warm sludge as your eyes flutter shut. It makes you feel all light-headed and you flutter around him. Spencer chuckles into the junction of your neck and shoulder and the vibrations send a chill down your arching spine. “I thought you might like that one.”

“Mhm.”

“Mhm. How are you? You okay?”

“’M ready.”

“You’re ready?” His tone is dripping sarcasm and faux-disbelief as he pulls back the slightest bit only to push right back in deeper, this time. Your toes curl, one thigh sliding higher up his waist as you cling to him.

“Fuck,” you manage, a pitiful, high pitched curse tossed to the wind. He echoes the sentiment.

“Oh, my god,” he groans, continuing with that slow pace, “you feel so good, angel.”

You grapple at his back, searching for purchase as your brow knits. “Faster.”

This inspires another breathy chuckle, but he obliges, and you cry out softly. It’s almost unreal, your head buried against his neck, drunk on his scent and the drag of him like a shock felt in the far reaches of your body, again and again.

There’s nothing you can say that will accurately demonstrate what you’re feeling, so you elect not to speak, to remain silent and try to get a grip on this cacophony of sensation and emotion. But it’s too much to be alone with. You feel you have to get it out, to seek understanding. You can’t do it alone.

“Spencer.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know...” the sentence trails off into a gentle keen. He moves to kiss you, speaking against your lips.

“You don’t know?”

Shyly you shake your head. Spencer sighs wistfully.

“Do you know how much I missed you?”

It’s like he can sense your need for comfort. For something grounding.

And while this topic was off-limits earlier—you're softer now. The stone walls that form your boundaries have been chipped away and lowered.

Spencer continues unprompted.

“I thought about you every day. Every night while I was falling asleep. You were always on my mind, angel girl.”

You whine. Whether it’s pleasure or distress is anyone’s guess—including your own.

“You were gone so long,” you whisper, eyes shut.

At this, Spencer slows again, and the tension that was building settles back to a simmer.

“I know. I wish I could—I wish I could change that. But I’m here, okay? I’m right here with you.”

Then he makes sure you feel every last inch, and it takes your breath away. If your thoughts were any more coherent, they’d be something along the lines of: but for how long? How long until you leave again?

“You’re here.”

You say it like a mantra, once out loud, and then again and again in your head, timed with every clash of your hips. With each repetition he becomes more real. Every little ache, every tingling, head-emptying brush against that most sensitive spot inside proves to you that he could not be any closer. This can’t be faked. It can’t be another dream to wake up in tears from.

“You’re here,” you gasp as it hits you, as it truly sinks in.

“I’m here,” he breathes.

There’s so much you want to say—three months of words you need him to hear, of things you need to talk to him about, things you need to yell at him for and things you can only say crying in his arms and things you can only say laughing or whispering or drunk or half-asleep—and in this moment you can’t manage any of it. Every word condenses into one drop of salt water, drifting away from your eye and down your cheek. Spencer doesn’t tell you to stop crying. He only kisses the tear away, and murmurs I’m here I’m here I’m here over and over again against your skin until he’s not even speaking it out loud anymore. But you feel it. With every brush of his lips, every breath, every movement, you feel it.

Soon he’s adjusting his angle, gradually picking up the pace but retaining that unforgiving depth, and your nails bite into the skin of his back as your jaw drops. Spencer hisses, pressing impossibly closer.

“I’m sorry!” you squeak.

“Do it again.”

“Wh—what?”

“Please,” he begs, low and hot against your jaw, just beneath your ear. “Do it again, honey.”

Honey.

You’d do anything for him if it meant he calls you that again.

When he shifts his weight to one arm and reaches down between your bodies to play with your aching clit in exactly the right way, you don’t really have a choice. You arch and moan wantonly enough to feel embarrassed as your nails scratch down his back. At the same time he’s making noises of his own, and you almost feel guilty for marking him up like this only you think he likes it. The most perfect and troubling tension is building in your core, so taut you almost fear the inevitable rebound when it snaps. But you’re driven to be exactly what Spencer needs right now, and to let him try and be what you need. Even if it scares you. Even if you’re not sure how.

Spencer groans, head tucked to the bend of your shoulder. “I’m not gonna last.”

Any response you might’ve been about to muster is annihilated by a sudden, deep bolt of pleasure.

“’M gonna cum,” you mewl like it’s a secret.

“Are you?” he asks, coming up breathless. If your eyes were open, you’re sure you’d see him above you.

“Mhm.”

“Look at me. Look at me.”

It is unmistakably a command—one you fight to follow.

You cry out as you meet the intensity of his gaze, those shadowy corridors suddenly ablaze and alive. They are not unending, like you’d thought. They are a door thrown open to let the light in, or maybe to let the fire out. They’re open in this moment for you.

No more words are spoken after that—you cum hard, gasping as you fall and spin. Spencer follows very shortly after, like he was holding it together just for you, and your eyes are still locked though everything is a bit bleary.

“Fuck,” you whine as he continues to fuck you for as long as he can, despite your writhing hips, but you’re entranced by him, unable to look away now that you’re hooked. Until he slows to a halt, glances down at your mouth, and you just have time to pray that he’ll kiss you before he does. You whimper against his lips—a plea for understanding. A plea for him to stay, even though this is over. He kisses back so soft and sweet it’s like he can read your mind. Echoes of I’m here I’m here I’m here still buzz across your skin. His eyelashes tickle your cheek. Your heart stops beating quite so quickly, melting and warm like the rest of your body.

Soon the kissing ceases and you’re just breathing together, trapped and faced with the knowledge that it must end just the same as you had waited for it to start.

Eventually the air between you becomes mostly carbon dioxide and you let your head fall to the side, dizzy and giggling breathlessly as you nearly avoid asphyxiation. Spencer laughs too, letting his head fall to your shoulder once more, and you finally let your eyes flutter closed. To do something as simple as laugh with him again is its own small euphoria. It’s unexpected, and a soft landing once all that tension breaks underneath your combined weight.

It can’t last forever, you know that well. But the slow fade of it makes the next parts a little easier.

Spencer presses a kiss to your neck. “Is your bathroom through that door?”

You hum a confirmation and are only slightly disheartened when he pulls out and rolls off of you. You’re further disturbed when you see there’s gauze around his thigh, matching what’s around his arm, and you wonder how you missed that. Spencer scoops up his clothing and disappears into the adjoining restroom, assuring you he’ll be right back and leaving you alone with your thoughts and the whorls on the ceiling which have seemingly shifted into entirely new constellations.

He leaves the door cracked which is oddly reassuring—the sliver of warm light and the sound of the sink running. Only a few moments pass before he’s returning clad in boxers once more to sit on the edge of the bed, pushing away the sheet you’d just pulled over your chest and pulling one of your legs over his lap. Your face warms as he brings a washcloth between your thighs. As soon as he glances up at you and catches your eye you’re looking back to the ceiling.

“I should’ve asked first,” he says quietly as he cleans up the mess he’d made of you.

You speak just as softly, like you’re both afraid of disturbing some peace, of waking some sleeping giant. “It’s okay. I would’ve told you if I didn’t want it.”

His reticence, his unreadable face, make you nervous.

When he’s done, he rises to toss the dirtied cloth in the laundry bin, and with his back to you (as scratched up as it might be) you feel braver.

“Are you gonna, like... hate me now?”

It was a mistake. That’s clear by the way he turns around, brow knit deeply and grimacing slightly like even the suggestion offends him.

“Am I going to hate you?”

Again you pull the sheet up, and again you look away, studying the pattern of moonlight stretching out over the floor and scooting to make room for him when he steps in it.

“Not hate, I just...” the bed dips beside you and you are indescribably glad he’s not immediately running out the door. “I’m not dumb. I know what this was.”

He pulls you into him and you settle against his chest. It feels good. “I never thought you were dumb.”

This is your first real conversation since he’s gotten back, you realize. And how quickly you’re falling into familiar patterns, familiar syntactical beats. You know when to speak. You know when to bite your tongue and keep him talking.

The silence goes on longer than you’re used to. Maybe he got good at not speaking while he was away.

Eventually your eyes wander, falling to the white strip over his thigh where it is parallel to yours on the bed, only over the sheets.

“What happened?”

You said you wouldn’t ask, but that was then, and you’re upset again. You almost want to hurt him. To piss him off. You don’t know.

But it doesn’t work.

“Do you really want to know?” There’s a note of something heavy in his voice, and you look up at him. It’s a privilege to have him this close—his beauty is a constant surprise that you’d become unaccustomed to over the months. You say nothing, and he takes that as the yes that it is. “I... I did it to myself.”

He may as well have reached down your throat and grabbed for fucking heart for all its clenching. Tears well almost immediately, though they’ve been waiting in the wings all night.

“What? Did you—were you trying to—”

His eyes widen.

“No! No, honey, no.” You wilt as he gathers you closer, a deeply confused frown still contorting your features, too heartbroken even to cling to him, or to appreciate the ease with which honey slips past his lips again. “No. I was—it's complicated. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to hurt myself, but I had to—I had to do it before someone else did something worse.”

The bruises covering his abdomen.

You sniffle and pull back enough to look up at him tearfully. “Why would they want to hurt you?”

Mist fills his eyes even as he’s looking down at you, a layer of separation, as if he’s two places at once. Even as he goes to brush your hair behind your ear, to stroke your cheek.

“I’m... not... the same, as I was.” It’s not an answer to your question—but it’s the beginning of the answer to a question you’d been too afraid to put into words.

“Don’t say that,” you beg, because you know where this is going. He keeps smoothing your hair like it’ll make this easier.

“But it’s true,” Spencer says gently, the slightest waver betraying his own emotion.

“You’re just going to leave again.”

And you’re losing to the tears.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you will,” you insist, like a child crying to a parent come to comfort them after a bad dream.

“Not right now. Right now I’m here.”

I’ll stay until you fall asleep again.

For now, maybe that has to be enough.

You cry on his shoulder. He kisses your head and doesn’t tell you to stop.

Eventually, you sniff and wipe your eyes.

“We were so close. Before you… we were almost there.”

You’re sure of it. You’re sure that if he hadn’t gone when he did you would’ve been a real couple. You would’ve told him you loved him.

“We’ll get there again,” he promises, rubbing your arm. “I just… I need a little bit of time. I think you do too. But we’re going to get there again.”

Maybe it will never be like it was.

But as so often is the case—Spencer is right. Difference doesn’t mean it won’t ever be good again.

You have to believe that, just as you had to believe you’d see him again.

You look to The Odyssey on your bedside table.

The sun has been obliterated from the sky, and an unlucky darkness invades the world.

But the sun has a habit of rising, time and time again, after the longest nights, after the darkest storms.

You feel the beginnings of its rise, see the golden tips of it lighting the room as he holds you. Even now.

#spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x you #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid angst

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orangeblossomsintheair · 6 months ago

Text

HONEY YOU’RE FAMILIAR | MV33

summary : For a second, he thinks about turning around. Walking out. Pretending he never saw you, because what’s the point? It’s not like he can just waltz up to you and say, “Hey, sorry I ghosted you for no reason other than I’m emotionally constipated. Want to get a drink?”

wc : 5k

an : writing this to distract myself from my other wips? ..i would never.. 😦 also i wrote this at 12 am so let this not be a place of judgement :))

Max sometimes forgets how small Monaco is.

It’s easy to do when most of his memories of the place are a blur of fast cars and glittering parties. He spends most of his time racing through the streets during the Grand Prix or holed up in a hotel room overlooking the harbor.

When you’re constantly traveling the world, hopping between paddocks and podiums, the compactness of Monaco barely registers. It’s a speck on the map, a gilded bubble he never really bothers to think about until it’s right in his face.

But sometimes, like tonight, he’s reminded.

Monaco isn’t a city, not really.

It’s a playground. A handful of streets strung together like a necklace, choked with Lamborghinis, Rolls-Royces, and yachts so big they could be small countries. It’s a place where everyone knows everyone.

Or, at the very least, they know of everyone.

The millionaires gossip about the billionaires. The bartenders know who tips in cash and who never tips at all. Even the stray cats probably have dirt on the local royals.

It’s not just small in size. It’s tight.

Wealth wraps around this place like a noose, strangling it into exclusivity.

There are no dark corners to disappear into, no sprawling suburbs to lose yourself in.

Just a few restaurants, a few clubs, and a few streets where the same people circle each other like they’re on a carousel. If you’re here long enough, you’ll eventually run into everyone you’ve ever met.

Even the ones you’ve been trying to avoid.

Max doesn’t think about that when he walks into the bar.

He’s not in the mood for deep reflection or existential dread. He’s here because Daniel said he needed a drink, and when Daniel Ricciardo says you need a drink, you listen.

That’s how Max ends up at some overpriced lounge that smells like vodka and ambition, standing under soft, warm lighting that’s trying too hard to make the place feel classy instead of claustrophobic.

He’s nursing a beer, half-listening to Daniel tell some convoluted story about a failed date and a stolen Vespa, when he hears it.

A voice.

Your voice.

It’s the kind of thing that cuts through the noise without him even realizing why. It’s not loud or particularly distinct; it’s not like you’re screaming or making a scene. But it’s you. The way you talk, your cadence, the rise and fall of your words. It’s all so achingly familiar that it grabs him by the throat and yanks.

Max freezes. His drink doesn’t make it to his lips.

The years fall away in a blink, and suddenly, it’s like no time has passed.

He’s twenty-two again, still figuring out how to smile for cameras, while you’re draped over the back of his couch, talking absolute nonsense about whether or not the cars in Cars have insurance or not.

He doesn’t even realize he’s turned to look until he spots you.

You’re standing at the bar, laughing as you say something to the bartender. It’s loud, and Max can’t hear you properly, but he can feel you.

The way you lean casually on the counter, the tilt of your head, the way you wave your hand to punctuate whatever you’re saying. It’s so painfully, annoyingly you.

And God, you look good.

For a second, all he can do is stare. You haven’t seen him yet, thank God, because Max Verstappen does not know what the hell to do with himself right now.

You look different.

Not in a drastic way, just… grown.

Your edges are sharper, your presence more refined, like a photo that’s come into focus after years of being a little blurry. But the core of you is still the same. It’s in the way you throw your head back when you laugh, like the world isn’t slowly crumbling under the weight of climate change, billionaires, and whatever Kardashian family drama is brewing this week.

And suddenly, Max is thrown back years.

To a time when you were his person. The one he called when things went sideways, or when he won, or when he was just bored and needed someone to hear him rant about understeer.

You were his best friend.

No. The friend. The one. The only one who ever really got him. And then…Well, then he was an asshole.

He tries to tell himself that you two drifted apart.

People do that, right? It’s life. Except that’s a lie, and Max knows it. You didn’t drift; you held on like a freaking tow hook. You tried—texted him, called him, showed up to races, tried to remind him there was a world outside of 300 km/h and tire degradation.

Max doesn’t know what to do with this. With you. He’s not used to seeing ghosts in real life, and you might as well be one now.

Max debates his next move. He could just… not. Pretend he didn’t notice you. Slip out quietly, finish his drink somewhere else, and avoid whatever emotional grenade this is about to be. That would be the smart thing. The logical thing.

But Max has never been great at logic.

For a second, he thinks about turning around. Walking out. Pretending he never saw you, because what’s the point? It’s not like he can just waltz up to you and say, “Hey, sorry I ghosted you for no reason other than I’m emotionally constipated. Want to get a drink?”

But then you glance over your shoulder.

And your eyes lock.

He doesn’t have time to decide whether to stay or bolt

You see him.

And Max realizes he’s fucked.

For a split second, he thinks you might look away, maybe pretend you didn’t see him either.

He’s not sure if he’s hoping for that or dreading it. But then your face lights up, and the look you give him isn’t what he expects.

It’s warm. Familiar. Like you’re genuinely happy to see him.

His chest tightens. Max isn’t sure what he thought he’d see. Resentment, awkwardness, indifference, maybe.

But this? This disarms him completely.

You wave, and before he knows it, his feet are moving.

“Maxy,” you say as he approaches, your voice carrying that teasing lilt that could only ever be you. It knocks the breath out of him, so familiar and effortless it almost hurts. “Long time no see.”

Max freezes for the briefest of moments, the nickname hitting him like a slap and a hug all at once. Maxy. No one’s called him that in years. Not his family. Not his team. Not anyone.

No one except you.

“Yeah, uh, long time,” he manages, scratching the back of his neck in a gesture so awkwardly familiar it almost makes you laugh. He looks like he’s 17 again, shy and unsure.

Before either of you can say more, Daniel sidles up next to him, a beer in hand and an amused eyebrow raised as he glances between the two of you. “Know her?” Daniel asks, his voice dripping with curiosity.

“He does,” you reply smoothly before Max can fumble an answer. Your smirk is playful, but there’s no bite to it, just that same easy warmth Max hasn’t felt in what feels like forever. “I used to keep this one in line. Back when he was all awkward interviews and tragic haircuts.”

Daniel barks out a laugh, glancing at Max’s meticulously styled hair. “Tragic haircuts? Wait, this-” he gestures wildly at Max’s head, like it’s some architectural masterpiece “-is the improved version?”

You’re already laughing, and it’s the kind of laugh Max hasn’t heard in years.

He groans, dragging a hand over his face, though the corners of his mouth are betraying him with a faint smile. “Don’t encourage her,” he mutters to Daniel, but his tone is far too soft to have any weight.

It’s stupid how easy this feels. How natural. Max isn’t used to easy anymore.

Daniel, bless him, is soaking it all in.

“So?” he says, giving Max a teasing nudge. “Aren’t you going to introduce me, or do I have to guess?”

“I was getting there,” Max grumbles, shooting him a half-hearted glare before looking at you. For a moment, he falters. He doesn’t know what to call you. Acquaintance feels too cold. Stranger would be a lie. And friend? That feels like stepping too far into a past he’s not sure he’s ready to face.

“An old friend,” you offer, saving him effortlessly, like you always did. “And you must be the famous Daniel Ricciardo.”

Daniel grins, full of boyish charm. “Guilty as charged,” he says, tipping his beer in a mock toast. “And let me just say, I already like you. Great taste in insults.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Ricciardo,” you say, though your smirk says otherwise.

The three of you fall into an almost absurdly natural rhythm, as though you’ve all been doing this for years. Daniel’s effortless charisma bounces off your sharp wit, and Max finds himself smiling more in five minutes than he has in weeks.

Maybe months.

It’s like the weight on his shoulders has lifted, just for a moment, and he can breathe again.

You’re mid-story when he realizes he hasn’t felt this light in ages.

“So there I was,” you’re saying to Daniel, gesturing dramatically, “dragging Max out of his hotel room because he was refusing to face the world after a bad race.”

“I wasn’t refusing to face the world,” Max interjects, but there’s no real heat in his voice.

You give him a look that could level a building. “You were lying on the floor eating Haribo like it was your last meal,” you say, deadpan. “It was tragic. Genuinely tragic.”

Daniel’s cackling now, nearly spilling his beer. “Please tell me there are photos of this.”

“Sadly, no,” you reply with mock disappointment. “But the image is burned into my brain forever. It was that bad.”

Max groans, shaking his head, though the grin tugging at his lips is impossible to hide. “Why did I ever let you into my life?”

“Because no one else could handle you,” you fire back, and it’s so quick, so natural, it makes his chest ache.

Daniel takes a step back, still laughing. “You two are too much,” he says, pointing at the two of you like you’ve just performed a comedy sketch. “I’ll leave you to it. Don’t get too emotional without me, okay? I’m going to find another beer. Or maybe a Vespa to steal. Who knows?”

You watch him disappear into the crowd, still grinning. For a moment, the two of you are left standing there, and the noise of the party seems to fade just slightly.

“Daniel’s fun,” you say, breaking the silence.

“He is,” Max agrees.

When the music starts bumping up again, the two of you are faced with a whole other problem entirely.

“So, you’ve been busy!” you yell, leaning across the sticky bar top, your voice barely cutting through the bass thumping around you.

“What?” Max shouts back, leaning closer.

“I SAID, YOU’VE BEEN BUSY!”

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

“I KNOW! THAT’S WHY I’M SHOUTING!”

“WHAT?”

You throw your hands up in exasperation, but he just smirks, clearly enjoying this.

So you double down.

“DO YOU WANT ANOTHER DRINK?” you bellow, miming holding a glass.

“WHY ARE YOU YELLING ABOUT DRINKS?” he shouts back, baffled.

“BECAUSE IT’S TOO LOUD IN HERE!”

“WHAT?”

This back-and-forth nonsense goes on for an impressively ridiculous three minutes, the two of you getting progressively louder, until Max finally groans, shaking his head like he’s reached his limit.

He steps closer, leans in like he’s about to shout something else, then just presses a warm, steady hand to the small of your back. “Come on,” he says, not even bothering to raise his voice this time.

“What?” you yell, still committed to the bit.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he starts gently steering you toward the stairs, and you stumble a little, caught off guard by the unexpected physical contact.

“Where are we going?” you shout, craning your neck to look at him as you climb.

“UPSTAIRS!”

“WHY?”

“BECAUSE I VALUE MY HEARING!” he fires back, glaring at you over his shoulder.

“OH, NOW YOU CARE ABOUT YOUR HEARING?” you tease, but he ignores you, his hand still firm and insistent on your back as he guides you upstairs.

The VIP section is quieter, tucked away from the pulsating bass and the sweaty chaos of the main club floor. Max had slipped a word to a bouncer—who nodded in a way that made you roll your eyes—and now you’re here, sinking into the plush leather of a semi-circular booth with a ridiculous view of the dance floor below.

The relative silence hits you like a warm blanket. You blink, adjusting to the sudden absence of aggressive EDM, and turn to Max, who looks much too smug for your liking.

“Smuggled into VIP like I’m some sort of black-market item,” you tease. “Careful, Verstappen. This is how egos start.”

“You’re welcome,” he says dryly.

“For what?” you shoot back. “The privilege of not getting tinnitus at 27?”

“Yes,” he replies smoothly, sliding into a nearby booth like he owns the place. “You’re lucky to know me.”

“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpan. “My life has improved immeasurably since you dragged me up here. I’ll write a thank-you card.”

“Make sure it’s handwritten,” he quips, signaling a waiter for drinks. “And don’t skimp on the stationery.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, rolling your eyes but you’re smiling, and he knows it.

He chuckles, leaning forward slightly. “Hey, if you’re going to criticize, at least admit this is better than shouting at each other over terrible music.”

You glance around the room, all dark wood and dim lighting, where a few scattered people are having hushed conversations or staring down at the dance floor with an air of superiority. “Alright,” you admit, “it’s not terrible. But the crowd up here…”

You nod toward a guy at the next table wearing sunglasses, inside, and sipping champagne like it’s water. “Is this your scene now? Bottle service bros and indoor eyewear enthusiasts?”

Max glances at the guy, smirking. “Not my scene. But I figured you deserved something better than sticky floors and overpriced tequila shots.”

You laugh. “Wow. I feel so special. Nothing says friendship like a quiet room and a drink I can’t pronounce.”

“Admit it,” he says, leaning back again. “You love it.”

“I love judging it,” you correct, grinning. “Big difference.”

Max watches you for a moment, shaking his head with an almost fond expression. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“And you’ve changed too much,” you shoot back, gesturing at his ridiculously put-together outfit. “Look at you, Verstappen. Fancy haircut, custom clothes, actual social skills. Who are you?”

“First of all, the haircut is functional,” he retorts, mock offended. “Aerodynamics.”

“Oh, of course. Wouldn’t want your hair slowing you down at 300 kph,” you say, pretending to be serious.

“It’s a real thing!” he insists, laughing now. “If you knew anything about racing-”

“If I knew anything about racing?” you interrupt, your voice rising in mock outrage. “Excuse me, I was there when you had to Google how to talk to the media without sounding like a robot. You think I don’t know the intricacies of racing, Maxy?”

“Don’t call me Maxy,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face.

“Oh, I’m definitely calling you Maxy,” you say, delighted. “I might even get a custom T-shirt. ‘Maxy’s Biggest Fan.’ I’ll wear it to a race.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “If you do that, I’ll steal your phone and delete every embarrassing photo you’ve ever taken of me.”

“Bold of you to assume I don’t have backups,” you say smugly, sipping your drink.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, shaking his head, but there’s a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

For a moment, the two of you fall into an easy silence, the noise of the club below fading into the background. You glance at Max, noting the relaxed set of his shoulders, the way he’s fiddling with the label on his beer bottle—a habit he’s had for as long as you can remember.

“So,” you say, breaking the quiet, “what’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve bought since you became all… you know.”

“All what?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“You know,” you say, waving a hand vaguely. “World Champion. Multi-millionaire. Guy who smuggles old friends into VIP sections.”

He chuckles. “Ridiculous? I don’t know… probably the private jet.”

You stare at him, deadpan. “The private jet is the least ridiculous thing about you, Verstappen. Try again.”

“Fine,” he says, thinking for a moment. “I bought a sauna for my house. Didn’t use it for six months.”

You burst out laughing. “A sauna? For what? Post-race existential crises?”

He groans, rubbing his temples. “It was a bad idea, okay? I thought it would be relaxing.”

“Did it come with, like, a tiny man who throws water on the rocks for you?” you ask, grinning.

“No, but now I kind of want one,” he admits, laughing.

“God, you’re the worst,” you say, shaking your head, but your tone is full of affection.

“And you’re jealous,” he fires back.

“Of your unused sauna?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, I’m absolutely consumed with envy.”

The two of you dissolve into laughter and the conversation continues.

Next thing you know it’s 3 am and you and Max are stumbling out of the club, too giggly for both of your sakes.

Daniel had hopped on to another place hours ago so it’s just you and him.

The cool night air hits you like a slap, but instead of sobering up, it just makes you giggle harder.

Max freezes mid-stumble, his head lolling back like he’s auditioning for Les Mis on the world’s worst stage. “Why’s the air so aggressive?” he slurs. “Feels like it’s… pushing me. Rude.”

“Why’s the ground so spinny?” you counter, stumbling sideways into him.

“'Cause you’re bad at walking,” he accuses, latching onto your arm like a barnacle while swaying dramatically.

“You’re bad at walking,” you fire back, immediately tripping over a shadow and nearly eating pavement.

“You can’t even walk straight!” Max protests, laughing as he catches you before you faceplant.

His arm slides around your waist, steadying you in the most unsteady way possible.

“You’re the one spinning,” you argue, slurring every other word. “Maaaybe you should ju- just stay still for once in your life.”

“Oh, because you’re the expert,” he fires back, wheezing as you nearly trip again. “Where- where are you even staying at?”

You squint at him, trying to focus. “Uh… good question.”

Max stops dead in his tracks, turning to look at you with a mix of disbelief and amusement. “What do you mean good question? How do you not know?”

“I don’t rememb- ber,” you admit, cackling as if it’s the funniest thing in the world.

Max groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re just- what? Homeless now?”

“Homeless for the night,” you correct, wagging a finger at him like that somehow makes it better.

Max laughs so hard he has to pause, doubling over slightly. “How- how do you forget where you’re staying?”

“’S not my fault!” you defend yourself, leaning heavily against him. “The hotel has, like… a name! A boring one! And too many floors!”

Max groans so loudly it echoes off the buildings. “Oh my God. You’re homeless now. You’re a wandering drunk with no home.”

“I'm trying a new lifestyle,” you say, grinning. “Like… nomadic, y’know? Spiritual.”

“Yeah, okay, Buddha, let’s find you a real place to sleep before you start befriending rats,” he mutters, dragging you down the street.

“I like rats,” you say cheerfully. “They’re just misunderstood.”

“You’re misunderstood,” Max shoots back. “Come on. You’re crashing at my hotel. I can’t leave you out here to, like, adopt a possum or something.”

“I don’t wanna!” you whine, digging your heels into the ground.

“Tough!” Max barks, throwing his arm around your shoulders to keep you moving. “You’ll thank me in the morning when you’re not spooning a garbage can.”

You groan dramatically, slumping into him. “Maxxyyy, I’m tired. Can’t I just sleep on a bench or something?”

“Nooo. No benches. Benches are gross. You’ll get, like… pigeons on you.”

“Pigeons are my friends,” you declare solemnly, as if this is a hill you’re prepared to die on.

Max shakes his head, clearly trying to stay serious but failing miserably. “Okay, Dr. Dolittle, you’re not sleeping outside.”

You groan again, dragging your feet even as he starts pulling you along.

“Stop whining,” he slurs, swaying as he tries to walk in a straight line. “It’ll be like- like a sleepover! Like when we were five.”

“Sleepovers at five were better,” you mutter. “Less… you.”

“Excuse me?” Max stops, glaring at you like you’ve mortally offended him. “I’m the best sleepover buddy. I let you steal my Haribo once.”

“You hid the Haribo under your pillow!” you counter, poking him in the chest.

“’Cause you’re a thief!” he says, grinning as he pulls you toward the street corner.

“Am not,” you huff, pouting.

“Are too,” he replies, but his tone is teasing as he hails a cab.

When the cab pulls up, it feels like the world is tilted just enough that the ground might collapse under your feet at any moment. You both tumble into the backseat in a fit of giggles, your laughter echoing off the darkened streets.

It’s the kind of laughter that’s born of a little bit too much alcohol and a whole lot of absurdity. You could’ve sworn you heard a streetlight flicker in disbelief at the sound of your shared joy.

Max flops dramatically against you as if the very act of sitting upright requires more effort than it’s worth.

His head lands squarely on your shoulder, and for a split second, you’re both tangled in the shared warmth of a really questionable decision.

He looks up at you, eyes half-lidded, and grins like a kid who just got away with stealing candy.

“You smell like tequila and poor decisions,” he mutters with a lazy drawl, his words slow but somehow still cutting through the haze of the night.

You’re already shaking your head before you even speak, the words spilling out one over the other. “You smell like someone who wore Axe in high school.”

Max’s eyes widen in mock outrage. “I did not!” He shoots up from your shoulder like you just insulted his very existence, but the motion sends him veering dangerously toward the cab door.

He catches himself at the last second, gripping the seat like it’s a lifeline.

By the time the cab pulls up to Max’s hotel, you're both deep into a discussion about whether Axe body spray could be classified as a biohazard in certain quantities.

It’s a ridiculous debate, fueled by far too much tequila and a complete disregard for logic, but it’s the most fun either of you have had in ages.

Max is practically in tears from laughing, his snort-laugh echoing off the walls of the cab as he tries to argue that Axe is, in fact, a perfectly fine product, just poorly misunderstood by society.

The cab screeches to a halt, and Max stumbles out first, holding the door open for you with the kind of exaggerated flair you’d expect from someone who probably practices his dramatic entrances in front of a mirror.

As he pays the driver, his wallet slips from his hands not once, but twice, and he’s already apologizing profusely, his face flushed from the alcohol and his own clumsiness.

Finally, he gets the wallet sorted, tucks it back in his pocket, and reaches down to drag you out of the cab like you’re a piece of luggage.

You’re both barely standing, teetering back and forth on your feet as if gravity itself is conspiring to make the night even more ridiculous.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Max says, throwing his arm out grandly to gesture toward the hotel lobby like he’s unveiling the Louvre.

The marble floors, polished to a shine, the sleek, understated furniture… none of it compares to the visual assault that is the ugly carpet underfoot.

“Your palace has really ugly carpet,” you mutter, laughing as you trip over the offending fabric, your feet not quite able to keep up with your brain’s idea of where they should go.

Max snorts, his hand steadying you as you almost face-plant into a particularly gaudy potted plant. “You’re banned from the palace,” he retorts, giving you a playful shove.

You recover, and together, you stagger toward the elevator, which, for some reason, feels like an obstacle course in itself.

The elevator doors open with a dramatic ding, and Max promptly starts jabbing the wrong floor button in a series of random, very confident moves.

Each one is a miss, but he keeps at it, as if this were somehow part of the plan.

You lean against the wall, your body shaking with laughter as you struggle to breathe through the giggles.

“This is why they don’t let you operate machinery,” you manage to gasp, watching him fumble with the buttons in disbelief.

Max grumbles under his breath but finally, miraculously, hits the correct floor button. He turns to you with an exaggerated wink. “See? I told you. Genius.”

You raise an eyebrow, patting him on the head condescendingly. “Sure you are, buddy. A true mastermind.”

The elevator ride is a blur of jokes and half-baked insults as you both fight to keep your composure.

Max leans against the wall with a smug look, clearly reveling in his victory over the elevator button.

When the doors finally open, you both stumble out, holding on to each other uselessly.

At the door to his room, Max proceeds to fumble with his key card in a way that can only be described as tragically incompetent.

The key card slips from his fingers twice, and each time, he lets out a string of expletives in a garble of Dutch and English.

“Jesus. You okay there, Einstein?” you tease, leaning casually against the wall and watching him drop the card once more. You can’t help but laugh.

“Shut up,” he mutters, his voice already tinged with frustration. “Technology’s hard.”

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the door swings open, and Max stumbles inside with the grace of a rhino on roller skates.

He turns to face you with a theatrical sigh. “There. I did it. Happy now?”

You’re already halfway to the bed, your shoes flying off in opposite directions, one ending up by the dresser and the other getting lodged under a chair.

With a dramatic thud, you collapse onto the bed, your body sinking into the soft, luxurious comfort like it was the only thing holding you together.

“This bed is softer than my hopes and dreams,” you mumble, your voice muffled by the comforter as you stretch out like a starfish.

Max, predictably, flops down beside you with the subtlety of a sack of bricks, his arms and legs sprawling out in every direction.

“Move over,” he grumbles, his face smooshed into the pillow.

“Nope,” you reply, barely lifting a finger to indicate where his side is. “Your side’s over there,” you say, pointing vaguely toward the edge of the bed, but it’s clear from the way your eyes are barely staying open that you’re not in any shape to play the “bedroom politics” game.

“Too bad,” Max grunts, grabbing your pillow from beneath your head and smushing it over his face. “This is a dictatorship, and I’m the dictator.”

“Goodnight, Haribo hoarder,” you slur, your words trailing off into nothing as sleep drags you under.

The last thing you hear before you fully fade into unconsciousness is Max’s muffled laugh, and you can’t help but smile.

For a brief moment, it feels like nothing’s changed at all.

—-

Max’s eyes snap open, and for a second, everything is blurry.

He blinks a few times, the weight of his eyelids making it feel like he’s wading through molasses.

A dull ache sits in the back of his skull, a reminder of the questionable choices he made the night before.

He groans, dry, scratchy, the kind of noise that only belongs to mornings where you regret both your life decisions and your snack choices.

He’s still in his room. So far, so good.

Nothing seems out of the ordinary... except for that persistent feeling in the air that something is off.

Max stretches, or at least tries to. His arms flail in an uncoordinated spasm, which results in a series of awkward grunts and a pop from his back that sounds like a joint trying to jump ship.

For a second, he considers staying perfectly still, hoping his body will remember how to function like a normal human.

But then—

There’s something warm beside him. Something... alive.

Max freezes, eyes snapping wide open. His breath catches in his throat as he tries to process what’s happening. The warmth next to him isn’t the soft comfort of a pillow.

It’s... a person.

A person in his bed.

What the actual hell?

His brain goes into overdrive, trying to make sense of the situation. His mind races through a thousand thoughts in a second, each one more ridiculous than the last.

Did he... did he end up getting a stranger drunk last night? Did someone break into his room to cuddle with him?

Max’s eyes dart to his left, and it hits him like a freight train.

The person is you.

You, sprawled across the bed, fast asleep, your hair tousled and your face peaceful, completely unaware of his mounting panic.

For a moment, Max just stares, brain failing to catch up.

How did this happen? His head starts swimming. His mouth goes dry. His first thought is that he’s dreaming..except, no.

This is far too real. He’s not that lucky.

“I need to call Daniel..”

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lo1k-diamonds · 4 months ago

Text

A woman's best friend 💜 Part 2

PAIRING: Taehyung x (f)reader

SUMMARY: After falling into temptation once, you and Taehyung tried to navigate the aftermath as best as possible. It turns out none of you can handle it, so your friendship is bound to end one way or another.

WORD COUNT: 7,127

GENRE: f2l, smut (uni AU setting)

RATING: R (explicit)

WARNINGS: mutual pining, angst, dirty talk, body worship, nipple play, oral (m receiving), fingering, protected sex

A.N. I know part 1 was bittersweet, and I am a sucker for happy endings, so here is part 2 with a shiny new ending for this couple 😚 I think it has the right vibe for Valentine's Day, enjoy! (Thank you to @eerieedits again for the awesome banner 💜)

Masterlist | Scroll my stories on Tumblr | Schedule and WIPs | AO3 | Wattpad

The rhythmic thud thud on the window made you pull the curtain and look out the window. It was storming outside, and the night lights glistened as cars passed in the roads below and people enjoyed their Saturday night.

Not you, though. Once, you had two types of Saturdays: the ones you’d go out with all your friends and the ones you’d stay home hanging out with Taehyung. Lately, you had neither, and it was all your fault.

You still remembered a night like this one. Turning away from the window, you let your gaze wander your living room. Back then, Physical: 100 kept playing on the TV screen for a long time, serving as background noise as you stayed in Taehyung’s arms. You lost track of time, then, staying awake and worrying about what that night would change.

You never discussed it further with Taehyung. He had fallen asleep, breathing gently with his arms around you, and you stayed perfectly still, aware of every ticking second. The conflict inside your chest was paralyzing — you didn’t want that night to end, but you also feared it continuing. The more you touched or interacted with him intimately, the harder everything would get.

Those thoughts kept you awake, staring at the ceiling. So you recalled when the TV timed out and switched off, prompting you to go to the bathroom and come back only to find Taehyung exactly where you left him, naked with a blanket partially covering him as he slept. You didn’t regret slipping back into his embrace; you’d never get another chance. He wouldn’t know you had decided to return to his arms or how much you needed his warmth to calm down and fall asleep.

When you woke up, you found out a summer storm had broken out. It rained so much, then, but the same thud thud from the windows was unable to draw you away from his arms. All you could do was linger in his warmth for one second longer while you worried. Dreading and fearing how you’d ever look at him and not remember. How you’d brush each other and fake not having butterflies in your stomach. What if you saw him with someone else? How were you supposed to be his wing-woman again?

Of course, Taehyung had reacted the way you expected him to when he woke up. He chuckled at the pouring rain outside, happy that he had his leather jacket with him, and smiled dazzlingly when he saw you in a robe with your morning hair.

Then, before he left, he reassured you again, “Don’t worry about it.”

But you were yourself, and you had been right to worry. The problem wasn’t that you had slept together but that it had changed something inside your heart. Those feelings you once thought buried refused to vanish, the hope you once thought dead was alive and kicking, and to make things worse, you couldn’t forget.

Taehyung invited you for an ice cream, and you remembered what his eating you out felt like. He told you about this movie he wanted to see, and you knew what his baritone voice teasing you would sound like in the dark. He was excited about the new classes he was taking, even more so because you were there, too, and you shuddered at the memory of him kissing you as he came deep inside you, holding you so close you felt like a treasure. He promised to take you home when your group of friends decided to check out a new club, and you dreaded the whole night, both because he could choose to hook up with someone and because you wished that person could be you. Finally, he invited you to work on a group assignment together, and as you listened to him passionately go on about the topic, you wondered if you’d ever be able to reel your feelings back in.

You screwed yourself up over that one single weak moment. That yes had turned your life upside down, and while Taehyung kept his promise of being your best friend, you couldn’t.

So you did the only logical thing — you started avoiding him. It was inevitable — if his proximity made it impossible for you to get over him, then the only natural solution was not to have him close.

You weren’t sure he noticed, but you knew he was understanding. He never mentioned the situation and treated you like nothing happened. He never pushed to know why you started saying no to night outs or confronted you about being tired every time he invited you over. You were never able to invite him to come over and be alone again in that very same living room, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out why, so it didn’t surprise you never asked about it.

In the end, it hurt you more than anyone. You were frustrated with yourself; you asked for this, it was all your doing. But you were helpless. Sometimes, you could act normal, and your interactions were playful and warm, as always. He poked you under the table? You knew there was a joke coming. Or he’d lean into your ear to whisper something, and your heart wouldn’t somersault and expect a caress. However, other times, you couldn’t help but withdraw your hand or avoid sitting next to him and letting such interactions bloom. Because you’d read into them or remember or wish for things to be different, and you hated it. Hated it all.

You were about to turn on the TV and search for something that could take your mind off him when the doorbell rang. You wondered if the neighbor had put the wrong door number on the food delivery again, but Taehyung was outside your door like an apparition.

Despite his black leather jacket, he looked drenched and dejected. He raised his dark eyes to yours. “Hi, can I come in?”

You didn’t hesitate to reach out to pull him inside. “Of course, let me grab a towel!”

You let him enter your place first and close the door behind him, then rushed to your bathroom to get a towel. Only when you came back to the living room did you realize it was odd that he was there.

“Weren’t you supposed to go out with the others tonight?” you asked as you threw the towel over his head to dry his dripping hair. “How come you’re here?”

He grabbed your hands and pulled the towel away so he could face you. “I can’t take this anymore. We need to talk.”

“Alright! Who wants to drink what?”

Taehyung barely heard Jimin's question as your group of friends sat around on the couches and loveseats. That was their corner; they always sat there, and as he waited for everyone to settle down, his heart dropped. The loveseat you always shared with him was empty. You weren’t there again.

Taehyung asked about you quietly, trying to conceal the way his heart was squeezing inside his chest.

“She’s not coming,” Jimin answered, then shrugged. “Something about being tired.”

“She’s always tired lately!” Hoseok huffed as he sat next to Jungkook, who hummed.

“Maybe she’s sick?”

“When’s the last time we’ve seen her?” Jin wondered, and Namjoon sat on a beige pouf.

“Couple of weeks? Anyway, why are you asking?”

“You would know better than us,” Yoongi croaked with a quirk of his eyebrow. “Don’t you have classes with her?”

“Aren’t you best friends?”

Taehyung nodded absentmindedly as they resumed choosing their drinks, and the weight inside his chest didn’t relent. Yes, he saw you; he should know about you. He should be able to understand, but he wasn’t. He couldn’t. You were slipping between his fingers, and he just couldn’t sit idly by and watch it happen anymore.

“I gotta go.”

He rushed outside without hearing their protests, and the pouring rain greeted him. It wasn’t enough to dissuade him; he raised his leather jacket’s lapel to cover his neck and made his way in between the people trying to reach the nightbars and get cover from the rain. You lived fifteen minutes away; you were just within reach.

It was all his fault. He should have thought twice about crossing the line with you, even when you said yes. Not just for you, but for his own sake. That night was branded in his memory, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t move on from it. And he tried. He tried doing everything right. He tried pretending nothing happened, that he didn’t want anything more than friendship with you, that it wasn’t a big deal. He tried looking at you as purely as a friend would, and he tried looking at other people the way he knew he shouldn’t look at you. Yet, even in the few moments he was able to entertain the thought of someone else or get engrossed in a conversation with them, it was always the same. The moment you crossed his mind, he was reminded why it wouldn’t work. He’d be talking with someone clearly interested in him and instantly thinking about your kiss, your smile, your gaze as you kneeled before him, your teases. The person in front of him would touch his thigh, hinting at something more, and he’d instantly raise a wall. You were on his mind, and even if being friends was the only thing you wanted, it didn’t mean his heart or body wanted anyone else.

He craved you. That night wasn't just a dream or a type of heaven he wished had become permanent. It was a risk in every sense. He knew he wasn't just fucking you. He didn’t want just to leave you a slobbering mess, he wanted more. He wanted to look into your eyes and see it — the moment you'd realize how good you felt together. How perfect it was and could be. He wanted to look into your eyes and see the moment you'd fall in love with him.

And that was his biggest mistake. That one moment of pure greed — it wouldn't happen, he knew that. Even if you were curious about him, that wouldn't just happen. Best case scenario, you'd scratch the itch, be it for sex or curiosity, and move on. Worst case scenario, you'd regret it and never look at him the same way again.

He suspected the latter was happening despite his efforts. The whole night he had you in his arms, he struggled to enjoy it after the way you revealed your worries. His heart burned with a discomfort he couldn’t voice while he prayed that he wouldn’t lose you. That, no matter what happened, you'd stay in his life.

But he should have known. It was worse than a drunk one-night stand with someone from your friend group. You were best friends; of course, it was hard for you.

You started pulling away, and he instantly noticed. At first, it was the little things. You'd withdraw your hand from his or flinch ever so slightly when he leaned in closer. You didn’t invite him to spend time or the night in your apartment, just the two of you, and he understood why. The worst was that you withdrew from your typical antics and cut your smiles short. You’d be sitting next to him and not even look his way, and it withered his heart. Of course, when you did turn to him, he always had a smile for you. He wanted to be a comforting presence no matter how fleeting your interactions were, but still, it only got worse.

It hurt when you avoided sitting next to him or dancing, and then you started disappearing. You didn't show up to all classes anymore, and you didn't hang out with your group of friends, at least not when he showed up. Then he'd text you to ask about it and notice that even through messages, things had changed. You texted less and less, and the distance was breaking his heart.

He kept running through the stormy weather with his hair dripping down his forehead. He didn't care; nothing mattered at this point. It had been two weeks since he last saw you, and there were only three or four texts in between. What he feared was happening, it was undeniable, but he wouldn't go down without a fight. He needed to see you and try one last time. It would be his dying breath, but at least he'd try. For once, he'd bare his soul and hope you'd do the same and forgive him. He just didn't want to lose you. He loved you so much.

He crossed a delivery boy at your apartment building entrance and ran upstairs to consume some of that nervous energy. Then, he rang the doorbell, and you opened the door for him, and his heart convulsed. God, he missed you so desperately.

“Hi, can I come in?” he mumbled, lost in the sight of you in your robe that brought him such bittersweet memories.

You pulled him inside without hesitating. “Of course, let me grab a towel!”

You closed the door behind him, and he took his shoes off so he wouldn’t make a puddle in your living room. Yet that was the last thought he had before where he was hit. That couch, that place. His heart ached again as he turned to you, and you threw a towel over his head.

“Weren’t you supposed to go out with the others tonight?” you asked as you patted the towel to dry his dripping hair. “How come you’re here?”

He grabbed your hands and pulled the towel away to face you. “I can’t take this anymore. We need to talk.”

He saw the second you tensed as the towel fell to the floor, but you didn't withdraw your hands, and he was not holding back.

“You said you didn't want things to change, and I'm trying. I'm trying so hard to hold onto you,” he said, pain lacing his voice. “But I can't if you keep pushing me away like this.”

He paused, looking at your startled and tense expression, waiting for you to say something, but you were frozen.

He lowered his hands but kept holding onto yours. “I'm sorry if I ever hurt you. If I pushed you to do something that made you uncomfortable with me. It's my fault, I got carried away with my own selfish feelings,” he confessed, tearing up with a sad smile. “I promise I won't ever touch you again or bring up anything inappropriate, so please.” He let go of your hands gently. “Please forgive me. Please say we can still do something about this because I can't— I don't want to lose you.”

His voice wobbled, and you frowned, shaking your head.

“I’m the one who is sorry,” you managed to say despite the tears pushing to get out. “Because it’s my fault. My selfish feelings, not yours. I'm the one who said yes and then couldn’t handle it. I'm so sorry, I— I should have told you, but I— I’m so sorry—”

You stammered, rubbing your face in embarrassment, distraught. You needed to tell him; you couldn’t let him think he did something wrong. But what if he thought staying friends would worsen things and decided to end everything?

“Told me what?” he asked, anxiously stepping closer to you. “Please, tell me,” he requested softly, but you kept hiding your face. “Please.”

Your hands started shaking over your face, and he suddenly realized you were holding back your cry as you trembled.

His heart sank. “Did I hurt you? Fuck, I’m so sorry!”

You uncovered your face to look at him. “No, you didn't.”

He held his breath as he observed you cleaning your cheeks. “But you’re crying,” he pointed out, desolation tearing his chest. “I'm so sorry! I promise I won’t ever do it again!”

You wiped your cheek annoyedly and reached to grab his jacket. “Stop!”

“I never wanted to hurt you, I—”

“Stop it!”

“I won't ever touch you again, I just—”

“Stop saying that!”

He stayed put, no matter how angrily you held onto his jacket. “I’ll never forgive myself if—”

“STOP!” You had to shout and pull him to you so firmly that he stumbled in your direction. Desperation was taking hold of you as sobs shook you, but his disheartened eyes kept you focused. “You never hurt me, I don't want you to think that for a second!”

“But… you've distanced yourself from me.”

“I know,” you croaked, looking down at his lips curved sadly.

“You said you didn't want things to change.”

“I know…”

“You said you didn't want it to ruin our friendship.”

“I did…”

Taehyung waited for you to say something or look into his eyes again, but you didn't.

So he asked, “Did it?”

“Yes.” Your eyes finally rose from his lips, and you had to be truthful. “I can't be your friend anymore.”

Taehyung paled and stared at you, speechless, livid. His heart broke; his worst nightmare was—

“I look at you, and friendship doesn't begin to cover how I feel.”

“What?” He blinked, befuddled as his thought process stumbled on itself.

“I should have told you, but I never thought you’d— I knew it would be risky, but—” You licked your lips, having a hard time ordering your thoughts. “At that moment, when you asked, I just— Of course, I said yes, I— I’ve wanted you for so long, I— I should have known it would mess me up— I begged you not to let things change because I knew— I knew they would change for me, and—”

You were struggling to breathe and say everything you wanted, and he supported your arms as you held onto his jacket.

“You wanted me?” he asked softly, and you nodded. “What changed? Please… Please tell me.”

His gentle expression and supporting hands gave you the courage you needed. “Everything— everything changed,” you confessed. “I can’t look at you the same way. I can’t look at you without wanting to touch you or kiss you. I’m sorry, I—”

He cradled your cheeks suddenly and crashed his mouth to yours, and you whimpered ever so softly. You gripped him closer by his leather jacket and kissed him back, not hesitating for a second to meet his tongue with yours. You wanted to lick that taste back into your life, that warmth, that comfort you missed terribly.

You thought he felt the same way when he halted your kiss to a simple press of your mouths as though he needed to feel it. When he pulled away, his eyes were red and glistening, eying you with such emotion your heart trembled.

“You wanted to kiss me?” he asked, still cradling your cheeks.

“Yes.”

“To touch me?”

You nodded anxiously. “Yes.”

“That's what changed?”

“No.” You looked at his lips again before facing him. “I've always wanted to, but we were friends. Now, I just can't pretend anymore.”

“You mean… you don't see me as a friend?”

You shook your head still in his grasp.

“So you don't regret it?”

You could see him relaxing, his features soothing as you two talked, so you shook your head again. “I don't. Do you?”

“No,” he replied instantly, smiling. “I did when I thought you pulled away from me because I hurt you, but—”

“You didn't,” you assured again, pulling him closer. “Do you… Could you see us as more than friends?”

“Fuck yes,” he rasped, brushing your cheeks gently. “I want to be yours. I’ve wanted it for so long. There’s nothing else I want.”

“Really?”

Your eyes watered as you looked into his. Was this a dream?

He smirked. “Really. You better start believing it because if you let me into your bed again, I’m not leaving. Like ever.”

You chuckled and bit your lip. “If I invite you, I expect you to never leave. We cross the line and get rid of it. We say things that make us feel like more than just friends because we are more than—”

He crashed his lips into yours again, letting go of your jaw to pull you closer by the waist until your chests were glued. His leather jacket was still dripping from the rain, but you didn't care. If he kept kissing you like that, he wouldn't have it on for much longer anyway.

“Say it, then,” he mumbled between kisses. “You know the drill.”

You chuckled. “Do I?”

He hummed, chasing your lips.

“I only know the one to give you the green light to fuck me into a slobbering mess—”

His groan as he dragged his lips to your neck made you clench around nothing, and you bit your lip.

“But what if I don't want just to fuck?”

He pulled away to face you, with blown pupils and wet lips, held in check.

“What if I want to be yours?”

“I'll make you mine,” he promised, grabbing your hair on the back of your head so you'd face his dark eyes. “I'll make you forget ever not being mine.”

“In one of those five ways you thought of?”

Your whisper was not simply a tease, and you suspected he knew it when he groaned and leaned in to peck your lips.

“I've since thought of many more.”

He licked and nibbled your lips, and you had to close your eyes with the shudders.

“You thought about fucking me?”

“I haven't thought of fucking anyone else ever since I met you.”

Your cheeks burned as you snapped your eyes open. “What?”

“You heard me,” he murmured against your chin.

“But— I helped you— with that other guy—”

He shrugged. “Nothing happened. We got outside the bar and went our separate ways.”

“You never told me that!”

“Well, what could I say?” he said, speaking close enough to you that you could feel his breath on your lips. “That I wasn't really interested and went home to fuck my fist while I thought of you? I didn't think you'd appreciate that—”

It was your turn to grab his hair and pull him down to kiss you again, consuming just a little bit more. Your tongue darted out to lick, tease, and take, and he fought you with a low groan. Whatever you wanted, he wanted it too if it meant you were going to kiss him like that.

“You have— no idea— how much— that drives me crazy,” you managed to say between kisses. “The thought of you— thinking of me— fuck—”

He seemed to get an idea because his hands lowered to your ass to squeeze it, catching you when you jumped into his arms. You never stopped kissing, even as he walked with you in his hands, until your back hit a wall.

You didn't care how or where he fucked you as long as he did. Of course, your mouth was busy as you opened it more so he could deepen the kiss, so you couldn’t tell him. But you could show him in the way your legs wrapped around his waist, keeping him close. Your heavy breathing matched his as your hands explored and tried touching him everywhere you could, but his jacket was in the way. He likely felt the same, seeing the way he fought to open your robe and tried getting it out of the way so he could kiss down your neck into the cleavage of your pajama top.

You chuckled; the two of you were making things harder by trying to undress each other at the same time. His eyes crinkled as he matched your smile and gave you the lead. His lips trailed your jaw as you pulled your robe open and shrugged it back to give him access to your neck and collarbone. Your skin instantly drew his lips, allowing you to push his jacket off him while he was happily distracted.

You tried to get rid of his sweater, too, but couldn't. As soon as his jacket hit the floor, he wrapped his arms around you again and buried his face between your tits, squeezing you to him so firmly you couldn’t breathe. However, you could feel the way he was rutting into you and it drew a quiet moan as you fisted his hair.

Goosebumps ran over you as he licked your cleavage, dragging his tongue over every inch of skin he could reach, and you needed more. You released one hand to reach in between your bodies with the single goal of touching him, and it wasn't easy. His ruts were unpredictable, not leaving any space between you, but you needed to grasp his desire for you, feel it in the palm of your hand.

When he raised his lips to kiss you again, it gave you the opportunity to unbutton his jeans. His tongue pushed through your lips, deepening his kiss so much you moaned quietly, muffled. Yet it just complemented and amplified your urge to grab him, and you did.

Your hand finally reached inside his boxers to grab his dick and pull it out, and he groaned. Your hand clamped shut around him, fisting him unapologetically, and he had to break your lips apart to moan softly. You adored the way he held his breath, letting his forehead fall to yours as he closed his eyes, taking in everything you gave him. His sweet expression sparked your desire even further, so you kept pumping him, delighted with the precum dripping around your fingers and his knitted eyebrows.

You'd go to the last consequences of this with pleasure, but he suddenly grabbed your hand away and pressed himself to you. You were squished between the wall and his body, but you had zero reservations about it, especially when he kissed you like that. His mouth crushed yours as his hips thrust into you, jumpstarting a carnal hunger that consumed you. His hand dug under your pajama top, scratching your skin up to squeeze your tits, and you moaned, bucking your hips to match his. His tongue was so deep in your mouth that you were drooling, both desperate to moan and feel the tip of his cock rubbing against your unfortunately still-covered cunt. You were fucking desperate to have him, and you'd gladly cum right here and now if he filled you up.

“Tae,” you tried, barely able to part your lips from his. “I need you inside me, please.”

He moved in a flash, checking his pants were open enough to give him space before letting you stand to pull your pants down your legs.

You gripped his shoulders for support, then sighed when he leaned in to nip just under your ear. His fingers skimmed your wet folds before pushing two fingers in roughly, unleashing your moans as he touched all the right spots inside you.

You were so ready to blow you could feel the enthralling pleasure tingling in your nerve ends.

But somehow, you had a discerning thought. “Condom… Tae… Grab a condom.”

He stopped suckling on the skin of your neck to eye you with a lustful gaze.

“I'm not on the pill,” you whispered, brushing his luscious hair off his eyes. He looked absolutely dazzling, and you wanted him to fuck you till you couldn’t even stand, but you did not want accidents. Not yet, anyway.

He blinked, his hand pulling out of you to feel his pockets. “I… I don't have one. The last time… I never got another one.”

You chuckled and he pouted, and you could read his thoughts.

“Not like I planned for this to—”

You kissed him, then pushed him back to have space to move away from his hold. “I know, I'll get one.” He tried to catch you, but you jumped over your clothes gracefully, only turning back to tell him, “Bed. In my bed.’

You got to your roommate's room to search for condoms. Hopefully, she had some, even though she spent more time at her boyfriend’s than there.

It wasn't hard to find them on her nightstand, and you took the whole box with you. It was not like she'd need them tonight.

You wondered how Taehyung would greet you but still staggered at your bedroom's entrance. He was lying on his back, arms spread over your bed sheets as he stared at the ceiling. Having heard you come in, he raised his head and promptly sat up.

Even though his pants were unbuttoned and his clothes drenched, nothing would have given away what you were doing just minutes before. Except perhaps his dark glistening eyes running up and down your figure before they set back on yours.

You were naked from the waist down, yet suddenly, it wasn't enough. His eyes were curious and electrifying, and you wanted to keep going. Your heart was thumping loudly inside your chest, the thrill of that moment making you tremble, but you waited.

He raised his hand for you to grab, and your heart finally settled as you took it. Your fingers fit in his perfectly, and as he hugged you to him, resting his head on your chest, you finally stopped trembling. On the contrary, you caressed his head calmly as he held you. It felt like reaching home at long last. It was the first time you were touching each other like that, with such vulnerability and with all the cards on the table, and yet it was the best type of feeling.

He pulled away to look up at you, and you caressed his face gently, letting that ease echo between the two of you. It was real — his hands on your waist, his sparkling eyes, and the adoration in them. You knew then that it was as validating and fulfilling for him as it was for you that you were finally in each other's arms.

“Did you find one?” he asked hoarsely, and you nodded. “Do you want to stop?”

“Hell no.”

You frowned, and he wetted his lips. “I don't want to move too fast and mess this up. I care so much about you.”

You brushed the back of your fingers down his cheeks sweetly. “Me too. But we're not moving too fast. Right? We've been friends forever, and we want to be more than that.”

He nodded, his eyelashes fluttering as he enjoyed your touch. “Please.”

“Then let's,” you whispered, leaning in to nuzzle him. “I don't want to wait.”

“Then we don't.”

He was ready to get up and touch you, but you simply smiled and pecked him before getting on your knees. You could see how his lips parted expectingly as his eyes transfixed on you, making you giddy. You gave him an excited smile and reached for the hem of his pants, and he helped you get them off. Then you bit your lip as you reached and grabbed his erection again.

His head dropped back at the softness of your touch as he mumbled your name, and you nodded. “I want to suck you off.”

You never thought you'd get another chance to grab that juicy cock, let alone delight yourself in its smoothness and taste. You would have admitted to Taehyung how much you thought and fantasized about a moment like that one, but the words evaporated from your mouth. Your only thought was his taste, and as soon as a precum drop glistened over his slit, you dove in.

You sighed as he groaned above your head, instantly grabbing your hair out of the way as you sucked. You didn't even realize how intensely you were doing it, bobbing your head so he'd touch the back of your throat, because you were out. His cock pushing inside your mouth made you anticipate how he'd feel inside your tight walls, and his moans made your mind soar high, elated. Taehyung, only the one you had wanted and had feelings for forever, was right there, losing his mind with you. Because of you. Because he wasn't indifferent to you. He actually wanted you just the same, had feelings for you, thought of you, longed for you—

“Fuck— Wait—”

His voice was strangled, but you weren't listening. You here so dazed, clenching around nothing and high on your desire, that you only realized the reason for his warning too late.

His warm taste invaded your mouth, and you moaned, gushing between your legs at the thought of him losing control. Yet, in a split second, his hand wrapped over yours around the base of his cock so tightly it was almost painful for you.

Only then did you stop blowing him and pulled away, confused, and looked between him and his delicious cock. You had tasted cum for sure, and yet despite the way his dick twitched in front of you, there was no more coming out. He was groaning harshly, almost frustratingly, but you knew by his expression that pleasure was assaulting his nerve ends.

When he finally stopped groaning, his dark eyes opened. “What do you think you're doing?”

His voice was quiet, almost annoyed, and you just blinked up at him.

“You didn't tell me to stop.”

“I told you to wait.”

You simply shrugged. “You did say something like that, I just… I told you I wanted to suck you off.”

“And I told you I'd make you mine.”

“You still can,” you argued as he grabbed your hands to pull you up and get you on the bed.

“Not if I came fully.”

You shrugged and let him pull your legs around him as you leaned back on the sheets. “We have all night.”

“We have forever,” he underlined, making you chuckle as he got on top of you in between your legs. “Starting right now.”

You could only be amused and giddy with his assertiveness about making you his, and he smiled too. He brushed his hands along your naked legs, then leaned in to kiss your neck as his fingers got tantalizingly close. You tensed under him, gripping his shoulders. You waited impatiently, expecting to feel his touch any second and wondering how he'd react when he found out how ready you were.

“Holy shit,” he almost whined when his fingers slid along your slit. You moaned back, shuddering with his touch. You knew you were slippery and dripping, and now he did too. If the pool between your legs wasn't obvious, the sounds surely gave you away. “You're so ready for me.”

You moaned your agreement as you gripped the sheets. His fingers weren't eager like before; this time, he patiently dragged his digits along your folds, pressing gentle circles on your clit now and then. Your whole body trembled every time he did, letting his kisses and nibbles on your neck build you up so intensely that you didn't know what to do anymore. You were hot and trembling, and moaning just wasn't enough.

You gripped his hair in search of something, and his answer was to crash his lips to yours. The kiss turned consuming instantly, and you moaned into his mouth, completely overwhelmed. His fingers entered you and hooked, pressing into your sensitive flesh with lewd sounds, and you couldn’t hold on anymore. You tried whimpering his name in between kisses, and if anything, he firmly kept going with his fingers, both inside and out, over your clit. It drove you to pull his hair harshly back, parting your mouths with strings of saliva between you, yet you didn't notice. Your orgasm burst through you, and you lost sight of yourself, moaning desperately in his hold, gripping his hair so tightly, you surely pulled it painfully.

You noticed this when you came to, blinking at him sluggishly. Your fingers instantly relented their hold, yet absolutely nothing in his expression indicated any pain. On the contrary, he was enticed. He was looking at you as though you had bewitched him.

He raised his hand to brush the hair out of your face, careful not to use the fingers still covered in your slick. “You're so beautiful.”

You would have blushed if you weren't already hot and bothered. Instead, you met his lips with yours, kissing him more calmly than he was able to. You melted a bit more with how he matched your gentleness, careful not to push or impose. He was adorable, and you were not done yet.

“Too hot,” you whined when the kisses picked up steam. “Get rid of it,” you asked, pulling on his sweater.

He firmly pressed his lips to yours before rising to his knees and pulling the sweater off. Then, he saw you struggling with your robe and helped you. Your pajama top met the same fate as his clothes on the floor, and you giggled because before it could even happen, he was already grabbing your tits and licking a nipple wildly.

Moans interrupted your laughter as he licked and pinched, slurping your hardened nipples inside his mouth one at a time. You squirmed under him, trying to both grab him close and escape the onslaught. The more you writhed, the more you felt his hard dick pressed to your thigh, leaking against it as he rutted.

It drove you fucking wild because no matter how much you enjoyed having him eat your chest, you craved him inside you so much more right now. “Make me yours,” you begged, locking your glistening eyes with his when he looked up from the drooling mess he was making on your chest. “Don’t wanna wait, I need you.”

You noticed the red spots his lips were leaving behind on your chest, but you didn’t care because, in an instant, he was kissing you again. He stole your breath, diving in while you relished his hands tracing your curves until they caught your legs, spreading them so he could press his dripping cock and grind against your soaked cunt.

You groaned, unable to control your bucking hips to match him. The quiet moans out of his mouth burned you from the inside out, setting you on a path that could only end in you both consuming that passion sizzling between you.

But he pulled away from your lips, hiding in your neck and panting heavily as you moaned.

“Tell me where the condom is, or I’ll fuck you without it.”

You whimpered, feeling the way he slid across your folds length and rubbed your clit deliciously. “I’m so close.”

He uttered your name in a scold, the warning lingering as you kept bucking your hips. You opened your eyes to face him and bit your lip, so fucking close you could see it. You were tempted to throw all caution out the window and have him raw. To raise your hips so he’d get inside you right as you came around his thick cock, creaming him from tip to base. The very thought was risky; his current expression was already pure lust, holding on by a single thread. If you pushed him, he’d fuck you raw and right, just like you craved.

But you let your hips fall to the mattress and relented. “Right pocket of my robe.”

He felt the robe still under you and ended up raising his hips away from you before you’d both lose it. It made you sigh and feel beneath you as well, finally finding the crumpled part of the robe that had the pocket you both needed.

He tore the wrapper open with his teeth and got the condom on as fast as he could. When his eyes raised back to yours, and he grabbed your legs, pushing them to your sides, you clenched. His expression was dark and unreserved, as though the brakes had come off, and it made you shudder.

Yet when he aligned his dick with your entrance and sank in, he was nothing but respectful and careful, almost solemn. The way your tight embrace left him adrift was evident in the way his eyebrows knitted and his jaw hardened, but he didn’t ram inside you or let that feeling overcome his control. He waited for you to adjust to his size, but you kept clenching around him, prompting him to look at you.

You had felt him before, but it was just as earth-shattering as the first time. You simply shook your head as you sighed. “You feel so good— Don’t hold back!”

He almost growled as he let his hips snap to yours, and you let your head fall back. Your hips matched his, increasing the intensity of each thrust, and it was wild. You got lost in the sounds of skin slapping and moans and the heat overwhelming you from the inside out. He adjusted your legs to bend further, perfecting his angle to one that simply unleashed your voice with every slam and let him guide you to the finish line.

He knew you were close by the way your pussy sucked him in, tightening like a vice that barely let him move away. It made him tremble from head to toe as he groaned in your neck. “Just like last time— I've dreamed of this for so long,” he confessed, trying to kiss you, even as you both heaved and tried keeping that hallucinated rhythm.

“Me too,” you whimpered, searching for his eyes in the midst of it all. His hand wrapped around your hair, keeping your eyes on his as though he needed to look at you, too, and you squirmed with watering eyes. This time, you didn’t need to hide. This time, you could lose yourself because he was yours. “Please.”

You mumbled his name between moans as you begged, and he listened. He was lost in the pleasure, but he was attentive to you, noticing all the little cues he was only once privy to. You moved with him as your eyes rolled back closed and your nails dug into his shoulders, and he felt the shattering orgasm start around his cock before he heard your moans.

Your orgasm started his out of nowhere, but as he grunted and trembled in your arms, he had only exhilaration radiating from every pore. He spilled his cum as deeply as your quivering heat allowed it but quickly and eagerly opened his eyes to look at you. You were still trembling and moaning breathily with your lip between your teeth, but then you looked at him, and he knew.

He’d never catch the moment you fell in love with him, because the truth was, you already had.

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suzukiblu · 3 months ago

Text

WIP excerpt for derpsheep behind the cut; “a fake cryptid and a real romantic”. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

. . . nest, the Batman says, which is hopefully a good sign, at least? Or at least not a bad one?

Tim is admittedly not particularly optimistic about that possibility, but still, it is a possibility. Like. Theoretically.

An unproven theory is still a theory, alright? There’s evidence there. Stuff to work with. Things to work from.

“Yeah,” he says. “We’re, you know–nesting. Which is private. Like, an us thing. Not a Bat thing.”

The Batman looks unconvinced. Tim despairs a little, then thinks–well, maybe . . .

“It’s a Robin thing, I mean,” he tries.

. . . hn, the Batman says, settling back into a dark, shadowed crouch as his eyes narrow consideringly. Tim feels a little bit more optimistic about his chances of not getting Bat-chaperoned on this date. Like–barely, but still noticeably. Like actually and genuinely and more “actually proven theory”-ly.

“You can literally ask Nightwing, Nightwing knows what I’m talking about,” Tim shamelessly lies. Dick figured out how to date around the Batman’s existence when he was still the one wearing Robin, so it’s not even that much of a lie, calling this a “Robin” thing. Jason–didn’t, obviously, but . . .

Look, Tim just wants to go on another stupid date with the weirdest monsterfucker teen idol who can make literal diamonds with his literal brain that he knows. Or that, like . . . exists, probably.

Pretty much definitely, yeah.

But like–that’s all Tim wants, okay?! He just wants to go on this stupid date and figure out how to convince Superboy that Robins don’t actually nest before the other actually does try to make him one, since clearly he will not be succeeding at making one himself. And, like, making Superboy think he needs to do that is just . . . not ideal, considering. He really does not want Superboy to think he needs to do all that work to get his attention. Superboy has his attention. His attention is had. He does not need more telekinetic diamonds about his attention.

Especially considering that Tim is not a hundred percent sure that a nest Superboy decided to make wouldn’t involve more telekinetic diamonds.

Or, uh. Just be one, given Superboy’s clear tendency to overcompensate and also really commit to said overcompensation.

. . . Tim definitely needs to make sure Superboy doesn’t think he needs to do that, yeah.

kitten, the Batman observes matter-of-factly, and Tim barely holds back from burying his face in Robin’s wings. Dammit. Just–ugh, this is about to be so embarrassing.

Superboy drops down out of the cloudy–well, smoggy–night sky a second later, stopping about ten or twelve feet in the air above them. He’s wearing different sunglasses and a different jacket tonight; the glasses are mirrored and the jacket’s got studs and spikes and pins on it and does really, uh . . . does interesting things to Superboy’s shoulders. And waist. And . . .

The studs and spikes and pins are all very shiny, Tim realizes belatedly as he registers the effect of the city lights reflecting off them; the sunglasses’s frames and mirrored lenses are shiny too.

And Superboy thinks Robin likes shiny things.

So like–Superboy definitely deliberately dressed up for this date.

Tim gently simmers into a doomed puddle of hormones inside Robin’s feathers, and Superboy grins down at him all bright and pretty and shiny, and then actually Tim just evaporates right out of Robin entirely, actually. Like just completely and totally. Like–just completely, yeah. Just . . . very much totally and completely.

Oh no, Tim thinks in absolute dread as his face goes hot behind Robin’s mask and his stomach not only fills up with butterflies, it turns into an entire butterfly sanctuary. Oh no, he is not going to be normal about literally anything that happens tonight, is he.

#timkon #tim drake #bruce wayne #dc robin #batman #batfamily #wip: a fake cryptid and a real romantic #derpsheep

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the-kr8tor · 2 months ago

Text

Nobody's Soldier

Pairing: Minotaur! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 10.4k

Synopsis: Tossed in the Labyrinth, you have no choice but to survive.

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), Minotaur AU, Greek Mythology AU, TW blood and injury, CW violence, CW death, CW food mentions, angst.

Special thanks to @sluggyboiyo for the idea! And also @hyperfix-wip ❤️

Navigation

You can still taste your own blood in your tongue. The dark encapsulates around you, cold walls digging into your skin and through your ripped clothes. There's nothing you can hear beyond the four walls, just your heaving breath and your own beating heart. It's been a minute since they dragged you inside and dropped you off into a small pit, where you're now standing. At first you thought they kindly granted you mercy, that your crime of stealing a loaf of bread is small enough to warrant a slap on the wrist. If a slap on the wrist entitles you to be dragged behind a chariot in the plaza while people either look at you with pity or with disdain as they throw rotten fish and meat at you. Dying in a cold cell, laying there forgotten as you wait for trial sounds better than what they've given you— death by Minotaur.

You've heard of the stories, sharp horns, a bull’s head charging at you at full speed, and angry red eyes that strike fear in the hearts of mankind. Out of all the stories, you've only heard one that didn't make you cower in fear, a story of a child thrown in the middle of a maze, a child whose only crime was to be born to the wrong woman. Still, none of the stories were good, nor kind.

Suddenly, a slither of light peeks from above, and the opening where they threw you in slides open. It's your final chance to plead innocent.

“Please! It was just a loaf of bread! I was starving, you have to understand!” Your voice bounces off the cold walls as you squint at the looming figure. “I won't do it again. Just let me go, please.” Your tone is small, tiny as you hear your own broken words.

Not even a nod or a grunt heads your way, but they drop something long towards you, and you instinctively dodge it. It lets out a metallic clatter that makes your ears ring. With a tentative hand, you pick it up. The dagger is nothing special, just a plain blade with a leather wrapped hilt.

“What— what is this?”

“To fight with, you filthy harpy.” They say through clenched teeth before sliding the trap door closed and you're met with darkness once again.

Fight, you've done nothing but fight all your life. Will you die fighting here without feeling the wind against your face ever again? The most cruel thing is that you'll never feel the sun's warmth on your wings. Or your sisters’ embrace.

They clipped your wings a long time ago. Not a single feather left on your back, just sharp bone protruding from your flesh. You are nothing, a bird without its wings to fly away with. You'd give anything to fly again, to reach for the clouds with your sisters once again. But you were too slow, captured, cut, degraded and left to starve. Nothing, just like the same people who threw you in here like a piece of rotten meat.

You hold back your tears as you grip the blade tight in your hands. Trying to recall the stories, you remember how they told you that the labyrinth is confusing with its twists and turns. You never really paid attention to the story of how it was built or who even built the monstrosity. But you know who asked for it, and you know what or who lies in the middle of the dreaded place.

The wall behind you creaks and slides to the side, dust and debris fall on your head as you wave it away from your nose. As your eyes adjust to the bit of light, you also hear the sounds of coughing and sneezing beyond the twenty foot walls surrounding the labyrinth.

“Hello?!” You yell, exiting the small confines to walk towards the nearest wall where shadows dance along the edges of the stone barrier. “Is anyone else here?”

“Shut up! You'll wake it up!” A gruff voice says on your left.

“Do you know how to get out of here?” You immediately walk towards the sound. “Please, we can all stick together and help each other—”

“I said shut up!”

“No offense, girly,” another says to your right, “it’s every man for himself in here.”

“What if we could—” you start.

“Shut it!”

That has you grimacing. Fine, if they don't want your help, then you'll have your own back. You can't trust humans, not again, not after last time.

A roar echoes from within the labyrinth, and the flickering torches on the walls dance in the light breeze as if his breath reaches for you. Then you realize, if there's wind, there's an opening and a way out. The walls are tall and imposing, stretching far and wide, expansive as far as your eyes could see. There's rushing footsteps around you, and before you bolt away, you mark the wall on your right with the dagger, drawing a simple x.

As you run away from the guttural roar, you follow the wall on your right, keeping it in your line of sight in hopes that the simple trick you learnt from playing in bush hedges with your sisters would help. This time it's not a flowery bush or your sisters waiting for you at the end. Just miles upon miles of walls and a minotaur chasing you.

Your wobbly legs carry you to nowhere, right palm running along the smooth frozen wall. As you get further and further into the labyrinth, the stench of blood and rotten guts gets heavier in your nose. You're not looking at your feet while you run for dear life, and your toe gets caught by something and you clatter to the ground with a harsh thud.

Chin and chest hurting from the fall, you look back to see a bleach white skeleton that's broken into pieces. No doubt that you disturbed its last resting place. You don't have a single drachma on you, but even if you had some, it'll be too late for the poor soul to pay to cross the river styx. You've abandoned the gods and their will a long time ago, but you still believe that there's something waiting for you in the underworld— whether good or bad, you could only hope that it's good.

Saying a muffled apology to the dead, you stand back up, marking the wall to your right with another x and then continue your sprint.

They said that the labyrinth has to have an end, that there's an exit somewhere in the dreaded place. There's still a chance for you as the screams around you get louder and louder as your feet pitter patter on the cold floors.

The cold is replaced by warmth, wet and slippery as you hold onto the wall beside you to keep balance. Your eyes drift down to the substance, expecting water, but as you stare at the flowing crimson, blood stains your sandals, soaking through the slender rope.

Your hand immediately flies to your mouth, tamping down your screams as you look towards the source of the flowing river of blood.

There, in the dim and flickering light of the torches, is a man floating, body held up by lithe hands, nails digging into flesh. The corpse's feet still twitch while his lifeless eyes bores into your own. The minotaur stands above, half bull, half man. You can't see his face as he eats through the man's chest cavity, or that's what you think he's doing, but you can see his hooves and threadbare clothing that blows in the wind.

The sound of tearing flesh and guts falling down on the ground prompts you to run away, but you use your head. If you run away now, the sounds of your bounding feet would have the Minotaur's attention towards you and come for you next. So with careful steps, you grip the dagger tightly, clutching it against your chest as you ease yourself around the corner and towards another hallway. Your eyes don't stray too far from the minotaur, you don't breathe even when you see a glimpse of his side profile. He has hair that reminds you of a willow tree, long and dark as it's piled on his head. The horns on the side of his head are curved, darkened and ridged. When the light hits it, it shines, almost like there's silver weaved around it. It's hauntingly beautiful in its own macabre way. His eyes are closed, mouth dripping with ichor. Claws sharp and digging into the corpse, you use the opportunity to make a break for it.

Once you're far away from the blood, you take a breather and mark the wall next to you in quick succession before looking and checking behind you. To your surprise, you don't see the looming minotaur. So you keep running, making sure that there's enough space between him and you. You're still following the right wall, with hope in your chest, because that's all you have— you keep running.

A stitch forms on your side, knees aching and ankles screaming for you to stop. You're parched and starving, skin turning clammy as your sweat drenches your clothes. Turning a corner, you collide with someone. Fearing the worst, you hold up your dagger towards the figure.

“Fucker.” The person gasps, mirroring your form as you're both laying on the floor. “What do we have here?” He smiles, showing his bloodied teeth.

You don't take a chance on this man as you get back up to your feet and run. With your luck, he manages to grab you by your heel and brings you back down on the ground with a sickening thud.

Thrashing and kicking, head spinning, you feel him grab your legs together. His dagger shines in the torches as he raises it up— aiming for your heart.

You shield yourself with your arms, but the knife doesn't pierce your skin. Your breath sticks to your throat. Looking through your arms, the man is nowhere to be seen but his shadow looms over you, darkening the room.

Right above you, he gasps out a breath, legs kicking about, body rising up to meet with the Minotaur's eyes. Amber, the half man half bull's eyes are liquid gold, a sea of golden light that could bring king Midas down to his knees.

With a crunch of bones, the Minotaur cracks the man's neck in one squeeze. He tosses the limp body to the side, it thuds sickenly against the labyrinth walls. You're frozen on the spot, mouth agape as you lay on the floor, waiting for the fates to cut your string.

He gazes down at you with his golden eyes, a crown of light illuminates his form, drenching him in fiery light. The horns shine, sparkling like stars in the darkest sky as it both protrudes from the side of his head, curved inwards, like tree branches while vines grow along its sides, leaves cascading around him like a veil of undergrowth. His fists unclench and clenches beside him and he huffs above you, puffs of air escaping from his nose.

You lay there, still as a rock, breath stuck in your throat and a bead of sweat dripping down your temple. The knife sits just a few ways next to you, and yet you don't reach for it or even look at it as the torches flicker and shine on his face. Handsome, that was your first thought when the light hit his cheek. Chiselled jaw— carved by the gods. A human nose in place of a snout like people have gossiped about, lips that remind you of a lost love. And eyes that are as warm as the sun itself. He's human half peeks through, in the slumped shoulders that bear the world, and a stomach that has felt hunger. Grief and sorrow woven to his very bones. Then there's his hooves, where feet would reside, hooves thump against the ground, as if he's about to charge at you.

There's no sound in the whole labyrinth, no birds chirping outside nor the hustle and bustle of the marketplace that you're used to. Nothing but a slight buzz in your ears and your own heart beating rapidly.

He just stands there, bathed in light and blood, hands still dripping with ichor and mouth stained with red.

For a moment, the two of you just gaze at each other, waiting for the other to move but you're frozen in time and he's an unmovable mountain.

His eyes flick behind you, and yet you still don't move. As you blink, he's walking back to where he came from.

When his shadow fades away, and with his departure the scent of dried blood goes with him.

You can finally let out a breath as the back of your head hits the floor. Laying on the cold ground, you even out your breathing, watching the ceiling as you count each second that passes.

A minute goes by, and you sit up, running your palms along your legs to wake it up. Your eyes glance over to the body that the minotaur tossed over his shoulder, its neck is bent at an angle and his eyes lack light as he lays motionless.

With wobbly legs, you head towards the body and search it for anything useful. You only found a single pomegranate in his pocket, it's a miracle that it wasn't smashed from the impact. The fruit is soft, an indication that it's going bad. You might need to eat it sooner rather than later. Before you stand up, you grab both daggers and head towards the different direction from the minotaur.

As you walk and conserve your energy, you still follow the right wall and leave notches every twenty steps. It gives you time to think, to think why the minotaur with his sharp claws and strong hands that could snap your neck didn't kill you. Did it not find you worthy of his hands? Did he pity you? Is he even capable of thinking when all he ever knew were the walls of the labyrinth and the chaos and violence within its winding walls? Your questions might be left unanswered as you trudge your way towards the so-called exit. The place isn't alive nor infinite, there has to be an end or a place where you can squeeze yourself out of and into freedom.

Your throat is dry, lips cracking and eyes drooping when your thirst and hunger grows unbearable. It's been hours since your last encounter with a breathing being. Or maybe it has been days, the winding halls and similar walls has your mind swirling, as if you're under water, drowing. The deeper you go further inside the labyrinth, the more dense it becomes. The air sits heavy, and the walls are moist with vines running along its smooth side. Bones and tunics lay scattered on the ground, death itself has been here, and it hasn't left since then.

Swallowing down thickly, your vision starts to betray you when you see a glimpse of wings rounding the corner. Breath stuck in your throat, and in your delirium, you run after it.

“Wait! Stay with me!” The sounds of slapping footsteps echo around you, ringing in your ears as your mind wanders back to the memory of playing tag with your sisters. “Please!” Hands outstretched, fingers brushing along the feathers, you hit something rough head on as you collapse on the ground.

With a groan, you lift your head up, eyesight returning normally as you see a large twisting tree trunk that's curled around the wall, hugging it and slowly crushing the stone under the tree’s strength.

Blinking, you think that you're seeing things again when you realize the kind of tree it is. You remember it during your journeys, and you're sure it's the very same one and not just some cruel joke. A grin slowly appears on your dry cracked lips, and with a silent prayer to whoever’s guarding the tree, you plunge the knife into the trunk.

Removing the blade and yanking it away, water immediately flows out of the wall. Without wasting a moment, you put your mouth under the makeshift spout and drink your fill. The cold water hits your throat and you feel like you're alive again. It grants you reprieve from your thirst, chugging it all down greedily.

Cupping your hands together, you collect water in your palms and use it to clean the grime off your face. The water's refreshing against your warm and clammy skin. The flow doesn't seem to end as you clean in between your nails and your neck. In your bliss, you don't notice the form looming behind you.

Noticing the sudden darkness, the large shadow dances in the flickering torches. Slowly, fear etched in your bones, you look behind you.

The Minotaur has found you again.

He huffs, knuckles cracking as he balls his hands into fists. Blood and gore still mar his chest, dried and caked all over his skin. His eyes briefly glance over to the water before returning to your shivering form.

You look back at the flowing water, and you once again gather it on your palms. Gently turning back to the Minotaur, you offer the water up wordlessly, like an offer to the gods to spare you from death.

His amber eyes glow, softening as he looks down at the offering. Kindness, it must be rare here as he slowly kneels down, leveling with you. Hand trembling as they hover around your own, as if he's afraid of touching your flesh. You're frozen as you watch the Minotaur, inch by inch, he leans towards your hands. The light illuminates his face as his lips kiss the pads of your fingers— eyes never leaving yours as he drinks from your hands.

You can't believe your own eyes, you've brought down the minotaur down to his knees. All without violence, just kindness. Your eyes briefly glance over to the fallen blade right next to you, and yet you don't reach for it as he finishes his drink.

“Better?” You ask in a crackly tone. Clearing your throat, you take him in. His eyes could rival the goddess of beauty herself, and the softness around them could not be compared to any other. “Do you want more?”

With a deep inhale, he answers. “Yes.” His voice rattles the labyrinth, and your chest fills with pride that you got a word out of the feared minotaur.

A smile curls in the corner of your lips. “I'll get more then.”

You help him drink and after that you rip a fabric from your tunic and drench it in the clean water. Squeezing it, you hand it over to him. He's still kneeled down in front of you, eyes magnetized to your face, watching your every move with curiosity.

“To clean up.” You explain, handing the cloth to him.

He stares at it heavily before grasping it in his hand, careful of his own strength, and careful not to touch your skin. While he wipes the blood away, you take the pomegranate from your pocket and easily crack it open with your fingernail. The seeds are still plump, and you hear him swallow at the sight. Adam's apple bobbing up and down, sweat dripping from his brows.

“It's a pomegranate.” You explain kindly, breath hitching in your throat whenever he flicks his amber eyes on your own. “Do you want some?”

Huffing, the labyrinth rumbles again. “Is it safe?”

His words struck you, is it? The fruit looks alright, slightly more ripe as the skin squishes against your fingers. Then you realize why he asked you, and it's not because he's worried that it's poisonous or rotten— he has never seen anything like it. It's not just the unusual look of the pomegranate that he's afraid of, it's the fruit itself. He has never had it, or probably any fruit for that matter. It's beyond cruel, to be deprived of something saccharine and mundane.

To prove that it's safe, you pluck a single red seed and pop it in your mouth. It bursts into juice on your tongue, a sweet and tangy taste spreading inside. He tilts his head at you, still crouched down, clean hands hovering around your own and horns glimmering as shadows dance along his handsome yet imposing face. Behind the scruff and scars, there's a boyish curiosity behind his eyes. Curious about the outside world, curious about you, who doesn't balk nor try to strike him while he's vulnerable. No, you understand him, and somewhere deep within his scarred chest, his heart understands you too.

After a moment, you smile at him and offer him the fruit. “It's good, sweet. And it's safe.”

“It's safe?” He utters the word like he couldn't believe it himself, that he has been granted safety for the first time.

“Yes,” you nod, patient with him. This is the beast they fear— the one the king fears. Body slouched in front of you, amber eyes soft as he gazes at you. And hands gently cradling the red fruit in his hands while you pass it to him. Like a babe that he's putting to sleep, or a droplet of the purest nectar in his palms. “You're safe.”

Just as you say it, he lifts his head up, and his eyes tear up, glimmering under the firelight. “Safe.” He whispers, brows furrowed, lips wobbling as he gingerly takes a single seed, copying you and popping it in his mouth. His eyes close at the taste, as if he has tasted ambrosia on his lips.

“You can have all of it if you want.”

With your approval, he eats it fervently. Red juice instead of blood drips down from his forearms, and you can't help but smile as he gorges on the fruit. If only you had more, you'd give it to him even when your own stomach is grumbling. There's a sense of kinship between the two of you, a couple of beasts that were shunned from humanity, clipped, stabbed and left to be forgotten in a dark and damp place. You don't say it outloud, but you know that he feels it too. You may not look like a harpy anymore— or like your sisters, but he senses it, through the bruises on your flesh, the darkness under your eyes and the scars hidden under the tunic— you've experienced the same sorrows, the same hurt. Just as he had, still does, inside his stone cage.

As he eats his fill, you lay your back against the twisted tree, eyes half lidded as you watch him gently smile while lapping at the juices in his cupped palms. You yawn, the fatigue and adrenaline fading out of your veins like steam.

The Minotaur looks at you, the same amber eyes that seem to have gotten brighter since he ate the fruit— softens at the sight.

“Come with me?” He asks, not a command, but a request.

“My sisters once told me not to leave with someone that hasn't given me their name yet.” You stare at him as he rises to his feet, looming over you but not as intimidating as before. He inhales deeply, contemplating inside his mind. Your expression flickers to sorrow when a thought passes by— he may not have a name. “Do you have a name?”

“H—” with a clear of his throat, he stretches his fists and releases his bundle of nerves. “Hobie. My name's Hobie.” They've given him that much, nothing more, nothing less.

And in return, you give him yours with a small smile aimed at him. He tastes it in his tongue, just like how he did with the tart pomegranate. This could be the very first time he has heard of someone else's name, or the first time that someone has willingly exchanged names with him. Once again his amber eyes glow in the dark.

“Where do you want me to go then, Hobie?” You lift back up on your shaky legs, back sliding up on the rough tree trunk as you pocket the knife. His breath gets stuck in his throat from the first time someone uttered his name without malice.

There's surprise flickering in his stance but he doesn't let it show or linger. “Home.”

—

You've come to a realization as to why no one has escaped the labyrinth. The rumbling and the trembling sounds were the labyrinth itself. It moves, and it's alive. Breathing, expanding, its voice echoing out in bouts of air and loud thumping of mechanical cogs hidden behind the thick stone. The walls move on their own like clockwork while Hobie guides you to his ‘home.’ He whispered it with slight fear in his tone, an act of defiance against his maker, and the inventor of the labyrinth when he has made his prison— his cage into a home worth living in.

He doesn't look back towards you to check if you're still following him or not, the sound of your footsteps were enough indication that you are. His hulking form towers over you, but his shoulders are slouched, fatigued and filled with hidden sorrows stitched in every scar and muscle in his body.

Whilst you follow, the dagger is still in your pocket, but not a single intention of using it on him. You're afraid of getting lost in the swirling walls of the maze, so every so often, you take out your dagger and etch the same mark on the wall. You follow him closely, not too close to startle him or have him lunge at you from his suspicions, but far enough to give him space.

The smell of death and moisture fades away from your nose the further you walk behind him. More and more of the trees blend in with the walls, allowing fresher air the deeper you get inside the labyrinth. Your footsteps echo around you, and your ears pick up the faint sound of waves.

Hobie pauses, the muscles on his shoulder flexing as his neck cranes to look behind you. His golden eyes flicker, as if he was surprised that you were still behind him, as if the sound of your footsteps were just an echo of the past— a cruel joke played just for him.

“Home.” He grunts out, and enters an arched doorway that looks worse for wear.

With careful steps, you enter his abode. Your eyes immediately notice the child-like drawings on the walls— drawn by charcoal, and small hands. There's a scene on your right where a little minotaur holds a woman's hands, her crown glowing with small lines around the jeweled crown. While the little minotaur grins, and his horns are barely peeking through his curls. Beside it is a child's drawing of a bull, smiling, and its horns are the same ones he has, curled inward like a heart.

There are etches of hands around the walls, some are in different sizes, mostly small, a child recording his own growth. On your left are more drawings, a chicken running around with its chicks right under a black and white rainbow. And a fox curled around itself, snoozing away next to a lady bug. They all seem to inhabit the labyrinth, or outside of it as the drawing of a sun is painted above it and the fields of grass sway in the imaginary breeze. A palace looms over them, its spires tall and imposing, but within the windows are people, all smiling happily towards you. And right on top of it is a baby minotaur with a toy sword and shield, grinning down at the drawn animals.

You don't realize that you're in tears.

As you roam around the space, the walls are cracked with jagged lines striking the stone. There are holes in various places, all shaped like fists— his fists. Tears flow out as you choke on a sob. More and more children's drawings appear around you the longer you stay. A river with flying fish, fishermen grinning beside their sons. Birds flying high with their flock, and flowers, hundreds of them as they dot around the walls. Hyacinths, roses, daisies as far as you can see. There's a painted market on the far wall, depicting what a typical day would look like in a busy place. The different faces of people shopping around the drawn market are all different, different builds, different clothes. There are stalls of vegetables, meat and fruits all lined around as he kneels before it and takes a charcoal stick, painting the very pomegranate you two shared.

“Y–Your home is beautiful.” You could barely make it out when you spot a makeshift bed made out of sparse hay and a single faded blue blanket spread across it— it's a baby blanket, still bearing the marks of birth on its cloth. Stained by afterbirth and a mother's sorrow.

Hobie hums in reply as he finishes the drawing. You can tell which ones he has drawn more recently by the shading.

In the far wall, there's a large hole, larger than a fist but smaller than a person's head. Sunlight and sea breeze filters through the hole as the sound of waves lap over stone takes your attention. You slowly walk over it, tears still clinging to your lashes. Peeking inside, you take a deep breath of the salty air, letting the warmth of the sun bathe your skin.

Hobie tugs the hem of your tunic, and he looks up at you through big amber eyes. “Sleep.” Gesturing towards the bed made of hay, he tugs once again.

“Can I?” You kneel in front of him, taking his hand before he flinches away from your touch. His calloused palm brushes along your own, feeling all the scars left on the rough skin, and he immediately looks away from your gaze as if he's not worthy of your touch. “You're not going to hurt me, right, Hobie?”

He meets with your eyes with a frown, noticing the tears brimming in them. His brows furrowed like he's unsure himself. Looking down, he stares at the back of your hands, scarred like his own.

“You're not going to hurt me. I know you won't.” You nod, tone soft as you duck to meet with his downturned eyes. “You'll protect me while I sleep, yes?”

Inhaling, he lets your scent waft over him. “Yes. Rest.”

With a nod, you move to pat his hand but retract your hand away before standing up and walking over to the thin bed. As you lay your head on the hay, the baby blanket barely covering the pointed straws, you wonder if he has been alone this whole time. A baby laying in the exact same place you are, wailing and crying for his mother.

A minotaur born out of punishment, survived despite the odds, lived when nobody wanted him to live. The drawings on the walls has you hugging yourself, curled over the bed, mind painting a scene of a lone child in the room with nothing but himself as company— with nothing but the empty labyrinth as his home.

—

Your eyes open to darkness, save for the perpetual light of the single torch on the far wall, you could barely make out Hobie's hunched form in the corner of the room. His legs are tucked, face hidden on top of his knees while his arms embrace his body, the only warmth he has from the cold harsh stone around him. He looks small in your vision, no longer the terrifying minotaur of the labyrinth. Just a man seeking comfort, just a man trying to live.

Lifting up your head, elbows helping you sit up, you ignore the fatigue in your body as you call his name in the dark. “Hobie, do you want to join me?”

At first you thought he would be asleep based on the silence, but his hoof twitches, pinky closing around itself. So you try again, patting your side as the sound of hay rustles underneath you. “I'll help keep you warm, just as you keep me safe here.”

Hobie finally looks up, peeking over his arms, and his deep inhale rumbles the labyrinth. “Why?”

“Why not?” You say with no ounce of ire nor hatred for him. “It's the same reason why you let me sleep on your bed. And it's the same reason why you kept me alive this long.”

“What would be the reason then?” He asks, tone determined. “Kindness? There's no such thing ‘ere.”

“Me being here proves that there is.”

Hobie abruptly stands up, back straight, eyes staring at you with uncertain emotion swirling inside. For a moment you thought that he'd strike you down right there and then, until he sits down beside your head, legs stretched in front of him and fists unfurling.

Gazing at him, the veil of vines around him makes him look ethereal in the moonlight. His eyes flick towards you before shutting his eyes, breathing in and out.

You don't say anything as you lay back down, the crown of your head brushes his leg, and he doesn't flinch away this time.

—

You wake up to the sound of tearing flesh. Instead of the dark greeting you, sunlight peeks through the cracks in the wall. The window shines a light towards a crouched Hobie. His lean back is turned away from you, scarred skin stretched upon sinewy bones, raised flesh littered all over it, canyons and peaks of skin— both fresh and old.

“Hobie?” You call for him groggily as you rise up by your elbows. “What is that?” Fear encapsulates you for what the source of the flesh is.

He finches at the sound of your voice, so used to the dead silence, used to being alone. “Chicken.”

Relief washes over you. Your stomach rumbles at the thought of eating something fresh. “Can I have some?”

Hobie looks over his shoulder, wiping the blood on his mouth. “I forgot.” I forgot about you for a minute. I forgot that I'm not alone anymore.

“It's alright.” You smile and as he turns around, you flinch at the sight. He has plucked the feathers off, but it's clearly uncooked as blood spills over his hands. Instead of running away or telling him off, you wonder if he doesn't know that he can cook it. No one taught him how. “Can I teach you something?”

“Teach me what?” There's apprehension in his voice, but there's also curiosity laced in it.

“To cook it. It'll taste…” your eyes flick at the meat in his hands. “...better, and it'll be safer to eat.”

His ear twitches, amber eyes blinking as he tilts his head. “This isn't safe?”

“No, eating raw meat isn't safe.”

Hobie scrunches his nose at the bits in his hands. “Make it safe then.”

You can't believe that he's even listening to you in the first place. Maybe he just longs for someone, a companion in the lonely labyrinth, just someone to show him how to live, not just to survive. “Thank you. Can you gather some dry wood and dry leaves? I'd do it but I might get lost.”

With a grunt, he leaves the chicken in front of you, its beady eyes staring at you blankly.

—

Hobie returns with bundles of wood and dry leaves. You have no idea how he even managed to chop the wood but from the splinters in his hands, you have an idea how.

Grinning at him, you show him your appreciation. “That's plenty, Hobie, thank you.” You swear you saw him smile through the bundle of wood. “Maybe after I can tend to your hands?”

“My hands?” He drops it to the ground, kneeling down to make the pile neater by stacking them up by size.

“Yes, you've got splinters, they look like it hurts.”

Flipping his hands, he stares at his palms where splintered wood peeks through the calloused hands. “‘m fine.” He then purses his lips together and glances briefly at you before continuing to stack the wood. “Maybe later.”

It's a victory itself. “Good, I'll be careful with it.” Nodding, you grab a pile of wood in front of you and some dry leaves to lessen the smoke. Then you stop for a second, the broken down rocks in the corner catch your eyes and you stand up to fetch them, coming back to the campfire to place it all around the tinder. Hobie watches your every move. “Shit, I need something to light it with. Do you have a flint and stone perhaps?” You ask him and his ear twitches in reply. “I joke.” You nervously chuckle.

He shows you his palm, calluses and more scars right on his skin. You furrow your brows as he stands up and picks up a piece of wood from the pile. Walking towards the torch on the wall, he points at it. “We've got fire right ‘ere.”

A smile spreads across your cheeks. “I'm an idiot, yes, please go ahead.”

Hobie places the branch right on the torch, lighting it on fire within a second. The flames illuminate his face, brows knitted in concentration, tongue peeking out in between his lips. You let him carry the fire towards the makeshift hearth you made and it slowly spreads from wood to tinder. Lighting the whole room up, and warming your bones.

Smiling, you gaze at Hobie through the orange embers and see him stare at it with wonderment. Eyes glimmering, fingers flexing as if he intends to touch the embers.

“Now, I will cook the meat.” You prepared the chicken in advance, cleaned it with the water provided by the trees, and cut it with your knife. It wasn't easy when the only cutlery you have is a blunt knife that could barely cut through skin. “We have to cook it through or you'll get sick.” You say while you skewer the meat in the dagger and place it above the fire, careful not to singe your skin.

“I've been fine without it.” He utters, eyes skimming around the meat you're twisting around.

“Your stomach is coated in bronze then.” The smile you have on wavers. “You've probably gotten used to it.” Your eyes glance sadly at him. It's barbaric, what they've done to him. They managed to belittle him and turn him into this, some sort of savage for their own pleasure. The king must pay for this.

His chin lays atop his knee, eyes remaining on your hands.

After a minute of silence amidst the crackling of fire, you speak. “Where'd you get the chicken, Hobie?”

“The same place where you came from.” Looking up, he points at the ceiling and you know what he meant. “Once every day, nothin’ else.”

“They make you catch it?” You ask through gritted teeth. Angry for what they've done to him, what they've made him to be. In another life, he could've been frolicking in the same place you have, even became friends.

Gazing at you softly, the corner of his lips curve up, chest inhaling deeply. “Yes, why are you angry for me?”

“Because!” You clear your throat, reeling it all in. “Because you don't deserve to be treated like this. No one deserves to be treated like this.”

“Like what?” Hobie sits up, looking at you as he raises his chin. “Like a beast?”

“Yes—”

“I am.”

“No, you're not.” His face falls at your words. “If you are then so am I.” You eye him through the flames, hand tightened around the dagger. “You're being treated like one but that doesn't mean that you are one.” Handing him the now cooked meat, you nod at him. “Take it, please.”

His hand brushes against your own for a moment as he takes the dagger. Sniffing at it, he glances at you apprehensively. Swallowing, he finally takes a bite. He chews, then takes another, and another as he groans appreciatively at the taste.

Once again you smile at him, “it would taste better if I had some salt and pepper with it. Or maybe some herbs to stuff it inside the meat.”

“Stuff it?” He asks, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. After taking another bite, he gives you the rest and you thank him.

“Yes.” You excitedly say as you tell him all the wonderful food you have come across during your journeys. Both savoury and sweet, with honey and with paprika. It intrigues him as you go on and on about bread and hearty stew, and the two of you find yourselves sitting around the fire until night-time as your hands gently comb over his palms.

“You've done this before?” He asks, eyes glancing at how careful you are with his splinters.

“I have, my sisters, they're a rowdy bunch. Always falling into rose bushes or crashing into log piles.” Your smile shines and he can't help but smile back.

“D’you miss them?” His tone is low, still curious but careful to not hurt you with his words.

“A lot.” You blink, washing his hands with clean water from a dented copper cup. “You would've loved them.”

Hobie shakes his head with a soft smile. “If they're anythin’ like you, then I might.”

You hide the giggle crawling from your throat. “I didn't know you were such a charmer.”

“Jus’ sayin' what I have in my head.”

Finishing his hands that are free of splinters, you gently run your thumbs over the calloused skin, staring at him with the same tenderness he gives you. Your hands run cold against his own, a reprieve to the fire raging inside him.

“They would love you.”

“Like you have?” His golden eyes shine, a boyish wonderment weaves through the molten gold.

You inhale, squeezing his hands in your own, feeling the flames in your closed palms. “Perhaps.”

While you gently clean his hands with the very cup you two drink out of, with the same flowing water that sustains you, he barely felt the sting at all, but your words— your words have given him something, hope, and excitement. And as the two of you fall asleep in the same position as yesterday, with your head on his lap this time, he finds himself dreaming of the outside world like he had once when he was just a boy who yearned for his mother.

—

It's been three days since you were dragged to the labyrinth as punishment. As far as punishment goes, it's been calm inside the space Hobie built. The seagulls squawk outside the window, you lay your head on his threadbare pillow, and now he has learned how to cook for himself. He's a fast learner, and he has kept his promise to protect you. Every morning he brings a bucket filled with clean water straight from the trees, and the smell of cooked meat fills your nose. At first it was burnt, but in time he learned how to make it, in his own word— ‘safer’ for you.

On day ten you've fallen in step with him, everytime the same thud of the labyrinth echoes through it, he pats your head and heads off towards it— to hunt. You've tried to stop him before, but he just looks at how you hold his hands gingerly, expression apologetic and goes towards the yelling. It'll take some time, more than cooked food, or clean water and your hands could manage to change him. It's ingrained in his mind, in his muscle and bones— all that violence and blood drilled into him since he was a little boy. While he hunts, you stay inside the middle of the labyrinth, in his home to keep away from the yelling or you might get caught in the crossfire.

After all the screaming and bloodshed has come and gone, you help him clean it off his skin gently, like an acolyte wiping at her god's marble statue. Careful, and yet filled with fondness as you kneel before him with a clean cloth. He watches on, hands on his sides, chest still heaving from the adrenaline. And yet his eyes are soft and golden as he gazes down at you with the same fondness.

One day you wake up to him whispering, “for the pretty bird.” Whilst he makes another bed beside the one you're on. It's covered in an abundance of leaves and various put together cloth from tunics. You decide right there and then that you'll escape the place together with him. Even if it means your death, he deserves freedom, to feel the waves lapping against his legs, to hear the birds singing, to smell the flowers and to see the world outside of the walls of the labyrinth.

He notices your eyes on him, and he pats your head again, telling you to go back to sleep. He lays down beside you, blue cloth wrapped around his arm as his body shields you from the cold. Then you eat the meat again, and he hunts, and you clean him up. Everyday it's the same, everyday you become more comfortable with him, endeared with his reactions as you tell him tales of the outside world. And everyday, the smile on his face lasts longer, the creases in between his brows lessen, and his fists unfurled as he runs it across your temple every night.

He comes home with a bag slung over his shoulder, hooves quiet as he makes his way towards you. Your back is turned away from him as you hum and draw an island from memory.

The sudden jolt of warmth on your back makes you jump away, panting with fear as you meet with his eyes.

“Hobie.” You breathlessly say, hand tightened around the charcoal. “I didn't hear you.”

The Minotaur crouches down, bag falling on the ground as his jaw tightens. “What’s on your back?”

Your breath gets stuck in your throat. “Wings.”

His amber eyes swirl like a sandstorm threatening to pull you in. “Did they take it from you?” With a hand, he breaches through the trepidation and holds your cheek.

“Y–Yes.”

For the first time, he opens his arms for you, and you immediately embrace him. His hands hover briefly across your back before letting them fall, palm spread, careful of the raw skin where your wings were.

He tells you about a golden winged man that passed by his window years ago. How he watched on with glee as the golden wings spread across the sky and above the blue sea. How Hobie's face fell when he saw the man fall from the very sky he was just touching, wings melted off as he plunged into the bitter blue. He could still hear his screams, pained, longing, fear— he has felt them before. And as he watches the waves, air stuck in his throat, his hope for freedom is dashed away. If that man cannot leave, with wings and all, then how could he?

“Icarus.” You whisper to him, face hidden on his neck, as the vines flowing around his horns hide you from the rest of the labyrinth. “That was his name. You saw Icarus, Hobie.” Leaning away, your hand cups his cheek, stubble brushing along your palm as he gazes down at you.

“Did he get to live?” He holds you against him, careful of his own strength as his arms wrap around you like a blanket on a cold morning.

“I don't—” you decide to spare him the details. “I don't know.”

“Does everyone outside have wings like yours?” His fists are closed, a quiet anger raging inside him as his knuckles run along your spine.

You shake your head. “No, just a few of us now.”

Hobie exhales, a puff of smoke billowing out while he stares at the wall, right on the drawing you've made of him. He's smiling in it, eyes full of life and hands free from crimson. Is this how you see him?

“Can we take it back from them?” His tone grows quiet, brows furrowed as you shake your head once more. “Then why—?”

“Hatred, prejudice. A lot of things, but that doesn't make it alright for them to take it.” You calm him down with your hands on his cheeks, thumb rubbing away the glare in between his eyes. “We can't take it back, Hobie, we can never take it all back. Staying alive despite it, living despite the lack of it, that's how we win against them.”

He sniffs, fists uncurling as he holds onto your waist. His shoulders slump as you place your forehead against his own. Inhaling your scent like you have before placing a heavy kiss on the crown of his head, right in between his horns.

“Do you want to leave this place?” Your heart thuds loudly at the prospect of him saying no, of leaving him behind.

“Yes.” He says through unshed tears. “I want to live.”

“You will. I promise you that.” Even if it kills you.

—

You hum an ancient tune, a song of protection as you braid his hair out of his face. The vines are weaved around it, tiny flowers curled around his dark hair. The sound of metal against stone rises above your humming as he sharpens your dagger.

Three months have passed, and you've prepared for this day, the day you two escape the dreaded place, to leave behind death in the hallowed walls. Makeshift weapons are spread around you, a bow made by the same tree you first struck, partnered up by arrows all sharpened at the tips by Hobie. Spears with daggers tied around it, all collected from the dead. Everything came from them, the same ropes that used to tie their tunics, feathers that decorated their hair. It's as if they're with you, enacting their last revenge on the labyrinth. He hasn't killed in a long time, leaving the survivors alone deep in the labyrinth.

Beside you is a crudely made shield made from a tree's bark, it's not strong enough to stop an oncoming sword, but it's adequate to stop an arrow. You just hope it works, that Hobie can finally feel the sunshine on his skin without the echoes of the labyrinth behind his back.

The walls of the room you've called home are plastered with a map of the labyrinth. All painstakingly made by you and Hobie during the small excursions at night. You tried to explore other plans that didn't involve fighting, or the prospect of him getting hurt, but it all came to a dead end. Even with him charging and breaking the window through didn't work when he almost fell off the cliff that overlooks the sea, and at the bottom lay jagged sharp rocks that not even a Minotaur's strength could endure.

As you finish with his hair, you place a kiss on his nape that sends shivers down his spine. And then you tuck in the flint and steel left by a rotting corpse inside a braid. You stand up and he twists in his seat, looking up at you as fear shakes his being, fear of losing, fear of your death.

“You'll be alright, Hobie.” Your hands cup his face, letting your touch ease him even if it's only a small reprieve.

“We'll be alright,” he corrects you, amber eyes gazing up at you with reverence. Instead of standing up, he wraps his arms around your waist, bringing his face to your stomach as he holds you against him. “You'll fly again.”

His murmured words reverberated in you like a desperate prayer. Your hand finds the top of his head, fingers grazing around his horns, trying to rein in your own thoughts and fears. “Once we're out, don't look back, keep running.”

Hobie squeezes you, nose nudging you. “No,” craning his neck to look at you, his eyes pleading with you. “We get out together.”

Nodding, you quickly wipe away a fallen tear. “Together. It's now or never, Hobie.”

The familiar rumble of the labyrinth echoes as a breeze rushes past the two of you.

Hobie doesn't know much about love, but he feels it now as he holds you against him for what could be the last time. And as you kiss his forehead, right in between the permanent crease of his brows, you feel it too. Love may not help you in escaping, but it will be the driving force that will fuel you both.

He stands up slowly, kneeling and still holding onto you until he's towering over you. His breath catches as he sees you in the morning light, and the walls of the labyrinth reflect in your eyes. Even if it kills him.

As he grabs the weapons and hands you the bow and arrows, he sees a glimpse of a drawing he did of you last night, how he sees you in his own eyes. With you flying above the labyrinth, above him as he waves at you with a smile.

You follow his gaze, and you take his hand in yours, gazing at his scarred knuckles and placing a kiss with every thud of your heart. Even if it kills you.

“Let's go, Hobie.” You don't tug at him, instead, you wait for him to walk together with you.

He leaves behind everything, the baby blanket— the only reminder of his mother. The childhood drawings on the walls, his only companions— the fox, the chicken with her chicks. And the sea where Icarus lies.

As he guides you to the same place you entered all those months ago, he starts to run. With every second that passes, his heartbeat rises, flicking his golden eyes over to you every now and then while he leads you out of the labyrinth.

Hobie watches for the notches on the walls you've made, small x’s written in your hand, your way of getting back to the outerwall.

“Keep going.” You encourage him gently, hand tight around his own.

He nods, craning his head towards the rumbling sound of the doors sliding open. “There!”

You let go of his hand as he throws the shield between the door before it could close, startling its latest occupant.

“What the—!” The stranger's eyes are blown open, gasping at the charging minotaur and a wingless harpy.

“Get out!” You shoot an arrow right between their trembling legs. “Now!”

The stranger shambles out of the small space, and Hobie immediately puts himself in between the door to let you pass. He strains from the weight of it, veins popping from his arms while you frantically get inside.

The wooden shield cracks from the pressure and the second you slide inside the niche, it breaks in half.

“We did it.” You heave at the familiar darkness, almost immediately, you feel his arms wrap around you, relief spread through his embrace. “We're alright,” you pat his back while your face nudges his chest. “We need to continue.” Even in the dark, you can see his amber eyes aglow. Your guiding light.

“Safe.” He takes your face and presses a kiss on your cheek, slightly missing your own lips by a few inches.

You resist the urge to kiss him back. “Yes, safe, for now.” Your hands find the bundle of arrows strapped to your hip and you take the odd one out with a bundle of rope drenched in olive oil as he brings the flint and stone from his hair. “Take a deep breath, Hobie.”

He inhales as sparks fly. It doesn't immediately work as the small space lights up with every strike. It's cramped now that the two of you are inside, chest to chest, you can feel his frustration wave through him when the arrow still doesn't light up.

You grab his wrist gently, fingers kneading at his skin. “You'll get it, strike like how we practiced.”

Hobie's breath fans your cheeks as he huffs, and with one strike of the flint, it lights up the arrow, and with it illuminates the small area. He grins victoriously, mirroring your own.

Quickly, smoke fills the space, and as the two of you look up, just like how you predicted, it rises up towards the opening and out of the crack.

You cough out, covering your nose with your arm as he gazes at you with concern. The sliding door still doesn't open, and you fear the worst— vision filled with your bodies slumped together after dying from suffocation.

But as his ears flick and pick up the subtle sound of scraping, he folds his knees as much as he could in the space. The second the light enters and the smoke escapes, he leaps up, taking a screaming soldier down with him.

All you could do was listen as screams echo outside, and the sound of breaking bones makes your heart leap, fearing that his face won't be the one that will peek down. As blood drips down from above and into the space like a waterfall, there's nothing but silence above.

“H–Hobie?” You cry out, “Hobie!”

You hear panting above, and he finally appears in all his glory.

“C’mon, pretty bird.” He extends his arm, and you immediately take it. Lifting you up and away from the labyrinth, you hold him. “Safe.” He echoes out, cradling you against him as the pool of blood drenches your knees.

“Safe.” You take a deep breath, and kiss the underside of his jaw as thank you. Your palm grazes a cut on his chest and you gasp out in worry.

“‘m alright, we have to continue.” Hobie smiles at you, helping you off your wobbly legs.

The room is sparse, sunlight filtering through the cracks in the walls. It looks like you're in a barn with hay, and chickens running around in their respective pens. As you look down, you see seven square shaped notches on the floor, the place where they drag and drop down their prisoners. It wasn't as grandiose as you thought it was, thinking that the labyrinth is under the palace, right under the king's feet. But with your swirling head back then, you never noticed the room they brought you in.

“We need to run, Hobie.” You take a look at his soot and crimson covered face. “And keep running.”

“I know, together.” With a nod, the two of you bolt right out of the barn.

Immediately screams from guards follow right behind you. You let out a volley of arrows without missing a beat, thanking all the lessons your sisters gave you. While he charges at men who tried to stab from the front, impaling them with his horns or throwing spears at them. And as fate would have it, the two of you enter a garden, encountering another labyrinth made out of rose hedges.

With nowhere else to go, all sides blocked by armed soldiers, you lead him towards the labyrinth. Your footsteps match with his own, hooves hitting the grass, your foot accidentally stomping on a rose. As the two of you head deeper inside, guards close in on you, yelling obscenities, blades crashing against their armour. As the two of you continue to sprint, you realize that this labyrinth and the real one are one and the same. From the curves to the long winding hallways, it's the same layout, down to the middle of it where a bronze statue of the minotaur stands high.

Hobie pauses at the sight, but it's not his own face staring down at him. This one has the face and legs of a bull, the body of a man, and its horns are curved outwards, pointed at the end. There's a swishing tail, and as anger wraps around him, you grab his hand and take him towards the end of the labyrinth where a balcony overlooking the sea greets the two of you.

Sea breeze hits your face, and for a second you're back at home— not the one where your sisters lie, but where Hobie lived, where he held you in his arms as you cried the night away. Where your chatter and his chuckles fill the cold air. Where his drawings and his face are the first thing you see in the morning. It's as if you can't truly escape the labyrinth.

Hobie is awestruck by the open sea, feeling the sun warm his flesh, and by the time he notices an archer aiming right at his head, it's too late as he pushes you aside, aiming back with his spear. He hears you nock back an arrow but it doesn't fly overhead, just as his spear meets the soldier's stomach. He looks back at you, triumphant but his face falls when he sees the arrow that was meant for him is now pierced in your chest— right in your heart.

His guttural scream sends the men backwards in fear.

You gaze at Hobie, determined that the last thing you'll ever see is his face in the backdrop of the blue sky where you once flew above. Your legs try to hold you up but you end up keeling over, falling right in his arms.

You want to say something— anything, but only blood comes out of your mouth, crimson flooding out of your chest. So you take his cheek, trembling hand brushing along his jaw one last time.

Even when a volley of arrows hits his back, he holds you in his arms. The pain is nothing compared to feeling your blood soak his hands.

He shields you from the arrows, tears streaming down his amber eyes as it falls on your cold cheek. His warm blood coats your front, mixing with your own.

“D–Don't go. You promised.” Was the last thing you ever heard from him before meeting with the ferryman himself. You're happy that it was his voice.

With one last ounce of his strength, he lifts you up from the bloodied marble floor, and rises up to the balcony with strained effort. The last arrow hits the small of his back and he plunges down on the cold depths just like Icarus did.

He did promise you that you'll fly once again.

For a moment, he sees you fly in the backdrop of the same sky you longed for. And as the water swallows him, arrows protruding from his back, he melds with you. Together, he said, so together you two shall go down into the depths.

Support banner by @/cafekitsune

A/N: Please consider reblogging if you liked it!! Thank you for reading ❤️

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bxlladxnnabxtch · 10 months ago

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Eternally Elusive

Rhysand x Reader

❀🇲🇦🇸🇹🇪🇷🇱🇮🇸🇹❀

Summary: A pestering passerby drags up an unexpected guest that almost blows your cover.

Read pt. 1 of Eternally Elusive - HERE

Read pt. 7 - HERE (currently wip)

Warnings: Harassment, injury.

In your pain riddled haste, you hadn’t realized how worked up you had made Azriel’s shadow. It seemed to be fretting at any slip up in fear of you damaging your already broken wing, it’s movement jagged and sharp as it circled you. But alas, you paid it no heed- couldn’t as you stumbled your way over the border and onto Dawn Court soil in the most pain you’ve been in since you’d left your homeland. The feeling buzzed in your head, and you just knew that you’d be in pain for months just waiting for this to heal up, but that’s only if you get the proper care for it, which you were certainly not.

Even being courts apart, Rhys still seemed to find a way to make your life difficult.

You wondered idly if he knew how badly his slip up had fucked you over as you splinted your injury, enchanting the wooden block to stay in place with a wave of your hand. Your wing still throbbed, the pain thrumming through you like a steady stream. It was the slightest bit more bearable with the splint in place, the appendage no longer visibly deformed, and it put you at ease to see it no longer sticking at an odd angle.

The glamour you held over yourself swallowed you like a comforting blanket, the weight of it putting you at ease as you looked out on the bustling streets of the Dawn Court. The last thing you needed right now was someone noticing who you were, the whispers would no doubt make their way back to the inner circle and you didn’t need another guest appearance as of right now. You dragged a hand down your face, rolling your shoulders in an attempt to ease the tension that had built up along your trek into town.

A brush along your wing had you jumping and scrambling to recoil away from the touch. Your head whipped around, swiveling frantically in search of the source. Your eyes landed on a short, brunette fae. His eyes were a piercing gold, shimmering in the setting sun. You’d almost say they were beautiful if they hadn’t been holding a tinge of disgust, staring at you as if he was floored by your very presence. Azriel’s shadow stilled when you locked eyes with him, the darkness settling at your side.

It's slight coolness as it brushed against you offered you some solace from your peaked anxiety as you stared at the fae. “An Illyrian?” He scoffed, looking down on your form perched on a wooden bench. His upper lip curled into a scowl as his eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t be here.” He sneered. Your eyes darted around, a few people nearby eyed you both, a few previous strollers slowing down to watch the interaction. Your pulse spiked, and the fae seemed to pick up on it as he huffed a snort. “Are you a spy? Come to feed information back to your whore of a High Lord?”

The comment hit you like a brick to the face, the insult causing a slice of hurt to bloom in your chest despite your current status with said male. Your features downturned, a kaleidoscope of memories flooding into you from Under the Mountain- both yours and his. You didn’t have time to fully react to anything the fae had said- to what your body had forced you to remember.

A sharp, commanding voice sounded from behind the Dawn Court native, and he bristled at the sound, a visible tremor running through him. “Are we now in the business of disturbing travelers?”

You watched as the golden eyed fae slowly turned around, almost as if he were dreading what he would see. He moved to the side, and your eyes landed on a black haired woman, the girl coated in glittering armor from head to toe. The Dawn Court insignia sat proud on her chest plate, her dark hair sprawling well past the emblem and stopping just before her waist. She held the same shimmering golden eyes as the male- but these were sharper somehow, and they seemed to swirl with power. White wings stood proud behind her, so big that the ivory feathers brushed the ground where she stood.

A Peregryn, you realized.

A member of the elite aerial legion the Dawn Court proudly harbored. You were stunned, as were most passerby at her presence, only attracting more attention to your already uncomfortable situation. Her eyes landed on you, and they widened slightly in recognition.

It dawned on you in that second, and you stiffened into an immovable force.

Glamour didn’t work on Peregryns.

You stared at each other wide eyed, a silent acknowledgement of what was taking place. A runaway monarch- and a soldier of another court. She had all the power here- a cruel switch that was bound to be flipped at some point; you just didn’t expect it to be so soon. She could report this back to Thesan, have you sent back without so much as a thought. Azriels shadow circled you, and you waited with bated breath to see what she’d do.

She blinked. Once. Twice.

Her eyes fell back onto the brown-haired male still staring at her in thinly veiled horror. “Get moving.” She said coldly, jerking her head in the direction of another bustling street. The male sputtered for a second, eyes darting back to you before stuttering out a “yes, ma’am.” You watched him disappear into the crowd of people making their way down the busy street, the few people that had stopped to watch the interaction dispersing with him.

Your eyes fell back on the woman, the Peregryn now making her way towards you as if she were on a mission. The look in her eyes had you leaping to your feet, hopping off the bench as if the wooden structure had scorched you through your clothes. You got up in time to meet her face to face, her golden armor glinting in the setting sun.

You swallowed thickly, your pulse racing as you locked eyes. Her face seemed to hold a certain kind of awe you’d compare to a child receiving a new toy. Her eyes slipped over to your injured wing, the glance lingering for a second longer than you’d anticipated before it flickered back to your face. The fae bristled, a realization seeming to dawn on her as she floundered. “M-my Lady.” Her legs bent to steep into a kneel, and your heart rate spiked so violently the Peregryn flinched, your arm shooting out to stop her from completing her bow. Your nails dug into her armor, creating a soft creaking noise as your voice fought its way out of you. Commanding. Desperate. Almost a plea as you spoke.

“Don’t.” You said lowly, eyes darting around as she slowly eased out of her half completed kneel. She managed to take in your frantic movements in her confused state, eyes searching the streets in hopes no one had saw what she had just attempted to do. A fae with light brown hair seemed to eye you as she walked by, and that was all it took to have you hauling the Peregryn into a nearby ally.

“Are you trying to get me in shit!?” You hissed, casting a glance to the street you were just standing in, the shadows of the ally helping you to remain hidden. “No- no, my lad-“ You cut her off. “Don’t call me that, I’m not Your Lady.” You let go of her armor, confusion staining the woman’s face, only becoming more saturated with each passing second. “I may serve the Dawn Court, but I was born of the Night, you are as much My Lady as Thesan is My Lord.” Your eyes darted to her dark sprawling locks, and it clicked for you. She may have been a Peregryn, that much was obvious, but she held prominent features of the Night Court.

It was possible, much like your own lineage. A union between a Peregryn and a member of the Night Court. You saw it. A reflection of yourself stared back, the pride that swirled in her eyes when she talked about her heritage. You remember being like that, once. So proud of being from both the Winter, and the Night Court.

It was long gone though, that pride.

One of those homes was ripped away from you.

You hope she doesn’t suffer the same fate.

“I’m glamoured right now.” You said, tone much softer. A crease formed between her brows, face falling. “Oh.” She paused, looking you over before she spoke again. “I thought you were here for the Fall Solstice.”

That’s right. The Solstice.

Where the three Solar Courts came together in celebration. Where the day and night fall together in equal harmony, each as long as the other. You had completely forgotten in your haste to make it back to Winter. Your mouth fell open, eyebrows raising as an expression of surprise overtook your features. It was clear Rhys wouldn’t be attending any festivals after Under the Mountain, and now with you missing, you’d be surprised if he left the house. Especially with… her to attend to.

“I’m guessing that’s a no?” She asked. Your eyes fell back on her. She really didn’t know? Did Rhys not alert the other Courts to your disappearance? Or is it just so early he didn’t have a chance yet? You swallowed nervously, wringing your hands together anxiously. “Well, since you’re in town you’re still welcome to come.” The Peregryn said softly, sensing your unease. “Pardon my bluntness, but you don’t look to be feeling too well, you should get some rest. I should probably get back to my post regardless.”

You realized just how long you’d been standing in the ally, and you nodded your head in acknowledgement. She inclined her head slightly, almost a bow but casual enough to be brushed off. “It was an honor.” She said sincerely, turning to make her way out of the overhang. You watched her exit the ally, ivory wings brushing the ground as they followed behind her.

Hauling yourself up the stairs of the inn, you used the wall to support most of your weight. Azriels shadow was swirling around you, fretting as it always did when you were in a less than favorable state. The groan you let out when you reached the top was almost guttural, and you had to muster up the very last bit of your energy reserves to scuffle the last bit to your room.

You fiddled around with the key, leaning your forehead against the door and attempted not to wince as your arm knocked into your wing. Getting the key into the lock was an accomplishment in itself, and you pushed the door open, ready to clean yourself up and have a short nap. The door swung open, and you threw the key onto the dresser on your right side, swinging the door closed behind you.

The door swung closed, revealing the bed and a battered Azriel sitting atop it.

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 months ago

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Cool for the Summer 6

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power dynamics, cheating, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: After finishing your degree, you return home only to find things aren’t as you left them.

Characters: Bucky Barnes

Note: love u guys.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The night creeps by in ripples of moonlight and anxiety. You drift in and out of sleep, flinching at ever rustle of the tree outside, every creak in the house. You expect him to knock on your door. To open it. That’s why the dresser’s in front of it.

Paranoid. You think so. But no, not really. Overreacting but not without reason.

You’re so twisted up about the intruder in your house, in your family, that you barely think of your mom’s big news. A date? Technically your first real date. That movie night with that boy in high school was a celibate, silent penance.

You hear your mom get ready for work. She said after, you’ll go out. You’re looking forward to it even if you don’t care much about the reason. Any chance to get away, you’ll take.

The front door shuts and her car chirps as it unlocks. You listen in dread. You’re awake now. It’s four in the morning and you’re not going back to the sleep. You can’t.

You wallow in the lull that overtakes the house. Your eyelids are heavy, your head full, but even your fatigue can’t override your fear. You can hear your breaths as they fill your chest to bursting and you force them out in slow draws.

Then it begins. A low groan. At first, you think it’s nothing but the wind outside. Then it rises. Grunting peaking at the end of every prolonged sigh. Then your name.

Bucky’s voice swirls down the hall as you can only imagine what he’s doing. To himself.

“That’s it, baby girl. That’s... exactly... how I like it...” His voice gets clearer as his footfalls slap over the floor. You hold your breath and wrap the blanket around you, up to your chin.

“That’s how I want you--” He stomps up to your door and slaps his hand against the outside. “Be a good girl, open the door...”

His harried huffs bluster just outside. He moans as the door shakes with his unseen efforts. But you hear it all.

“I just need a little—help--” he snarls. “Oh, just... if you smile at me, I think--” he grunts and thumps on the door. The handle jolts and jiggles. The door hits the dresser but does not open. You squeal. “Ah, you got me, baby—girl—you---”

His voice fizzles out and his palms drags buck up the door. The friction is like a jet engine in the stillness of the house. You whimper and tuck your head under the blanket.

“You gone an made another mess, why don’t you come out and help clean it up?” He growls.

You don’t move. You can’t breathe. Your tears trickle out and roll over your nose and round your temple. They plummet onto the blanket as you recede into yourself.

Will you make it until your mom gets home?

☀️

You relent to the day and sit up. You need to use the bathroom but you’re too afraid to go out. Bucky is bold in making his presence known. You hear him making his coffee, whistling in the hall, blaring the television.

You hole up until noon, fractured by the rude awakening and the building pressure in your pelvis. You have to go so bad but moving the dresser would give you away. You stare at the window, wondering if you could sneak down the tree. Going on the lawn is a sane option in this insane situation.

Your phone lights up and draws your attention. It’s your mom. You answer. You cough before you find your voice.

“Mom?” You sputter.

“Hey, sweetie,” she chimes. “You sound tired. You're not still sleeping, are you?”

“No, I’m just... sorting out my room,” you lie.

“Ah, okay, well, I have some bad news,” she sniffs. “They need me to stay tonight. We have clinical students coming this evening and it’s my job to oversee all training.”

You hesitate. You nearly forgot about the date, let alone her proposed shopping trip. You really don’t need a new outfit.

“Um, alright, well... I’m sure I have something--”

“Oh, but sweetie, you should get something new,” she insists, “I talked to Bucky a few minutes ago. He said he’ll be happy to take you.”

“Bucky?” You echo.

“Oh, sure. It'll be good for you two to bond a bit more.” She trills. “He says you’ve been hiding all day. I don’t like that, sweetie.”

“But-- tomorrow we could--”

“The date’s tomorrow and I just don’t know if this will happen again,” she interrupts. “I’m so sorry but I’m so busy. I have to go. Bucky said he’ll take you. I can’t wait to see what you choose.”

“Mom--”

“Love you,” she talks over you and hangs up.

You stare at the phone. Oh no. You should’ve at least tried to tell her. It’s your fault. If you said something, she would listen. But you didn’t and now it feels too late.

A knock jolts the door. You hold back a yelp and look at the wood. You quiver and put your phone down.

“Hey, Baby Girl, did your mom call?” He taps his fingers on the door.

You get up and drag your feet across the room, “uh, yeah, she said we’ll go tomorrow.”

He chuckles, “that’s not what she said to me.”

“I... I’m not feeling well,” you argue.

“Of course you don’t. You’ve been holed up inside all day. It’s nice out,” he turns the handle and pushes the door into the dresser. “Hey, baby girl, what’s going on? Something's wrong with your door.”

You gulp and put your hands on the dresser.

“I’m not ready.”

“Well, I can wait,” he intones. “I have been, haven’t I?”

You shiver. You know exactly what he means.

“I’ll...I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“Oh, sure, you probably need a coffee. How about I make you one? Be good for you, huh?” He shakes the door handle. “You know, I can be good, if I get a treat.”

You brace the edge of the dresser. Your eyes round at the door. You close your dry mouth. You take a breath and peel your lips apart.

“Fine,” you agree.

“Alright, I’ll be waiting. Patiently,” he lets go of the handle. “Just don’t let the coffee get cold or I’ll have to come find you.”

You don’t move until you hear him on the stairs. You slowly drag away the dresser and turn it to get into the drawers. You pull out a pair of jeans and a loose tee with Tweety Bird on it. It’s completely plain.

You inch open the door and peer out. You watch for him or his shadow. You step out and your foot meets something sticky. You look at the floor and the splatter there; stringy with a few droplets. That’s not...

You cringe and tiptoe down to the bathroom. You wipe off your foot with a wet wad of tissue. You use the toilet next, a painful clench before the release. Then you do your best to clean up. You grab a cloth and run it under the tap. You clean up the mess in front of your door.

You bury the cloth down in the bathroom bin. As you come back out, you press yourself to the wall and shuffle to your room. You find a pair of sunglasses to hide behind.

You go to the top of the stairs and peer down. As if sensing you, Bucky appears at the base. You flinch. He has a mug in his hands. It’s not a coincidence, he’s been listening.

You descend, step by step. His eyes crawl up your body. His gaze makes you feel naked. How can he do that? The tee shirt is so baggy, you can barely tell there’s a body under it.

“Here ya go,” he hands you the travel mug; porcelain with a silicone top. “Just for my baby girl.”

You accept it and look past him. You say thanks but can’t hear your own voice. He touches your cheek and you wince.

“Are we gonna find you something cute? Something sexy?” He purrs as he pets your chin.

You shy away and try to step past him. He blocks you with his arm. He grips your chin more firmly and brings your head up. Your eyes flick to his.

“You might be wearing it for that boy, but you’ll be taking it off for me,” he snarls. “Make mommy happy first, but you don’t wanna piss me off.”

His grip makes you tremble. You whine and bat your lashes. He eases up and snickers as he strokes your cheek and rescinds his hand.

“Baby girl, I just wanna treat you right,” he eases from his momentary lapse. That stone in his voice sticks in your skill. “You know he can’t do that. Not like I can.”

You cradle the cup and stare at him. Your insides are on fire. You pout and his eyes fixate on your lip. His tongue pokes out.

“Why...” you eke out.

He grins. “Why not, baby girl? You deserve it. To be taken care of. You’re so wound up,” he drawls. “I can tell you need it.”

“My mom--”

He hisses and shushes you with a finger to your lips. He taps meanly and drops his hand.

“Don’t,” he warns. “You say a word to her, if she believe you, you don’t want to see what happens.” He takes a breath. “And can you imagine how hurt she’d be? Everything was perfect til you got home.”

You search his face. Your lashes flutter. He’s right. It wouldn’t look like his fault, would it? Especially after yesterday.

“Can we go?” You croak.

“I guess we should,” he sighs. “Even if I’d rather stay... get to know you, baby girl.” He slowly moves out of your way. You step down and he turns, brush your ass with his hand. “Think we’ll find something real nice... something to show this off.”

☀️

As Bucky drives past the mall, your heart stutters. Where is he going? Your mom would only ever take you to Old Navy or some department store.

What if he isn't taking you shopping? Why didn't you think of that before? Why are you going along with this?

You latch onto your thighs with your sweaty hands and push back into the seat. He reaches over and you lean away. He taps the touchscreen to skip the song.

"Not my favourite," he comments.

You swallow dryly. You look at him. He doesn't seem to notice the shift. Or he doesn't let on.

The grey hairs catch the light, the lines in his face add definition to his already sharp feature, and his blue eyes absorb all brightness. You face forward and your jaw locks. He wouldn't do anything. Your mom knows you're with him.

"Got a friend, she recommended the place," he interrupts your panic. "If you're looking for something special... well, you don't wanna go to the mall."

You sniff and nod. "Sure," you agree hoarsely.

He clucks and drives on. Your eyes drift to his hands, thick knuckles, thick fingers. Strong hands. Strong enough to choke.

He turns onto a street in the centre of town. You watch the storefronts, calmed by the number of witnesses, but not completely. He slides into a paralell spot and taps the button to quiet the engine.

He gets out first. You follow reluctantly.

He leads you to a store and opens the door ahead of you. You enter and look around at the expertly dressed mannequins. A feather red dress has you intimidated but the simple blue dress across from it isn't too bad.

A shop associate approaches, "hello, how are you doing today? Anything you're looking for?"

"Ummmm." You chew your lip as Bucky catches up to you.

"Special day," he speaks for you as his hand settles on your lower back, "anniversary. I'm taking her out on the town."

The woman looks between you. You choke in embarrassment as you read her name tag; Darcy.

"Oh, wow, how long?" Her voice is crisp.

"How long... two years now. I know, a bit much but you gotta celebrate the little things," he responds coolly. You almost believe him. "I'm not really a fashion guy, but you sell panties? Gotta plan for the whole night."

Her brow twitches and her dimples deepen, "yes.... there's an intimate section near the back. Hun," she looks at you, "do you want to surprise him? I can show you around."

"I think we can figure it out," Bucky insists with a bristle. "I know what looks best on her."

She blinks and pushes her tongue into her cheek. You avert your gaze as you swelter. Bucky curls his hand around your hip.

"Uh huh, well you just let me know if you need anything," she chirps sharply.

"Alright, hun," Bucky hurls the epithet back at her before he guides you away. He scoffs as he takes you past a table of denim. "Cunt," he utters under his breath and reaches for a hanger with his other hand, "now, just remember," he pulls a red dress free, "you keep those legs together with that little punk." He holds the dress in front of you. "And I'll get them nice and loose when you get home."

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #series #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #au #cool for the summer #mcu #marvel #avengers #captain america #winter soldier

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alintalzin · 4 months ago

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Friday Kiss

Tagged by @the-golden-comet, again.

From one of my gothic fantasy wips, A Dark and Dreadful Thing.

He looked down at the piece of paper, then looked up at me.

"Stefan Gray." he read out haltingly. He lowered the paper, set it down to one side of him. His gaze returned to me.

"You. You, you." he began, coming closer. "You have been so kind to me, even though you have no reason to. You make me dream that I will one day be rid of the menace hanging over my head that is the circus. You make me hope that I am a better man than I am. And now you give me a name, when I have gone without one my whole life, so I might have something to call myself. A name of my own."

Stefan came closer still, reaching out and sliding his hands under my armpits, lifted me up onto demi-pointe.

He let go, then kissed me. I got my arms around his neck and kissed back. It was a clumsy, artless kiss on both sides, given that I had never kissed anyone before, and I do not think he had, either.

Tagging @mrbexwrites, @amielbjacobs, @winterandwords, @veneritia, and anyone else who wants to do it.

#tag game #wip: a dark and dreadful thing #rowene x stefan

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fixyourwritinghabits · 5 months ago

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Editing Part 4: Worldbuilding Pass

Next up, worldbuilding! We're tackling this before structure, because you don't want to get too far into the weeds, realize a critical component of your story is wrong, and then throw your computer out the window in frustration.

Anyway, when it comes to worldbuilding, there's a lot of moving parts. There is no right or wrong way to worldbuild, but my preferred approach is to worldbuild as the story goes along. Any method works, and you can check out the worldbuilding tag for more. In editing your worldbuilding, you want to think about:

Trimming Front-loading/Info Dumps

When writing fantasy/sci-fi, getting down how the world works can take over the story. In first drafting, this is fine! But when you're trying to clean that draft up, it's better to weave this information in as you go.

Need to explain how the giant mechas guarding the city operate? Maybe your main character is trying to steal some precious alloy from one, giving you opportunity to explain how they work and how society feels about them. Have a magic system that relies on singing tunes? Show that off by having students practicing, or dueling rivals taking it too far.

You probably know by now that the thing you should avoid the most is "as you know" dialogue dumps - characters explaining concepts to each other that they both clearly understand. Another, weaker version of this is the "magic class" trap, where things are explained to the main character and the reader. A classroom environment is fine, but pair worldbuilding with action - demonstrations get out of hand, spells go wrong, etc. Make it fun!

Your World Needs Clear Rules (Sorry)

Listen, this is the part I hate. I have a WIP with the word "Rules" in the title and I'm still figuring out what those rules are. Argh. But the sooner you know the rules, the easier editing will be. The more clear those rules are to the reader, the more impactful breaking them will be.

If the rules of the world (you can't use warp speed too close to a planet's gravitational pull, the same type of magic cancels each other out) and the consequences of breaking them are clear, the pay-off will be satisfying for both you and the reader.

Use Your Environment to Your Full Advantage

You've no doubt heard 'make setting a character' and that's evergreen advice. Some of the best books out there are those where it feels like you could step through the page and into a real place, be it your childhood middle school or Narnia. Getting that feeling, however, is more than just describing a place really well.

Mood - How does the location make you feel? Does a dark, cramped room leave the characters with a feeling of dread? How would that feeling change if it was an overstuffed library with comfortable chairs?

Weather - Beyond the 'dark and stormy night' descriptions, weather impacts our daily lives and is often overlooked. A rain-drenched funeral scenes seems like it's the way to go, but how differently would that scene feel if it was a sunny day with birds singing?

City Versus Countryside - These books are a great reference for description, but also take a step back to compare how different situations would feel both in the setting and to your character. Quiet can mean very different things depending on where you are. A morning fog in the countryside might feel comforting to someone used to it, but to someone new to that environment, it might feel creepy. Think about both your environment and how your character reacts to it based on their backstory.

The Empty Room Problem

This is always a big challenge when moving from the first draft bare bones basics to fleshing things out. How much description is too much? (As a note, it's always okay to overcorrect - you'll have a chance to fix it later!) This post from @novlr has a lot of great questions - but you're still going to narrow it down to the most important details.

Escape the Movie Setting - You cannot describe the room like it's a movie set. Trying to do so is going to be overwhelming, and important details will be lost in the attempt. If you were to describe your room or your favorite coffee shop and could only highlight four or five details, what would you focus on? What gives the reader the essence of the place rather than a list of things that exist there?

Establish the Essentials - Is this your first character's first time in this room? Is it going to be key to several plot-important scenes? Some big, sweeping details when entering - how big it is, what's in it, where the windows are, how it feels, etc - are good to start with. Your character can briefly admire a full bookshelf in the first scene, and then study it in more detail in the second. If you have one scene in this place and spend too much time describing it, you're going to make your reader think it's more important than it is.

Engage the Senses - Does an old room smell musty? Does the coldness of the woods have a sharp taste? Does touching a shelf bring up a lot of dust? How does the lighting in the room make the main character feel?

Getting down the description of a room or setting is not something you'll nail in one shot, but if you approach each scene asking yourself "does this feel like a real place or a white room?" you can narrow down what's missing.

#editing #writing advice #writblr #writerblr

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bxllydxnnabxtch · 2 months ago

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Eternally Elusive

Rhysand x Reader

❀🇲🇦🇸🇹🇪🇷🇱🇮🇸🇹❀

Summary: A pestering passerby drags up an unexpected guest that almost blows your cover.

Read pt. 7 - HERE (wip)

Wanna go back?

Warnings: Harassment, injury.

Even being courts apart, Rhys still seemed to find a way to make your life difficult.

A sharp, commanding voice sounded from behind the Dawn Court native, and he bristled at the sound, a visible tremor running through him. “Are we now in the business of disturbing travelers?”

A Peregryn, you realized.

It dawned on you in that second, and you stiffened into an immovable force.

Glamour didn’t work on Peregryns.

She blinked. Once. Twice.

It was long gone though, that pride.

One of those homes was ripped away from you.

You hope she doesn’t suffer the same fate.

That’s right. The Solstice.

The door swung closed, revealing the bed and a battered Azriel sitting atop it.

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domesticandlovingmonsters · 11 months ago

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Guard Captain Aram (M) x F!Reader (wip)

Because I feel bad with how long this is taking to come out, and I am currently stuck on how to proceed, I'm posting this as is.

I intend to complete it annd post it as a whole, but since I'm stuck, you got this. Consider this as a type of two-parter until I can work out how to write someone having a date and how conversations work. I swear I'm a good writer, guys!!! I know how sentences and dialogue works.

Words: 9.9k

Theme/Plot: (Fantasy/Medieval) You're a merchant, new to the city looking to start a business from the ground up. Having purchased a cheap, run-down building as your starting point, you work hard to make something of the little things you have. But after a string of robberies, you find yourself as the centre of the Guard Captain's attention.

The rain came down in pouring sheets. Deafening you inside your own dwelling as a year's worth of rain pummeled the tiled roof.

Thunder clapped overhead so close to the city roofs that the window panels shook in their frames.

It was a gloomy day. One that made the hours in the shop drag by at a snail's pace. Not a soul was out today. For good reason, or else they’d risk being washed away by the water flowing down the street drains. Thankfully, there was alot of old stock you needed to organize and catalog to keep you busy.

The storm was a blessing in disguise. Despite the chilly weather.

With the lack of customers to keep an eye on and take commissions for, it allowed you to tune up the shop within your actual work hours. And not drip over into the late afternoon like you dreaded.

And with the ample amount of downtime came the close inspection of how your little, ancient store held up in such a harsh rainstorm.

The last of your money had gone into buying this place. It was a cheap sale and the reasons for it were obvious. A small shop with a small dwelling connected to the back of it for residential purposes.

The paint on the front was peeling and much of the wooden beams needed some love and care. The windows had needed to be removed and replaced; they had been so grimey and cracked that it made the store look sickly from the outside. And dark and gloomy within.

Not to mention the rot within the wood in some places. Which had soaked up that lingering few coins you had after the sale. But it was better than leaving the place smelling like decaying wood and having openings for rats.

The roof seemed fine, the tiles were covered in moss and some were cracked, but you didn’t see any damage other than age.

It has been months since you bought it and this had been the first real change in sunny weather, so you were walking around the place constantly looking for leaks.

So far, nothing splashed against the wooden floor. Your little shack was holding up nicely under the rain, even if the walls groaned rather worryingly whenever the wind rushed through the city streets.

The shop was nothing spectacular, you knew that. But it was yours. And it was a much nicer place than the roadside stall you used to man while you traveled.

You glanced out the window as a flash of white light illuminated the dreary street outside. And winced at the image of you and your old horse and wagon in such weather.

Many times you had been caught out in storms like this. Losing stock to the water or your wagon’s wheels getting sucked into the muddy roads.

Looking back into your warm, dry shop; a new type of appreciation came to you with your decision to settle down. And you took a deep breath of dusty, humid air and smiled.

Your shop.

It still felt weird to say. But it was still just as exciting.

Over the thunder and tumbling rain, your shop-door’s bell chimed. Alerting you to two customers that all but barrelled into the dry space.

They were soaking. But smiled cheerfully as you greeted them. One had an umbrella that looked like the wind had torn it asunder and both their hoods were raised low over their faces. Leaving only their wide smiles for you to see.

“We are so sorry for dragging water in here.” One said, a woman. Rubbing her arms to retain some heat beneath the thick cloak. “But we’re in need of some alchemy ingredients, if you have any. You’re the closest store to ours and we’re low on some things to make cold remedies.”

The other customer, with the torn umbrella, looked around your small store with a grin. “You’ve really spruced this place up. It’s so much nicer here than what I last remember. The last owner did not care for this building at all.”

You smiled as their hoods were lowered. You recognized them as the potions store owners down the street. You spoke briefly once. They were nice people. But very busy. And their names eluded you, unfortunately.

“Welcome! And don’t worry about the water, it’s unavoidable at the moment. I think I tracked in half the realm’s mud this morning. Please, come in. What did you need exactly? I have a few stocks that might be what you need.”

The woman huffed with visible relief and hurried forward to your counter. Where you withdrew some small boxes of bottled ingredients and jars of various substances.

You didn’t sell anything but the basic materials. Your shop was more a general store than a particular theme. You still weren’t sure what you wanted to be in the city.

You’ve only ever known what you could carry. On the road, certain ingredients didn’t travel well. And jewelry or fine goods made you a target for bandits.

Here, within the safety of the city, you could be any type of trader you wanted. You just still weren’t sure what niche you wanted to be.

But your general goods were exactly what these two were looking for. And your eyes widened in surprise when they asked to buy your entire stock of your basic ingredients.

“I know it’ll put you out, but we’ll pay you an extra sum on top of the sale. Our next shipment of this isn’t for another week, and we have so many commissions coming in for cold remedies.” The man said. Already pulling out a large coin purse from his belt. “And you’ll be doing us a huge favor. If you need anything-”

“It’s a deal.” You said, waving away the man’s pleading stare. “We’ve got to look after each other after all. I was going to offer a discount since you’re buying such a large amount.”

The bell over your door chimed and you shifted behind your counter so you could see around the couple. A young woman shuffled into the store. Her eyes looked around the shelves with interest and a thin cloak was wrapped around her shoulders.

“I’ll be with you in a moment!” You called out to the woman. Seeming to startle her. But she smiled, it felt a little forced, and moved deeper into your store. Her eyes darted around and then back to you.

You were about to say something else when the potion’s woman handed you a sum of coins. “I insist. I know how frustrating it can be to be out of stock. Particularly ingredients like this. Please, take the extra sum. You’re doing us a huge favor with-”

The woman’s partner glanced over his shoulder as the woman at the back moved quickly towards the door. Her shoulders were hunched as she braced for the cold water to hit her as she opened the door.

“Hey! You, wait!” He shouted but the woman was already sprinting out the door. Almost slipping on the wet pavement outside. The potion’s man swore and handed his partner the purse. “That girl is the one who stole from us last week. Get the guards!”

Before you could react, the man was barreling out of your store and charging out into the rain. His partner seemed just as surprised as you but quickly pocketed the purse and looked at you.

“Do you have a way to summon the guards directly here?” You shook your head. Your heart was pounding in your chest. “I have one in my store. I’ll go call them. See if you can find out if that woman stole anything from you. I’ll be right back.”

The woman left her crate of goods behind as she hurried out of your shop. You were quick to follow, but went to where you last saw the woman browsing.

Your eyes flew from object to object. Taking note of any spots that seemed to have shifted or had missing stock.

Everything seemed fine. Until you noticed your small display of wands had been touched. These weren’t like the wands that witches and warlocks used. But temporary magical items that did various things depending on their make.

You had ordered these as a step into selling magical merchandise. To see how well they sold here. Kids adored the ones that created bubbles of light. And a few people purchased the design that acted as a quill that would write for you without you touching it.

You had recently restocked the display with other types. And there were two that were missing.

One was a water-make. Which either made water or removed it. Not enough to drain a lake or a pool, but a few buckets could be filled or emptied if needed.

And the second was a fire starter. Which spat sparks that would harmlessly bounce off of skin or clothes, but would light a small fire on even the most water-bogged logs or extinguish it.

You sighed. Already understanding why these particular items were stolen.

You’ve dealt with enough desperate people to know when it was necessity and not greed that pushed a person to steal.

You bit your lip. These wands weren’t expensive and were cheap stock to order.

Maybe if I’m quick I can stop the potions woman from calling the guards. You thought. But then you reminded yourself that the woman who stole from you, had also stolen from them. And over the first few months of owning and stocking this store, you’ve had more than your fair share of robberies and stolen items. If word got out that you let a person steal from you, this could spiral into something worse.

The best you could do for them was not press charges if the person is found.

You sighed again. Heavier than the last and moved through your store to get your cloak.

But on your way to the back, past a small lock-box display of jewelry, you noticed the glass lid had been pried open. The magical seal had been expertly dispelled and one of your silver rings, one that created a bubble of small protection, was missing.

You swore under your breath. Disappointment flooding through you.

Now you had to continue with the guards and hope they found the person.

That ring was an expensive item. The enchantment was a common one, but the ring amplified the bubble to be the size of a house. Something that was incredibly hard to do and would have taken alot of material to make such an enchantment safe and usable.

Hence why it was in a lock-box, under magical protection, and worth a decent sum of coins. Another one of your stretches into unknown territory with sales and items.

It was nothing so expensive that it would put a target on your store. But it was one of your pricier items, one that a customer had been eyeing off last time they passed through.

“They just had to steal that.” You grumbled. Slapping the lid back down on the lock-box. The seal buzzed as the box was closed again, letting you know the magic was once again activated. You gave it an experimental tug on the lid and when it didn’t open, without your key, you were happy enough to leave it.

You retrieved your cloak from the back of the shop and exited your store. Making sure the door was locked and hurried down the street to the potions store.

You were near drenched when you slipped into the two story building. But the moment your foot stepped over the threshold, you were flooded with warmth and your clothes tickled with magic that left you dry and comfortable.

You definitely needed that enchantment on your front door.

From behind the many shelves, the potions woman appeared, looking flustered as she hurried towards you. “The guards are on their way. Did that wretched thing take anything?”

“Some low magic wands and an enchanted ring.” You grimaced. “I don’t care for the wands, so much. But that ring is expensive. As long as I get that back, I’ll let it slide.”

The woman scoffed and gestured for you to follow her, leading you to the back of the store where a pot of tea and some small biscuits were waiting. “That woman stole two potions of healing and an iron-bark elixir from us. I know times are tough. And the potions were only small portions, not worth alot. But the iron-bark elixir is a very slow and ingredient heavy process. We can only make so many a month and they're in high demand with the guards and travelers. If she only stole the potions, we wouldn’t have pushed so hard to find her. But the elixir alone can fix us up for an entire month.”

Your eyes widened. “Those elixirs are that expensive?”

“Ours are, yes.” The woman said, a little proudly, as she poured you a cup of tea. “Ours doesn’t just give you thick skin and more strength, we’ve perfected a way that the aftereffect of the elixir doesn’t put you in a bed for a day. It’ll affect you for a few hours at best after you use the elixir but unlike our competitors iron-bark, you can get up and get ready for the day after a good night’s sleep.”

You whistled in appreciation for such craftsmanship. “That’s incredible. I can understand why she would try to take it then. Sell it off for some quick coin.”

The woman nodded. Sipping her tea after putting some honey in it and stirring. “I grew up very poor. I used to steal bread and clothes to get by. But stealing potions like ours? You put yourself at such risk for it. Even your ring! The wands can be overlooked. But something like that is just…silly.”

You stirred some honey into your own cup and allowed the conversation to fall away as you sipped. Thankfully, the potions man appeared in the doorway. Looking winded and red faced. “I couldn’t find her. The damn woman gave me the slip.”

“Better you don’t approach her, love.” The woman said, with a soft smile. “Let the guards deal with her. They’re on their way.”

The man nodded. Taking a deep breath that his body obviously needed. He looked at you and offered a smile. “I’m sorry I couldn’t catch her. Did she steal anything?”

You explained the stolen stock and the man tsked. Muttering about the lack of respect for shopkeepers; “Especially one such as yourself. You’re just starting out! I recall my first few years as a storekeeper, my Gods, the ledger was never full enough. And every piece of missing stock was precious.”

You nodded, chuckling along with the man as he shook his head. “Well, at least our sale will help me out until I can get a replacement or the ring is found. I’ll bring the stock over once we’ve spoken with the guards. I didn’t think to bring it over just now.”

The two waved you off. Saying they trust you enough to not skip their deal because of a distraction like this.

The three of you chatted idly while you waited for the guards to arrive.

And when they did, you immediately recognized three amongst them.

One was a tall elf woman by the name of Yesrie. Dark hair with sharp eyes but a warm smile.

The second was a human man named Smith. You never got his first name because everyone called him by his second. He had been in his first year in the Guard when you arrived; eager to help and prove himself, he had taken your reports on missing items like a personal attack. And hunted them down like he was the one who owned them.

Then the third, the Guard Captain’s right hand, Briar. A green lizardman built like a stone barn. They were a stoic type of individual. Had a sharp tongue when it came to humbling their guards but professional when it came to their work.

They all greeted you a little more warmly than they did with the pair beside you.

Your first few months here allowed you to become quite friendly with the Guard. Not by any intent of your own, but your new store in town got more attention than you bargained for. And not in a good way. Stolen merchandise meant the Guard got involved. And it happened so often within a few weeks that the Guard Captain had stepped in.

And with that sort of attention watching your store, the thieves dissipated quickly.

“(Y/N), why am I not surprised your shop was involved?” Briar asked, crossing their arms over their armor plated chest. Their iron gauntlets clinked against the metal. “I had hoped that the call meant a different store.”

You shrugged, sighing dramatically. “It wouldn’t be a Thursday without something of mine going missing.”

Smith and Yesrie laughed. Briar’s reptilian face rarely showed much emotion other than a hard stare. But you glimpsed their scaly lips twitch in amusement.

“Indeed. You know the drill, then. What happened? Every little detail, as you know, helps us out.”

You explained the events that transpired within your store. Explaining why the potion-store owners were involved, which gave them a chance to explain how they recognized the person who stole from you.

Briar nodded along, taking in everything you said. Yesrie commented they were the guard that took the potion store’s report and that this thief was targeting many stores in the district, not just a few.

Smith was writing down notes in a small notebook that was the size of his palm. Asking the usual questions like the woman’s hair color or description. Which you had to let the potion shop owners answer, because you didn’t really take notice of the woman.

Then when you got to the descriptions of the stolen items, Briar’s tail twitched in irritation. Nothing directed at you, you found out. “Well, that complicates things. Stolen magical items of significant power require a formal report issued by the owner. Meaning, (y/n), you’re gonna have to go to the Guard House and fill one out.”

You groaned in annoyance. You had to fill out a report once before. It took forever. And you really didn’t feel like going across the district to the Guard House in this weather.

But if you want that ring back, or at least be compensated for its loss, you’ll need to go.

“I’m guessing I’ll need the paperwork I received for purchasing the item to sell?” You asked and Briar nodded.

“Proof of purchase or the license which came with the item. Anything that has the item’s description and magic detailed alongside your ownership. And it’s something you need to do at the House, too. We can’t issue you one, since you need a scribe to sign off on it and witness you filling it out.”

“All that for a magical item?” The potions woman scoffed. “Damn, I’m happy we never got into that side of the business.”

You wish you could agree with her. But you were definitely going to make an adjustment to your stock and protection so you didn’t have to go through this again.

“Alright. Thank you for your time. Sorry you had to march through this weather for my store again.” You said. And Yesrie shrugged, glancing out the window as another flash of lightning lit up the dim street outside.

“The weather makes you appreciate the sunny days more. We’ll see you at the House, (y/n).” Yesrie replied. And the guards took their leave.

You soon followed suit. Promising the potion owners you would bring their merchandise around soon. But they waved you off. Telling you to deal with the reports and the guards first before worrying about them.

You were beginning to really appreciate them. And made sure to lower the price on anything the two needed in any later deals.

Back inside your shop you made quick work of finding the needed documents that involved any transaction or information of the ring.

Which you then wrapped up in a leather satchel that was worn and aged from many years on the road. An old trusty item you’ve carried with you everywhere before placing it in the drawer of your new work desk.

It would protect the documents from the rain and keep them nice and flat while you trekked the stormy streets.

You wrapped yourself up in as much water-proof clothing as you could. Your cloak was your best chance at keeping yourself dry but watching the sky still bucket down torrents of water, you doubted you’d stay warm for long.

As long as the documents were safe, you could endure the rain.

And walking through the streets was just about as miserable as you expected. You stuck to any type of cover you could as you walked. Storefront canopies or trees that were planted along the paths. The thunder felt like it was roaring directly in your ear as you braced against the chilling wind.

You wrapped your cloak tightly around you and pulled your hood down so low over your face you could only see the pavement in front of you.

Every glance up at where you were going was a risk of cold water trickling down your neck and into your warm clothes.

You zigged and zagged through the district until you came upon the large stone steps of the Guard House. The House itself was huge! Meant to house many of the district's officers and their cadets. This one also doubled as a school for fresh-faced persons looking to become a guard.

As you climbed the steps to the door, you could hear someone yelling at said cadets beyond the stone wall that secluded the training yards from the streets.

You grimaced at the thought of training in such weather.

As you stepped through the doors, the same magic from the potion shop passed over your clothes. However, this enchantment felt like it was spluttering. Parts of you were left dry while other sections were left merely damp.

You were warmer than before you stepped inside but your fingers still felt icy as you approached the receptionist at the desk.

You greeted them warmly and explained what you needed to fill out. And the receptionist motioned for you to walk down a hallway and then turn right, which would lead you to the scribes that would help you out.

You thanked her and headed in your pointed direction.

The House was bustling with activity. You passed many guards through the halls, swathed in armor and weapons. A few scribes hurried by and you even made room for a woman with a mean looking hound to pass you in the hall.

She thanked you as she kept the beast on a short leash. The hound didn’t pay you any mind so you knew it was more for your sense of space than the dog’s.

But you found the scribe room easily enough and the man behind the desk went through the process of the report.

It was a long document too. With a handful of pages that you needed to fill out and agree too. The scribe looked equally annoyed with the prospect, apparently he needed to go over it and sign off as you went. It would take time out of both of your afternoon’s. But he took you to the side to a desk so you could sit comfortably and fill it out.

Excusing himself and asking you to call him over when you got to a particular section before moving on through the document.

You hoped the scribe didn’t think your agitation was directed at him as you sighed and sat down. But you got to work, reading over the lengthy questions and paragraphs with a quill in your hand.

A few minutes later, Briar entered the room and went to the scribe desk, speaking softly. When the scribe nodded and disappeared through a door, their eyes passed over you once before snapping back as they spotted you. They came over to greet you. Their tail dripped a little with rainwater. “Ah, it’s good to see someone with initiative. You got here quickly.” Briar said, leaning against another desk to your left.

“Better to get it out of the way now than later.” You shrugged. “You wouldn’t have happened to stumble across my thief with my ring by chance? So I don’t have to do this?” You asked, hopefully. But Briar shook their head.

That twitch pulled at their scaly lips again as a hissing chuckle whistled through their sharp teeth.

“If only we were that lucky. I have to do my own paperwork about it, as well. I envy you. I’d rather do your documents than my own.” Like the scribe was summoned, he appeared and placed a thick folder of paper on the front desk. Briar thanked him gruffly and went over to scoop it up. Grumbling as he showed you the thickness of the folder. “See. No complaining from you about lengthy reports. I will probably beat you on every account.”

You laughed and nodded. “I do feel a little better about my report now. Thanks.”

“Here to help. Enjoy.” Briar said with a curt nod before leaving the room.

You refocused your attention on the documents in front of you. Calling over the scribe when he didn’t look too busy once you got up to the section he requested.

And while he looked over what you wrote and ensured everything was in order, you let your gaze wander. The scribe hall looked like a bustling library. Desks and chairs were scattered about the room. And behind the front desk were many, many towering shelves of books and scrolls.

Scribes appeared and disappeared behind each corridor of paper. Some carried in armfuls of paper or were discussing something with a guard.

It was all very busy here. But the chatter was rather quiet. You wondered if there was some sort of magic that kept the sound of the hustle and bustle at a low range.

“Scribe Harry, I was told that- Oh, (y/n), what are you doing here?” Your attention snapped to the door of the hall as your name was voiced.

Guard Captain Aram strolled over to where you were sitting. Making your heart skip a beat when he leaned over the back of your chair to inspect the report.

Aram was an orc with a heavy green complexion that contrasted the pale patches of skin on his body caused by vitiligo. His blonde hair was tied back in uniform to the neat standards of the Guard.

His tusks curved out from his lower lip, decorated by silver caps on the blunt tips. His thick arms were wrapped in thick leather that slid under a heavy metal chest piece with the Guard’s symbol carved into the steel. The patches on his shoulders displayed his rank, if the better armor and air of authority didn’t already display it.

“I was robbed again.” You sighed. Pushing down the sudden rush of nervousness as you turned your attention to the captain. “A magical item this time. Briar came and sorted it out and told me to come here.”

Aram’s brows knitted together and you could have sworn you saw a spark of amusement light in those beautiful emerald eyes. Before the stoic expression of a guard captain fell back into place. “Ah, yes, the grand paperwork involved with magic. I thought you said you wanted to keep simple stock for a time.”

You nodded. Having to pause your answer to thank the scribe as he pushed the report back to you to continue writing. “Yes. But a friend of mine had some stock they couldn’t move in the settlement nearby. So, I took it off their hands.”

“And then someone decided to take it from yours.” Aram said. He glanced over at the scribe as he moved some dropped off paperwork into the shelves behind him. “Hmm, this will go quicker if I take over for the scribes. The poor bastards have had their hands full recently.” Then Aram called out to the scribe nearby, Harry, who looked relieved when Aram explained he’d be taking over witnessing you finish the report.

“Do you mind if we do this in my office? The magic in here makes my ears ache.” Aram asked. And when you nodded, Aram escorted you through the building to his office. Which you had been in once before when Aram had taken over the investigation of why your store was being targeted so frequently.

He closed the door behind you and you took the offered seat in front of his desk. Which he then slid your seat closer to the desk and made space on the surface for you to start the next section of the report.

He moved your chair so effortlessly with you in it that it made your stomach flip a little giddily. But you hid your smile as you busied yourself with reading over the next section.

“I was recently thinking about you. And, uh, the reports you had to make on your store.” Aram said rather quickly, fiddling with some papers on his desk. “It’s been a while since your last break in. I thought my trick did the job, to be honest.”

“For a while it did.” You agreed. Pausing to write down the description of the ring. “The extra patrols you had around the place seemed to scare them off. And gave me enough time to better the security of my shop. I still spot Smith on occasion in the area. But he always seems busy. I hope you’re not working him too hard.”

Aram chuckled. Picking up a quill of his own and scribbling over some papers on his desk. “The boy is fine. He’s eager for the work. But, uh…” You tore your eyes off the paperwork long enough to see why Aram didn’t finish his sentence.

His eyes were narrowed and his lips were pursed in a poor attempt at looking angry, looking over your head to the windows behind you.

You turned your head. And you caught a glimpse of something quickly darting out of view of the office. The room was enclosed but anyone in the hallways had a clear view of you sitting at Aram’s desk. The Guard Captain grumbled and stood, clearing his throat as he flicked a small switch and curtains fell down over the windows leading to the corridor outside.

“Nosy bastards.” You heard Aram mutter. But you pretended not to hear him as he returned to his seat and continued working on whatever was in front of him. “I was going to say he wanted to be set in that district. Apparently, his aunt lives around there.”

“Aww, that’s sweet of him. I’ll be sure to annoy him any chance I get when I see him.” You said, refocusing on the paper in front of you. You reached the next spot the scribe had told you to call for him and offered the papers to Aram.

Who went over the report swiftly and then handed it back to you after he signed off on the part he needed too.

“A ring of protection, huh? That didn’t move at your friend's establishment?” Aram asked, surprised. And you shook your head, writing as you responded.

“Their town was going through a drought. Which is probably being washed downriver right now with this rain. But no one had the money to purchase a ring like that. I offered to buy it off them and then give them a percentage if I manage to sell it. We used to travel together before they bought their store. They helped me get my place. Since I had no idea how to purchase property.”

Aram made a thoughtful noise, watching you as you worked. “Why didn’t you buy a place outside the city? Probably would have been cheaper. And also get you a better place than that splinter shack.”

“Hey, that’s my splinter shack you’re insulting.” You playfully snapped. Which made the Guard Captain laugh. “But I wanted to try the city. I’ve never stayed in one for long. And I thought a change of lifestyle would be refreshing.”

“And is it refreshing?” Aram asked.

You paused to look up at him, smiling. “Well, the people are much more interesting.” You let the sentence hang in the air for a touch longer before continuing. “And there’s always something happening here. And the food! Oh my Lords, I’ve never had such a wide variety of food always available. Every morning I get a fresh coffee with a freshly baked bun. A much better change than living off of dried meats and stale bread with cheese.”

Aram grinned at that. His eyes seemed to sparkle in the candlelight. “So, you think you’ll stay here for good then. This string of robberies hasn’t scared you off?”

You scoffed lightly and shook your head. “I’ve fought off armed bandits and kobolds from my goods before. A few hooded figures isn’t going to scare me off. I’ve gotten too comfortable sleeping in an actual bed now to give it up.”

Your words seemed to widen Aram’s smile. “Well, good to hear. The city always needs more good people like you in it. It would be a shame to see you go.”

Something in the way Aram spoke made your pulse quicken. Or maybe how his fingers brushed over your hand as you handed him the documents again for him to look over.

Either way, you were suddenly very aware of how little room there was between the two of you. Even if the desk was large enough to sit such a big man behind it, it felt like Aram was close enough to touch.

And as you took back the paperwork, you thought it was silly of you to think that he was putting his hand directly so that your fingers brushed over his.

It didn’t stop you from feeling how warm his hand was. Nor notice how much larger his hand was compared to yours.

You felt your cheeks flush with heat and you tried very hard to concentrate on the papers in front of you.

It still took an hour to go over everything, but you managed to finish the documents required. Aram took it upon himself to file it away as soon as possible. And asked you a few more questions about the robbery before opening the door of his office for you.

“I’ll be in touch in a few days.” Aram said, leaning against the doorframe. “If we find anything, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Thank you for your time, Captain Aram.” You said and then added jokingly. “And I’ll be sure to let you know if something else goes missing from my store.”

Aram laughed. “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.” Then he glanced to one of the nearby windows as a crash of thunder sounded overhead “Have you got a way of getting back to your store? It’s still pouring outside.”

You grimaced and a shiver ran over you at the thought of the walk back. It was later in the afternoon now. The sun wouldn’t be set yet, but with the dark clouds overhead and closing to sunset, it was already pretty dark outside.

“No. It’s not that far of a walk, though. I’ll be fine.” You lied. And knew Aram would know this was your attempt at being polite and not complaining.

Aram’s warm smile dimmed and he shook his head. “I’m not having you walk home in this. I’ll get someone to drive you back.”

Your eyes widened and you tried to make an excuse that would justify not needing a driver. But Aram caught sight of Smith walking past and called him over.

“Yes, Captain?” Smith said as he approached. Looking between you and Aram worriedly.

“Get a carriage and drive (y/n) back to her store. And no side stops on your way back, got it.” Aram said, his voice harsh with authority as Smith’s confusion turned into something close to amused glee. He nodded and then looked at you.

“Your chariot is this way, ma’am.” He said with a little more bravado than needed. And you looked at Aram with a joking glare.

“You’re really going to subject me to this?” You asked. And Aram’s stern facade broke with a smile.

“I’d rather not hear that you got washed away by a river on your way home. Get her home safe, Smith.” Aram said before closing the door and leaving you to a beaming Smith as you followed him through the House.

“So, what did you and the Captain talk about in there?” Smith asked. Wiggling his shoulders in a teasing manner as he led you out into an enclosed barn connected to the Guard House. Where a carriage was currently being connected to two brown horses.

“He was overseeing the report I needed to fill out about the ring.” You explained. Ignoring the tiny flush of embarrassment that crawled up your neck. “The scribes were busy and he had time.”

Smith blew a harsh breath out of his lips. “Puh-lease, the Captain never has time.” And then so quietly you almost missed it. “But that seems to change for you.”

You chose to ignore him and wait by the House doors while Smith spoke with the person hooking the animals up. He then waved you over and opened the carriage door for you.

“My Lady.” He bowed his head and you tsked playfully at him.

“Stop that. It’s embarrassing enough as it is. Being escorted back home by a guard.” You mumbled as you climbed inside. Which got you a laugh from Smith.

“Come on, enjoy it! How many times have you been safely escorted home like the rich folk? Beat on the roof if you need me to stop for anything, alright?”

Smith closed the door once you were comfortably seated and you heard him clamber onto the front of the carriage.

The carriage itself wasn’t anything extravagant. The seats were plush enough to stop you from sitting on hard wood and there was enough space to fit four people.

It still felt a bit excessive for only you to be in here. But at least you weren’t going to be walking in the rain.

Your body lurched a little as Smith urged the horses into moving. And soon enough the carriage was filled with the deafening roar of rain pelting the roof above you.

You felt bad for Smith sitting up front. You had glimpsed a small canopy over the driver's seat. But that would be very little protection against the storm as it whipped around him outside.

You sighed. Relaxing against the seat as you glanced through the fogged window to the passing streets.

They were mostly empty. Apart from a few store fronts preparing to close for the afternoon. And some carriages that trotted past.

You haven’t gotten to experience a carriage ride in the city yet. You’ve been so busy with the store that any luxuries you usually would have gotten with your money were forgotten. Or spent on the store itself.

It was kind of peaceful watching the city pass you by.

You would definitely be sending another bakery basket to Aram for this. He had enjoyed the first one you sent after he helped keep your store safe last time.

I’m not having you walk home in this.

His words bounced around in your head like an endless echo. And you found yourself smiling.

And the way he had put his hand in the path of yours? It made your heart skip just thinking about it.

You shook your head. Trying to scatter the thoughts that were attempting to wriggle into your mind.

“Oh, stop it.” You sighed to yourself. “He’s just making sure you’re safe. That’s his job after all.”

You knew you wanted it to be a lie the moment you said it.

But you refused to think of any other reason that Aram would be doing this. You didn’t need something like that in your life just yet. You were busy as it was.

But…A small voice whispered. You definitely need something like him. Even only for a night or two.

Your cheeks burned as the thoughts spiraled and you shook your head again. Refusing to let those thoughts get any more traction than they already have.

It…has been a long time. But you were a business woman now. You had more important things at this moment than scratching that itch. Once the store was a little more organized and things calmed down, then maybe, maybe, you’d think about it.

You sat in your hurricane of a mind as Smith drove through your district and finally came to a stop just outside your store.

You went to open the door but Smith was already there. Drenched from head to toe but all smiles, bowing his head dramatically.

“My Lady! A pleasant ride, I hope.”

“Oh my Gods, you poor thing. Get back as quickly as you can before you catch a cold.” You gasped as you slipped out of the carriage. Hurrying to the safety of your store front.

“I’m fine. Get inside! I’ll let the Captain know you’re safely at your castle.” Smith called over the rain. And you didn’t even bother retorting, merely stuck out your tongue at him as you waved him off.

You heard him laugh and watched through your store windows as the carriage pulled away and disappeared into the heavy sheets of rain.

~*~

A few days later, the bell over your door chimed as someone entered. You called out to the customer that you’d be with them shortly and finished what you were doing in the back before greeting them behind your counter.

“Aram!” You beamed as the Guard Captain approached you. “What a surprise! Good news? Or bad news?”

Aram made a face like he was deciding, jokingly clicking his tongue as he leaned his arms on your counter. Crossing them over each other and coming down to your eye height.

“Which do you want first?” He asked.

You pursed your lips, hopelessly ignoring how Aram’s gaze flicked to your mouth before returning to your eyes as you said, “Good news first.”

“We found the woman who stole your items. Your ring is being processed and looked over to ensure it hasn’t been tampered with. It’ll take a few days to get back to you.”

You sighed with relief. “That’s good. But…the bad news?”

Aram’s grin made his eyes crinkle adorably as he shuffled his weight on his feet. He cleared his throat and it felt like he was forcing his gaze to stay on you. “The bad news is that I lost a bet involving the case. And you unfortunately will be put on the spot as I ask you out to dinner.” He cleared his throat again and stood at attention in front of you. Your heart pounded in your chest as he swallowed hard and said. “Would you like to go out to dinner with me?”

It was almost adorable at how worried Aram looked as you stared up at him. And it was even more so when relief washed over his expression as you nodded.

Before you realized you were even replying, you had said yes. You laughed sheepishly, shaking your head. “You lost a bet and you were forced to ask me out to dinner?”

“I wouldn’t say forced. That makes it sound like I didn't want to.” Aram replied. Scratching the back of his neck, under the thick braid of blonde hair. “I want to take you to dinner. I have for a bit now. I just…things got in the way and I wasn’t sure if you would be interested in me and…I’m sorry. I’m rambling.” He cleared his throat again. “This is me asking you to dinner, sincerely.”

“What would have happened if you didn’t?” You asked.

“Probably be called a coward by my men.” Aram replied. “Or someone would have done it for me, I’m sure. Or somehow talked you into asking me out. I don’t know. They’re very nosy. Very much like a bunch of highschoolers.”

“But they gave you an opening to ask me out to dinner. So, I would forgive them.” You said with a chuckle. And Aram visibly relaxed with the sound. “When would you like to set this dinner? I’m free most afternoons. I’m sure it’s your schedule we have to work around.” You said teasingly. And Aram nodded.

“I’ll free up my night next Friday, if that’s ok with you? I know it’s a while away but this week is choked up with work already.” When you nodded, Aram’s smile broadened and your body became heated under his sparkling gaze. You both discussed a place to eat, but since you rarely went out other than cafes and small take-away establishments, Aram promised he’d surprise you with a brilliant place to dine. “I’ll pick you up around seven? If the rain hasn’t stopped by then, I’ll bring a carriage around for us to use.”

You sarcastically rolled your eyes, “Please do not make Smith drive us. That was torture last time.”

Aram laughed but shook his head. “No, no. I won’t be letting those vultures anywhere near our dinner. I promise.”

Once you confirmed again the time and date, Aram excused himself, having to continue his patrol around the district. And the moment he left, your heart soared with excitement at the thought of dinner with Aram.

~*~

Friday couldn’t come any quicker.

The rest of the week fell into a snail like pace, dragging day and night until the morning of your dinner date with Aram.

The rain didn’t subside. Most of the city was now flooded or close to it.

You had braced your store for the worst. Purchasing new tables with waterproofing and protective surfaces, so if the water started to rise and your store was flooded, at least some of your merchandise would be saved.

Coincidentally, as you were unloading the transport carriage that had said furniture, three city guards came over to help unload them.

You didn’t know any of them, but you thought it was sweet that some passing guards saw you and the transport man struggling to move a table, and decided to help.

But that seemed to become a pattern over the course of the week leading to Friday.

You saw more guards than usual in the district and some greeted you as if you knew them. Smith came over to you whenever you were out. Conversing until he needed to leave for his patrol and you needed to return to the shop.

Briar dropped by and returned the ring to you. They was a lot more friendly than the prior meetings you had with them. They actually cracked a few jokes with you.

You finally caved when Yesrie just happened to be in the area on Friday morning. Popping by with a coffee for you. “Are all of you around here because I’m going out with Aram?” You asked. And Yesrie was terrible at feigning ignorance, even if she was joking the entire time she replied.

“You’re going out with my captain? That’s amazing! I didn’t know at all.”

You rolled your eyes and shooed her out of your store. Thanking her for the coffee and company before you needed to get to work.

But finally, the time came to close the store and begin getting ready for your date.

You chose something simple to wear but something to also make you look downright gorgeous. Being in the city had its perks and the ample amount of shops around allowed you to browse and pick something amazing for yourself.

You had half the thought it could be a touch overdressed, but you weren’t sure where Aram was taking you. And you did look good in it! So you wrestled down the nerves and waited for Aram to arrive.

You kept your hands busy with small things in your shop before a heavy knock sounded on your front door.

You quickly opened the door for Aram and he stepped inside wrapped in a thick cloak and hood sprinkled by the rain.

“Damn, look at you, (y/n).” Aram beamed. His eyes didn’t seem to know where to look. They definitely lingered along your chest and hips, but respectfully flicked up to hold your gaze very quickly when he caught himself staring. “I feel a little underdressed now.”

You glimpsed his attire beneath the cloak. Dark dress pants with a deep brown shirt that hugged his large frame snugly. He had decorative leather bracers along his wrists and his hair was neatly bundled up in a collection of braids. Each had small trinkets adorning the strands.

“Nonsense,” You said a little breathlessly. Have you ever seen this man out of uniform? “You look very dashing.”

Your words made his smile crinkle his eyes and he opened his cloak up to you. Nodding to the carriage waiting outside. “I forgot to bring you an umbrella.”

“Ah, yes. I also don’t own one.” You said, hoping the way you moved up beside him didn’t seem too eager.

And you absolutely had an umbrella. But you were not going to miss an opportunity to snugly press yourself against Aram.

Once you were standing against his side, Aram lowered his arm enough that the cloak surrounded you almost entirely. A sweet scent wafted off of him to you and you shivered as your arm brushed against his side.

He was so warm!

Together you exited the store, halting long enough to lock the front and then quickly dash to the carriage. Where a driver was waiting in the rain to open the door for the two of you.

You felt utterly terrible for the man. But as you clambered into the carriage, you caught a glimpse of your driver.

An automaton. A being made of metal and mechanical parts bowed their head as you greeted them. Their clothes were drenched but they didn’t seem to mind as Aram joined you in the carriage, taking the seat next to you, and the automaton closed the door behind him.

“Did you hire a driver for tonight?” You asked. Baffled by the beautiful interior of the carriage. It was much fancier than the one Smith drove you in. And the rain didn’t thunder the roof in this one. You could barely hear it as Aram responded.

“No. This is my carriage. Anthony out there works for me.” Aram said this as if it was a normal occurrence for someone to have an automaton driver. Or their own fancy carriage.

You tried not to balk at his words. Instead made room for him to remove the damp cloak and fold it on the seat across from the both of you.

“I didn’t know being a Guard Captain paid so well.” You teased. Watching Aram as he adjusted his shirt and ensured his bracers were still correctly placed on his wrists. There was a slight scruff along his cheeks and he had replaced the silver caps on his tusks with gold ones.

Damn, he dressed up nice.

Aram smiled and your heart shuddered when he winked at you. “It also pays to have been a successful adventurer beforehand.”

Your eyes widened and Aram laughed as you said, “Wait, you haven’t been a stuck up captain all your life?” Though your words were sarcastic, you couldn’t help but be impressed. “To be honest, I wouldn’t have guessed that was your past. Maybe a soldier of some kind? But not an adventurer.”

“You’d be amazed at how many guards of mine are retired adventurers or travelers looking to settle down. I knew the old captain before he retired. It sped up my promotions, I’ll admit, but I proved myself just like everyone else.” Aram admitted. Relaxing against the plush back seat of the carriage. “Chasing down burglars and walking the streets at night is a much better alternative to dungeon crawling.”

You hummed in agreement. “I do not miss the cold nights or falling asleep hungry. But there was definitely a charm to traveling that the city doesn’t have.”

It was Aram’s turn to agree with a grunt. “I do occasionally miss having the time and freedom to do whatever I want. But I wouldn’t give up my position for anything. Least of all, leave my Guards behind just to go treasure hunting.”

You caught a light twinkling in Aram’s eyes as he spoke. And his smile curled warmly at the corners. It was no secret that Aram was as loyal as any to the Guard, but there was definitely a type of kinship between them all as well.

“That does remind me,” You said, tilting your head teasingly at Aram. “Did you order more guards to patrol my district? I keep tripping over them everytime I leave the shop.”

Aram didn’t look surprised, but he didn’t look pleased about what you said either. “Ah, I was wondering why some of them took longer to return after their patrols.” You waited for Aram to say something else. And when he didn’t, you set a pointed stare on him, urging him to continue whatever thought was bouncing around in his head. Aram chuckled with a half roll of his eyes. “Alright, alright. This is a little embarrassing, but I believe they’re keeping an eye on you for me. On their own accord. I haven’t ordered anymore than the usual patrols in your district. But since…well, they’re a loyal lot and they want to make sure you’re safe.”

You laughed. It made sense why you saw Smith and Yesrie more than anyone else on your streets. “All because you asked me out to dinner?”

“Well…not just because of dinner. But that’s a conversation for later.” Aram said sheepishly. And he expertly changed the subject to your store and how it was faring in the weather. You let the conversation be swept into other topics, but you definitely would hold onto that little kernel of a question for later.

The ride through the city took a little longer than you expected. But soon, the streets outside transformed into a string of establishments on the docks. And the carriage was taken through a route that ran along the rough, crashing oceanside.

The beach looked absolutely ruined from the harsh tides. And the dark gloomy horizon was nothing more than a black screen of storm clouds.

Despite the rain, the street itself was bustling with activity. Lights illuminated the roads brilliantly in warm orange. And all along the sidewalk were canopies and large overhanging roofs to give shelter to the patrons that walked by.

Your carriage was taken to a restaurant that had a grand glass ceiling and a large balcony with many tables seated beneath it. Your table was directly next to the balcony edge, where a shield of magic protected you and Aram from the torrent of rain slashing down from above.

And you found yourself pleasantly warm as Aram pushed in your chair as you took your seat. The business must have heating enchantments placed around to keep their patrons comfortable.

“This place is lovely.” You said as your waiter passed you both a menu. Excusing themselves to give you time to look over their drink choice.

“It’s one of my favorite spots in the city. The ocean view usually is better, but I can at least trust the food will be good.” Aram explained, glancing over the railing to the harsh waves and dark waters. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all.” You quickly reassured him. “I’m just happy to have an excuse to go out. I’ve been putting off going out for dinner for a while. I don’t know alot of people here yet. I wouldn’t know where to start.``

“Well, I hope my choice becomes one of your favorites.” Aram smiled.

The conversation fell into a simple one of work. Aram asked more questions about your store while you prodded about his life in the Guard.

“Things have gotten better over the past few months.” Aram admitted, drawing idle circles on the condensation of his cup of mead. “But I’m sure…activities will pick up closer to the holiday season. I dread to think about that time of year. But it is at least never lacking on slow days.”

“I used to avoid cities during their festival seasons. As backwards as that is for a traveling merchant.” You said in return. “It always caused me more grief than coins. But I guess it’s unavoidable now that I have a permanent spot here.”

~~~~To Be Continued Because my brain is stuck~~~~~~

As always, feedback or suggestions are welcome!!

#monster #monster x reader #monster lover #monster boyfriend #monster fucker #reader insert #monster writing #writing #male orc x female reader #orc x reader #male orc x reader #male monster x reader #orc boyfriend #fantasy #medieval au #work in progress

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lokis-army-77 · 2 years ago

Note

OK, so I know I *could* write this, but my WIPs are ridiculous, and you wrote Demon Eddie so well that he lives rent free in my head.

I was thinking Incubis Eddie, where reader thinks shes just having very horny dreams with this thing, and then he visits her when he thinks she's asleep but she's not...

Feel free to add your own flavours, or ignore this horny thot entirely up to you babe x

Hunger

Incubus!Eddie Munson x fem reader

Word Count: 2k

A demon awaits you in your room when you arrive home from a night out.

Warning: 18 +. multiple orgasms, some licking (f reviving), fingering (vaginal and anal), CNC?, some hair pulling, blood.

And thank you to @lofaewrites for beta reading 💗

Masterlist

He had started showing up in the dark corners of your room only a month ago. It was after you had watched some horror movie with a friend and instead of being afraid like every normal person in the theater, you were turned on.

In the dreams you had of him, you weren't scared either even when he came into the light and bared his two rows of needle-sharp teeth, even when his horns made him appear taller and the wings stretching from his bare back made him look broader.

Each night he visited you was another wonderful exploration of your wants and desires. You couldn't get enough of him and when you woke only to find that the pleasure and the pain had all been a dream, you sulked to yourself as you missed the feel of those long, clawed fingers scratching at your skin.

You had come home way later than you usually would on a weeknight. Only coming through your front door at around three in the morning. A long-time friend of yours had gotten married and the reception had gone on longer than you would have liked. The bride and groom had left at around twelve but the party raged on without them. You called it quits when the ache in your feet could no longer be ignored and instead of conversation, all you could do was yawn.

Trudging through your front door you kick your shoes off and throw your bag onto the table in the entryway. You’re exhausted and all you want is to go to bed.

As you walk through your house, everything seems normal, until you flip the lights on in your bedroom. You freeze when you see it. A dark mass by the head of your bed bent over and pulling at the clumped-up sheets.

The creature whips around, its hair falling into its face as it growled. Its wings spread out to make itself look bigger and it bared its rows of sharp teeth. You take a step back, fear gripping onto you. But then, as you look at the strange form, you are met with a familiar feeling. This wasn’t a strange creature, no it was what visited you in your dreams.

Confusion fell over you then. He was just a dream. He wasn’t real so why were you seeing him in your room? You don’t remember falling asleep anywhere. Shaking your head, you pinch your arm, thinking it might wake you up like it does in the movies but all you feel is the sharp pain it brings to your forearm.

Cautiously, you take a step forward, hands out, showing the creature you didn’t intend to do anything rash. “Hello,” you speak softly. His eyes slit as he stares at you. “Uh.. what are you doing here?” You ask. He had never really talked to you in your dreams before but it didn't hurt to try.

“You aren’t supposed to be awake.” He answers, voice deep.

You take a deep breath. "What do you mean?" you ask.

He stares at you for a moment before he speaks again. "You know what I mean."

When he steps toward you, you step back, only to run into the door. Where there should have been a sense of dread, there was only a spark. A tingling sensation coiling up inside of you the closer he came.

He reaches out his hand, claw-like nails giving him a more sinister look, and brushes back the strands of your hair that had fallen out of the updo you had been wearing for the wedding. You shiver when you feel his nails tickle your skin.

You can feel your heart beating faster as he shuffles closer to you, his larch body towering over yours. A gasp leaves you when he unexpectedly grabs you and hoists you over his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Your voice wavers as he walks you over to the bed and throws you down. Your body bounces at the force and once you settle, you try to back away from him.

He huffs, frustrated. “You aren’t this much of a hassle when you’re sleeping.” He takes hold of your ankle and drags you back down the bed. You try to wriggle free, but he is too strong. He grabs the other ankle and pulls you towards him, trapping you between his body and the mattress. He presses his body against yours, his hands roaming over you.

You can’t help the flood of arousal that washes over you as you struggle against him. He’s smirking like this is a game to him and it’s only making you more flustered.

Leaning down, his lips press into yours and his tongue slips inside your mouth. It’s forked, just like in your dreams, but now, with what little he’s said, you wonder if they were really dreams at all.

The kiss is fierce, full of strong emotions and wandering hands. He tugs on your dress and you can hear the fabric beginning to tear. You try to pull away and to stop him but he’s so much stronger than you.

You feel the needle-sharp tips of his teeth nip you, drawing blood from your bottom lip. He laps it up, humming at the metallic taste. Your fingers drag lines over his back and sides as you fall deeper into the feral, primal instincts now controlling you.

His hardened length can be felt pressing into your thigh as he ruts into you. His kisses are rough and desperate, and you can feel his heart racing against yours as he pulls you closer. He whispers in your ear, "Let me take what I need and I will let you sleep.”

You’re nodding before you can stop yourself. The growing need for him is too much to resist now.

The creature hums, satisfied at your submission. Soon, your dress is finally ripped off of you, along with your undergarments. You are left completely bare to him, nipples pebbling in the cool air of your room and thighs snapping shut at being so exposed.

A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest and he’s quick to open your legs up. Long, deft fingers trail down your exposed skin, goosebumps coming up in their wake. He takes his time, coaxing you into a more relaxed state with gentle caresses and warm lips sucking marks into your skin.

“Ah.” A moan leaves you when you feel him bite at your collarbone. Tiny pinpricks that draw the smallest amount of blood. His tongue laved over the wound and he let out a groan.

His hand finally reaches between your legs and you let out a cry of relief when his thumb rubs over your clit. His other hand moves up to cup your breast, his fingers teasing your nipple. His mouth moves over your neck and he whispers in your ear, “You are so sensitive.” His fingers slid through the wetness faster over your clit.

Your hips move in tandem with his hand, bucking and writhing. He lets you take what you need. His fingers move faster still as you begin to moan and gasp. His other hand moves down to your hip and grips as your body jerks with each wave of pleasure. “Fuck-” you breathe. You can feel the all-too-familiar sensation pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“That’s it. Give it to me.” He whispers into your ear as your back arches and your toes curl.

Your breath hitches as your body tenses. Your voice breaks and you cry out in pleasure as you reach your peak. His grip tightens as you collapse onto the bed.

The creature moans into your neck and he keeps rubbing his fingers into you, slowly moving them down from your clit to circle around your soaking-wet entrance. You whimper in his strong grip.

“Please,” you gasp. He doesn’t stop, he pushes two of his fingers into you, pulling a wail from your lungs. You are clamping down around him, cunt practically sucking his fingers.

There are squelching sounds coming from the fluid motion of his fingers roughly bounding into you. Your pleas and moans accompany the sounds and it’s like music to the creature's ears.

He fingers you with abandon, pushing and pulling with force and speed. Your orgasm builds with each thrust of his fingers, your pleasure becoming more intense with each passing second. Your body goes rigid in his hold and as you cum for a second time.

“No more,” you mumble, spent and exhausted.

You hear him chuckle, “I’m not done with you, pet.”

When his fingers leave your used cunt, a whine leaves you at the loss and you feel yourself clamping down around nothing. He is turning you onto your stomach before you know it. Your head is buried in the sheets and your body lies like a board.

With closed eyes, you can only assume what he is doing behind you as you feel his body atop your own. Thick fingers push apart the fat of your ass to expose you. The tickle of his hair as he leans down to lick a thick stripe from your pussy to the tight ring of your ass makes you twitch, a small bit of exhausted laughter pushing through you.

He pulls back and you can feel his thumb toying with your ass, circling and pushing in just slightly. He has moved to his legs are on either side of your closed thighs. You can feel the hardness of his cock resting along the seam of where your legs meet. He’s hot and leaking pre-cum.

Wiggling your hips, you encourage him to keep going. He then guides his cock closer, pressing the tip through the sticky wetness and into your waiting pussy.

You moan into the bed at the stretch, hands gripping the sheets. He’s so big that he makes you feel so full without being completely inside you.

He keeps pushing into you, grunting and hissing at the feel of your cunt spasming around him. Once he is fully sheathed inside you he begins to piston his hips. In and out in and out. He’s fucking you at a brutal pace. Giving you pleasure but also taking what he wants from you.

His thumb is still circling your ass but as he keeps going, he finally pushes past your tight rim. You cry out into the open air of your bedroom. His thumb is thick and stretches you open where you have never been stretched before.

“Fuck, yes.” You mumble into the sheets below.

He grins. “You like that pet? Like when I use this pretty ass?”

You nod, hair tangling under your face as you do. “Yes, yes, yes.” It's the only word you can get out of your mouth.

Listening to your words he begins to thrust his thumb in and out of you at the same unwaveringly fast pace that his hips have set.

You can’t help the guttural groan you let out. It’s all becoming too much. So many sensations are filling your body, some familiar and others new. The strings of your orgasm have been pulled taut and are slowly breaking one by one. Your fists clench and your legs spasm. The creature reaches to your head and pulls on your hair at the base of your neck. Your head is forced up and with a half cry half moan, you cum around him as he releases thick stream after thick stream into you.

As he keeps himself buried within you, he leans down and bites at your ear before speaking. “I may have to visit you when you are awake again, pet. You take me so well.”

He pulls out and moves away, fast and unexpectedly, leaving you to drop, spent, and used on the bed. You turn slowly to look for him but your eyes find him nowhere in your room. It was empty, he had vanished into thin air.

Soon he will return, hunger no longer sated by the sexual energy that you have given him tonight.

#incubus!eddie munson #demon!eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson smut #fem reader #stranger things smut #stranger things x reader

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dirty-bosmer · 3 months ago

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Wip Wednesday

tagged by: @wispstalk @nuwanders @sulphuricgrin @skyrim-forever @heavy-metal-dick

tagging you all again if you haven't shared already and adding: @unironicallytes @elavoria @justafoxhound @ladytanithia @theoneandonlysemla @thequeenofthewinter @inkysqueed @sylvienerevarine @rustyram035 @kookaburra1701 @saltymaplesyrup @pocket-vvardvark @moriche

my smut got infected by a character study so upcoming chapter ft. Lucien reminiscing on life as Speaker and becoming better acquainted with his new Silencer, which will cause problems for no one, never. Also brief Arquen ref because I love and miss her <3

The remainder of the week brings more of the same. They eat together, work together, spar together. Idle hours spent in front of the fire, reading by themselves, alone but together. Lucien allows some sense of normalcy to find him amidst the working hours, taking comfort in the quiet rhythm, the predictability it supplies. In the months he’s been away, Fort Farragut has barely changed. The same faded wool tapestries drape along the walls, earthy scent of stone and beeswax greeting him every time he enters. In the evenings, his Silencer hangs in his periphery like a painting, and when he softens his gaze, she’s a faceless blur before the fire— could be anyone. It’s not so unlike the life he had as Speaker. Calmer. Familiar. The life he had before her. If only his duties as Listener didn’t chain him to Bravil... Lucien permits himself a thought so irreverent it borders on sacrilege, and though he scolds himself, swiftly sweeps it from his mind, he can’t stave off the plunging dread that fills him at the mere thought of returning home. They spend the late morning preparing the last batch of paralytics to bring to the Cheydinhal sanctuary. Speaker Arquen had offered to come to him, but Lucien can’t stand the thinly-veiled contempt in her eyes every time she visits Fort Farragut. No better than a managed skeever, she'll says with shake of her head and smirk too cold to be teasing, because Arquen hates this place even more than she hates his ramshackle house in Bravil, and it’s an impressive feat, all things considered. Lucien hates Bravil too. Ashamed to admit it, he wishes he liked Arquen more or that she liked him more; he’s unsure which. All he knows for certain is that she is the closest thing to family he has left. Ever since his ascent to Listener, he’s developed a begrudging reliance on her, just the two of them rebuilding the Dark Brotherhood from the ruins of Bellamont’s treachery, and despite the months spent toiling at each other’s side, he’s still not sure she trusts him fully. He’s not sure he trusts her either, but she’s all he has, and for now it’s enough to take comfort in the frigid kinship they've recognized in one another’s merciless sensibilities.

Art wip update

I decided to go full baby and draw Nim as a wee child, so here is a school portrait of her from her days in a daedric cult :)

#wip wednesday #sonny learns to draw #sonny writes #Lucien lachance #oc: Nimileth

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ofoceansandtombsanew · 7 months ago

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kufunua (furahi, furahi)

cw. f!reader, soulmate au (timer), yandere themes, obsessive behaviors, unhealthy relationships, power imbalance

pairing. yan!tartaglia x reader

synopsis. when you make a promise, you have to keep it. for the 11th fatui harbinger, this one is the most precious promise of all.

notes. apparently it wasn't enough for me to write one fic for @mieiri's reach mine. collab, i have to write two pieces. my behemoth of a WIP for my other fic is very much a healthier, fluffier spin for a soulmate au. but there's a joy in exploring the depths of depravity of an unwanted connection. divider by @/cafekitsune

"If you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back at you."

If you recall correctly, it was a philosopher from Mondstadt who spoke those famous words. In all your years of living, you believe you are only now beginning to understand the depth of them. You can feel it, the heat of madness at the edges of your mind as you stare at the bond in front of you.

Mists of pale lilac enveloped in a starry dark purple, much akin to the monsters of the Abyss that you are no stranger to. It's more like a mast; a parasite eating away at its host it is barely keeping alive. Cloying tight tendrils wrapped around its weaker counterpart possessively. Tighter and tighter it squeezes the harder you try to pull it apart. For every centimeter you are barely able to separate them, the stronger the mast holds with a vengeance.

Dread swirls around you, cold and unforgiving and you shudder.

You've seen many soulmate connections since you've become a spiritspeaker and they seldom look like your own. What kind of person must you be for this to be our bond, you wonder uneasily.

In the entangled mess, an indigo eye stares you.

Mine, it speaks coarsely. Mine.

You stare back.

What kind of person are you?

A typical connection manifests harmoniously, the tendrils of the spirit moving in equal balance and motion. It's much like a waltz, if anything else. It's a beautiful thing to see, vibrant and unique for every bonded coupling. The hues of the partnered spirits are as beautiful as the Sacred Flame itself, flickering much like it as well. Your connection is anything but, the manifestation of your spirit weak, frail and completely overwhelmed by that of its partner.

Much like the person you become once ensnared in your soulmate's grasp. You refuse to become that person.

Whoever your soulmate is, you want nothing to do with them.

The feeling of contempt and anxiety are a stark contrast to your younger years. Back when you were a young girl, wide-eyed and untrained in the spells and rituals of your tribe. You can hardly be blamed for your initial excitement.

The sacred timer on ones wrist counting down to the final second when they'd meet their special person. The people of Natlan revere the blessing of soulmates as much as they do the night and fire. This reverence is doubly so for your tribe. For the Masters of the Night-Wind who are able to see the manifestation of soulmates outside the realm of the physical, there is no greater honor.

The forced symbiosis of your connection is anything but honorable.

Nor is there any beauty.

Henceforth, you'd tried dauntlessly to sever the connection between yourself and your soulmate. A forbidden act in your tribe; how could one be so presumptuous as to dictate the loom of fate itself? It's too easy to separate the dancing of souls, too easy to play deity. If one acts in such a manner, it is more akin to sparks turning to a raging fire burning everything in its path. That's what the elders preached when you had begun your training as a Spiritspeaker. Apparently, the mast of your fated other believed much the same.

It's suppose to be easy, too easy.

It should have been easy.

Yet the parasitic spirit fights back with equal vigor.

Mine, it whispers echo throughout this shard of the Night Kingdom where you lie. It clutches your spirit tighter. Mania. Mine. Mine, it whispers as if reciting prayers. Reverent yet unrepentant. Delirious yet all too lucid. Its grip tightens once more, the near Abyssal eye meeting yours unflinchingly. Mine.

Groggily, your eyes open in the physical realm and the smell of incense fills your nostrils. It takes a moment for you to gather your bearings, your spirit returning to your body testily. You raise your arm, looking at your wrist blearily.

01 d 22 h 1346 m 32 s.

The sight wakes you proper, anxiety humming across your skin. You hide your wrist from your sight, covering it with your hand before exhaling quietly. Once again, your attempt at severing your bond has ended in vain and you barely have two days left.

Two days.

In just under two days, you will come face to face with person who will change your life. That's how little time you have to change your fate. Your grip tightens as if that alone could tear away the timer engraved on your flesh. If only it were all so easy.

Raising to your feet, you approach your spiritloom on feet barely steady. You aren't quite ready to move yet, but you refuse to accept your fate while lying on your back. "I can do this," you murmur, warping your loom with deft fingers as more of yourself returns to waking day. Even with what little time you have, that is more than enough to make a final attempt to preserve your being. You are a priestess of the Night-Winds, one of the best.

What are you if not resourceful?

Expertly, as you have done many times before, you weave the images your mind's eye conjures. Tugging your weft threads expertly into the pattern of the person you'd seen in a ritual you'd done long before. Hours go by until the sun begins to rise and paint the clouds shades of coral and vermillion.

"Abeni," you call for your saurian companion after completing your task. Your legs were sore from standing in place so long and the air of the outside was fresh, the scent of embercores on the breeze.

One of the iktomisaurus' bat-like ears twitch at the sound of her name, looking at you sweetly. Around her neck is a cryo-blue ribbon tied comfortable around her neck with her name stitched dutifully to let others know that she had a human companion.

In spite of the disquiet buzzing in you heart, she has been a comfort. The one who has heard all your concerns regarding your soulmate and the future you are wary to avoid. Compared to most, your ages are in a similar range. Whatever comes your way, Abeni will by your side. You run your hands through the feathers crowning the dragon's head. "I need a favor from you," you manage to turn the corners of your lips up into a smile.

Cautiously, you show Abeni the results of your weaving. The face of the man your fate is tied to.

He's handsome, at least from the details you were able to gather. Fair-skinned, blue eyed and with vibrant ginger hair. An outlander, more than likely. It's only your bad luck that something is bringing him to Natlan, whether it be work or pleasure. Shakily, your fingers dig into the tapestry and you inhale deeply to calm yourself. It's an image that instills fear rather than joy. This is a face you can only hope to never see for the rest of your long life.

Icy blue eyes gaze at the image for a moment before shifting to you. Is this him, the saurian seems to be asking.

Steeling yourself, you nod. "I need you to find where this person is so I can avoid him." Abeni hoots, clicking her beak thoughtfully. "I know I'm asking a lot of you," you murmur. "But this is the only idea I have. If I can avoid this meeting, that should settle everything." When the hour has gone and passed, you could finally be free.

It crosses your mind briefly that Kinich would be perfect for a job like this. Your safety and peace of mind would be more than worth whatever price he deemed acceptable. You ultimately decide against it. You do not know your soulmate personally but you are more than aware of the content of his character. Another person cannot be pulled into your mess.

A person is conspicuous no matter how skilled. The dragons of Natlan are as natural to the scenery as breathing is for the lungs.

Dutifully, Abeni agrees to your request and you're so relieved you could cry. Your eyes remain dry, however. You'll cry tears of relief when you no longer have to deal with this pesky bond.

"Be careful," you call when Abeni finally leaves your home, dark feathers blending into the mists of your tribe's territory. Abeni will find him and everything will be okay, you hug yourself. Everything will be okay.

01 d 14 h 0866 m 13 s.

01 d 12 h 0746 m 09 s.

01 d 09 h 0566 m 03 s.

Sleep doesn't come easily for you, coming and going in anxious waves as you wait for Abeni to return. You dream of a memory long since passed, a time when your mother was still alive and you'd yet begin your training.

"Mama, is my timer broken?" You asked your mother many years ago, looking at the ungodly amount of time ticking away on your skin.

A melancholic smile spread across her lips as she grabbed your hands tenderly. "No, my love," she told you kindly. "It just means that… they're far, far away."

"But why?"

"Only the Lord of the Night knows," she told you dreamily, giving your nose a kiss. "The timer is a promise. One day at the promised time, you're going to meet that person. You simply have to wait until then."

You hummed thoughtfully, unimpressed when your mother squeezed your arm unexpectedly. "Mama?"

Your mother's brow was furrowed, deeply and her smile was gone."Sweetie, sometimes it's okay to break a promise."

That was the last time you talked to your mother about your soulmate, never understanding until it was far too late what she meant. What would she do if she were here now? Why hadn't she lived long enough to tell you what she'd seen upon her scrying into your connection? Maybe she'd failed herself at trying to disconnect it, hoping that one day you would succeed where she couldn't.

A knock pulls you from your thoughts and you pinch your nose. "Coming!" You brush away the wrinkles forming in your clothes.

"Hurry up!" You can't help a smile, shaking your head in exasperation at Citlali's hissing. "That girl is around here somewhere, I can sense it!" Your fellow elder has a person to avoid of her own. You ought to take your time, but after quickly brushing away the wrinkles of your clothes, you rise to let your fellow elder in.

Once upon a time you were both beings fitting of looking in your early 20s.

200 years have since passed; 200 years and soon the hour of your fate rears its ugly head. You shake the thoughts away as you open your door, nearly toppled over as Citlali rushes inside. "The number one guide in Natlan in the Tezcatepetonco Range again," you ask unnecessarily.

"She comes again and again like clockwork!" The purple-haired woman glares at your door as if the energetic guide will come barging in without warning. "She's only taking a handful of tourists on a trip around the country, not on quests with perils beyond mortal imagination! And yet there she'll come again and again asking for fortune after fortune like she is." Citlali sighs, tired, before giving you an accusatory look. "That girl never pesters you like this."

That may be because the last time she encountered you, you had simply insisted that Granny Itztli would be a much better priestess for such insights. "Unlike you, I know how to pretend I'm not actually home," you say instead as Citlali sits at your dinner table with a heavy thud. "But be my guest. We can pretend we're apprentices again, searching through forbidden scrolls."

I wish I hadn't.

Perhaps then your current dilemma could have been avoided. Yet here you were, 200 and some odd years later after touching arts you likely should have avoided.

"That was years ago," Citlali yawns. "I'd rather-" she pauses, noticing the tapestry on your table and your heart lurches. You had meant to tuck the thing away into the darkest depths of your belongings. "Who is this," Citlali grabs the result of your clairvoyance before you can say anything else. "I don't recognize him."

"You wouldn't," it's your turn to sigh, sitting across the table from your oldest friend. "He's an outlander."

Your friend hums thoughtfully, "is this about that outlander everyone's been talking about? He's apparently been going around completing Warrior Challenges with high remarks. He's certainly ambitious."

You hadn't heard of this outlander at all. All the same, the mystery outlander is an excellent topic to divert to, nodding with expert deceit. "I was curious about what he looked like."

Citlali sets the tapestry aside, disinterest filling her gaze. "Mualani would come around right when I was planning on going to Stadium." You chuckle lightly knowing Citlali's bark is worse than her bite. "I wanted to get ingredients to make Ororon's birthday cake, it's right around the corner you know."

You barely are able to hide your surprise. You nearly forgot your own grandson's birthday. With everything going on it slipped my mind, you pinch yourself under the table. Even with your personal crisis going on, you wouldn't allow yourself to forego the found family you forged for yourself in recent years.

You glance at your timer while Citlali rambles on ー only ten minutes have passed. You're weary but even you know it is impossible for you to take that long to get to the Chuwen Fair and back. There will be more than enough time to continue your stakeout once you've returned. "I'll get them for you," you say at last, back on your feet again. You might as well distract yourself with a bit of shopping. "It shouldn't take me too long and unlike you, I'm good at shooing away persistent clients." The Stadium is practically a hop, skip and a jump away from your territory.

Citlali sticks her tongue at you in response to your teasing. You ignore it expertly with a grin of your own. "If I'm not back before Abeni gets home tell her where I've gone."

Grabbing a basket, you leave your home quickly. The faster you arrive at the Stadium, the faster you can return home. Your wrist tingles, but you ignore the feeling. You'll start panicking when it's the day of your meeting. At that thought, you remind yourself quickly that that meeting wouldn't be happening. Abeni will return home swiftly and you'll be able to coordinate your plan to avoid the man in the tapestry for good.

Perhaps you'll even try another separating ritual when you return and Citlali's left your space.

The start of your outing is smooth and familiar. Even the short quest to the Stadium is filled with qucusaurs and halberd-crest birds in flight, meditating iktomisaurs and the sight of phlogiston painted mountains. A calming sight even at your most unsettled. You've never once left the country of your birth but somehow you never tire of it.

Chuwen Fair is mixed with locals and outlanders alike, but even so you soothe your heart. That person isn't here, you remind yourself. It's not the time for it.

"Granny Sarabi, how are you!?"

"We've got discounts on some fresh sunsettias!"

All is well until you feel the distinct sensation of the tingle your wrist turning into a burn. Shifting your basket from one hand to the other, you look at it wearily.

00 d 00 h 023 m 02 s.

Your basket drops from your hand, contents collapsing onto the ground. Disregarding the vendor's concerned calls, you turn to run back to your home in the Masters' territory. Nightsoul's Blessing burning through your veins, watching in wide-eyed horror as the timer ticked away and faster. What's happening?! Abeni!

23 minutes.

15 minutes.

10 minutes.

5 minutes.

The seconds pass faster than you're able to count them. Where was Abeni? None of the saurians you passed resembled your blue-feathered companion on your hurried journey home. Was she hurt? Was it him?

Your mind searches through every possible scenario as to what could have happened to your friend. Saurian traffickers? Were the whispered rumors of Fatui agents stealing saurians to harvest their phlogiston true? Neither of those explanations accounted for your timer's sudden decrease in the hours between the promised meeting you wish to break. Your heart feels ready to fall out your chest, lungs burning with every breath you take as Nightsoul exhausts and you stumble into a walk.

Laughter rings through the air, masculine and feminine voices intertwined.

No.

In front of your door, Mualani is talking fervently with someone you don't shouldn't recognize with a wide smile and hands moving passionately. You shouldn't. Yet you do, the shade of his hair the exact as the thread used in your spiritloom. The someone you never wanted to meet. Despite his back facing you, the stranger turns first hearing your footsteps.

Ocean-blue looks at you; your blood freezes.

The timer strikes zero.

"Granny Sarabi!" Mualani waves excitedly after catching your eye. "This is one of the cool elders I was telling you about," she tells the stranger quickly. "You're going to love her, she's so funny! Oh, but 'Sarabi' isn't her real name, it's just a nick…" The Meztli guide trails off, looking back and forth between matching expressions of shock. It isn't until the redheaded stranger raises a hand that Mualani covers her mouth in surprised glee. "Oh my gods!"

The hyperactive young woman is quick to react before anyone else, turning to bang on your door in her excitement. "Granny Citlali, come on I know you're in there! We need to go! Gran met her soulmate!"

Citlali doesn't even attempt to make any excuse justifying why she'd been hiding away in your home. "What?!" Sure enough, she found the guide's words to be the truth. Recognition shines on her face, it hadn't been too long ago when she'd seen it for the first time herself.

Not this, anything but this, you're unsure who you are praying to. Was your tribe's Wayob listening? Where is she? Where's Abeni? Your eyes dart around for any sign of the iktomisaurus but there are none.

Pushing Citlali towards your tribe's settlement, Mualani winks at you as they scurry off. Your blood is roaring, heart drumming loudly in your ears.

The man before you is the first to break the silence.

"You're certainly the youngest looking grandmother I've ever seen," at your stupefied expression, he adds a quick apology in between chuckles. "Sorry, my mother always told me not to bring up a lady's age. I wasn't expecting us to meet like this," the man steps forward and you suddenly feel awake again, taking a step back.

Finally you find your voice. "Where's Abeni," you shoulders tense, waiting for the stranger's answer.

He blinks, surprised, before a smile spreads across his face. "Is that that bat-like dragon from before? So it's yours! Sorry, I haven't really memorized all the names of the different saurians ye-"

Your brow furrows and your eyes narrow. "Where is she," you snap.

"She's fine, she's fine," the man raises his arms, blinking in surprise at your outburst. "I saw your Abeni creeping around my camp not too long ago and decided to follow her. She noticed me at some point and changed directions." And in spite of that, the stranger still continued on her previous trail until finally he found your home deep in the heart of Natlan. "It changed," he raises his wrist, proudly displaying a timer that matches your own.

You hear a familiar hoot and a light thud behind you. Abeni is fine, unscathed, yet her eyes shine wide with guilt. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I thought he would follow elsewhere!

"See," the stranger prompts as if to prove his point. "Perfectly fine!"

He's smiling, dead-eyed expression as warm as one such as himself can make it. Mania. It's the same as the mast attached to your spirit. You can hear its whispers, the tendrils wrapping over your very being. Mine, it clutches you covetously. "I'm not normally one for believing in fate but… I took it as a sign that apparently it wanted us to meet sooner than later. Let's start again."

The outlander holds your hands in his own. "I'm Ajax," the bright-haired man introduces himself. His expression is soft as if gazing at a dream. "And I'm yours. I hope you weren't waiting for me long. Can you tell me your name?"

Extra

The title is Swahili for 'Unraveling (Rejoice, Rejoice)

'Abeni' is a Yoruba name that means 'a girl prayed for', I thought it would be fitting for a iktomisaurus companion

'Sarabi' is a Swahili name that means 'mirage'. You might have heard it in The Lion King. I've always been fond of the name so similar to how Citlali is 'Granny Obsidian', the reader here is 'Granny Mirage'

I honestly might make a sequel this was really fun to write

#look she's writing #reach mine. collab au #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #childe x reader #tartaglia x reader #yandere!childe x reader #yandere!tartaglia x reader #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere #yandere x reader

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